Crowley's Christmas Fic Exchange: Oh Christmas Tree for Swellison
Title: Oh, Christmas Tree
Word Count:~1300
Author: candygramme
Beta: spoonlessone
Recipient: swellison
Rating: Gen
Starring: Sam and Dean plus hangers on (Including Crowley!)
Prompt: The Christmas Tree Incident - Sam and Dean (plus anyone else) decide to decorate for Christmas, alas! something goes awry with the tree (a humorous disaster vibe here)
Dean Winchester had been barricaded in the kitchen for five hours now, and the scent of his endeavors was intoxicating. He was apparently baking just then, and there were sugary smells emerging from the kitchen that were enough to make a grown man cry. Sam should know, there were tears in his eyes, although they were more likely to be caused by sounds, because Dean was singing. That was ample reason to cry, and Gabriel (who had evidently followed his nose to the bunker) winced as he remarked on what a fine range Dean had.
“Yes,” said Death, who had also been drawn to the bunker for reasons he did not deign to discuss, but which Sam suspected might have to do with the delicious scents emanating from the bunker. “I believe it carries for about 15 miles if the air is still.”
“Oh, further.” Crowley raised a glass of single malt to his lips. “I heard it down in Hell. I’m just here to tell him to turn it down a bit. I know we torture souls down there, but this is cruel and unusual.”
“Silent night, holy night, dum de dum…” caterwauled Dean, and Sam could bear it no longer. Determined to shut him up one way or another, he stormed the kitchen despite the chair jammed under the handle to keep inquisitive mortals (and/or rays of celestial intent) out.
“Dean, that’s it. That’s enough. Have mercy. You’re driving all the wildlife away.”
“You just don’t appreciate good music, Sammy boy,” said Dean. “Come on. It’ll be Christmas in a couple of days. Live a little.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to, but the quality of life has plummeted since you started singing,” Sam said, affecting his most plaintive expression as his mind raced, thinking about how best to divert and distract his brother. A lightbulb suddenly bloomed over his noggin, and he smiled. “Everything smells so good in here, and you’re the best cook ever, but we don’t have a Christmas tree yet.” To an onlooker, his eyes appeared to grow to gigantic size, full of unwept tears. “Aren’t we going to have a tree?”
Dean froze. It was evident that he hadn’t thought about a tree. Sam was willing to bet that Dean’s entire plan for Christmas had centered around food, but he also knew that if his little brother wanted a tree, Dean would make sure that he got one.
“Sammy, if you want a tree, you shall have a tree.” The timer went off, and Dean pulled his batch of mince pies from the oven and paused to admire them for a moment before setting them on the counter to cool. They were indeed delicious to look at, and Sam felt his determination waver, but then as Dean opened his mouth to begin a new verse of Silent Night, he stiffened his resolve.
“It’s not Christmas without a tree,” he said.
“Come on then. Let’s go find a really good one,” said Dean, smiling fondly at his Sammy.
~*~
Half an hour later a small party set out to cross the road from the bunker and head into the woods in search of a tree. Dean was carrying an axe whose blade had been honed to a brilliant edge, while Sam towed a sled onto which to load the tree that they hoped to find.
It was cold, very cold, and while their trio of supernatural hangers-on didn’t appear to be affected by the frost and ice, both Sam and Dean had bundled up, and their noses were decidedly pink. Making their way through the undergrowth, they peered about as they searched for the perfect tree.
Despite the cold, they rambled on through the herbage until at last, Sam saw it. The perfect tree.
It was a Douglas fir, around seven feet tall with fluffy branches, and it would be absolutely perfect for the library. It stood alone among the cottonwoods and elms, and the frost on it glittered in the dying daylight. Sam gazed at it, picturing it decked out with tinsel and sighed. It was going to make their Christmas perfect.
“This one?” Dean smiled as his brother nodded and swung his axe back. Just as he was poised to cut it down, however, at the height of his swing, the axe kept moving as if it had a life of its own, flying out of Dean’s hands and burying itself in the loam of the woodland floor. Dean himself had toppled backwards and now lay supine, a look of bewilderment on his face.
Getting back to his feet and attempting to look as if he meant to do that, Dean brushed pieces of debris from his flannel and shrugged. “Practice swing,” he announced and took up his stance, ready to take another swipe at the tree. This attempt was no better than his first, and in fact they had to mount a search party to find the axe, which had flown off with such force that it had wound up in some brambles.
Dean, too had been badly scratched after being somehow blown off his feet, and he assumed a look of murderous determination as he seized the axe one more time, prepared to commit mayhem upon the hapless conifer. He was stepping up grimly, when a woman’s voice called out. ”I don’t advise it, Dean Winchester. Third time is the charm, you know, and not at all in a good way.”
Sam gasped, looking around himself as he tried to find out who was speaking, but it was Dean himself who finally saw her as she slowly materialized in front of the tree he was hoping to murder. She somehow looked taller, more commanding than she had ever done in the bunker, and at the sight of her, both Gabriel and Crowley winked out. The Winchesters merely stood gaping at the changes they saw in their former friend.
Mrs. Butters was wearing a dress that appeared to be made from leaves, and there was a crown of leaves around her hair, which was a little longer now than when she had been with them in the bunker. She looked… well, to be honest, she looked dangerous.
Sam went to hug her but stopped when she gave him a steely-eyed glare. Dean stood, wide-eyed, and the axe dropped from his apparently suddenly nerveless fingers. Death stood behind them, unsmiling as usual, but Sam could tell that he was alert. The soft sounds of the woodland were suddenly stilled.
“You, Winchesters, what right do you have to kill this tree, just for a couple of nights of revelry?” Both brothers hung their heads, neither of them able to look her in the eye. “This is my tree, under my protection. She will grow taller than the ashes and elms, and she will feed the creatures that live here. You may not harm her.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Butters,” muttered Sam, and Dean grunted what might have been an apology, too.
“Go home to your celebrations, boys, and enjoy them without destroying lives. If it makes you happy, decorate the tree right here with food for the birds and the squirrels. That would be in keeping with the season.” She cracked a smile then as Dean’s face brightened up. “I know you have good hearts. Merry Christmas, boys.”
Death stepped forward then as the two brothers turned away. “May your life be long,” he said, softly. “I will see you again, when it’s time.” Nodding, he followed the boys back through the woods.
~*~
Back in the bunker, they found Crowley working on yet another glass of Scotch, while Gabriel was munching his way through one of Dean’s mince pies with every appearance of dessert-induced ecstasy. There in the alcove in front of the telescope was a tree. It was obviously fake, with tinsel branches and glitter, and hanging from it were pine scented air fresheners. To Sam it was the most beautiful sight he could imagine.
“I took the liberty of providing you with some consolation,” announced Death, and he almost smiled. “But now, I would like some of that excellent shortbread, if I may.”
Dean nodded. “Of course,” he mumbled. “Merry Christmas.
Word Count:~1300
Author: candygramme
Beta: spoonlessone
Recipient: swellison
Rating: Gen
Starring: Sam and Dean plus hangers on (Including Crowley!)
Prompt: The Christmas Tree Incident - Sam and Dean (plus anyone else) decide to decorate for Christmas, alas! something goes awry with the tree (a humorous disaster vibe here)
Dean Winchester had been barricaded in the kitchen for five hours now, and the scent of his endeavors was intoxicating. He was apparently baking just then, and there were sugary smells emerging from the kitchen that were enough to make a grown man cry. Sam should know, there were tears in his eyes, although they were more likely to be caused by sounds, because Dean was singing. That was ample reason to cry, and Gabriel (who had evidently followed his nose to the bunker) winced as he remarked on what a fine range Dean had.
“Yes,” said Death, who had also been drawn to the bunker for reasons he did not deign to discuss, but which Sam suspected might have to do with the delicious scents emanating from the bunker. “I believe it carries for about 15 miles if the air is still.”
“Oh, further.” Crowley raised a glass of single malt to his lips. “I heard it down in Hell. I’m just here to tell him to turn it down a bit. I know we torture souls down there, but this is cruel and unusual.”
“Silent night, holy night, dum de dum…” caterwauled Dean, and Sam could bear it no longer. Determined to shut him up one way or another, he stormed the kitchen despite the chair jammed under the handle to keep inquisitive mortals (and/or rays of celestial intent) out.
“Dean, that’s it. That’s enough. Have mercy. You’re driving all the wildlife away.”
“You just don’t appreciate good music, Sammy boy,” said Dean. “Come on. It’ll be Christmas in a couple of days. Live a little.”
“Yeah, I’m trying to, but the quality of life has plummeted since you started singing,” Sam said, affecting his most plaintive expression as his mind raced, thinking about how best to divert and distract his brother. A lightbulb suddenly bloomed over his noggin, and he smiled. “Everything smells so good in here, and you’re the best cook ever, but we don’t have a Christmas tree yet.” To an onlooker, his eyes appeared to grow to gigantic size, full of unwept tears. “Aren’t we going to have a tree?”
Dean froze. It was evident that he hadn’t thought about a tree. Sam was willing to bet that Dean’s entire plan for Christmas had centered around food, but he also knew that if his little brother wanted a tree, Dean would make sure that he got one.
“Sammy, if you want a tree, you shall have a tree.” The timer went off, and Dean pulled his batch of mince pies from the oven and paused to admire them for a moment before setting them on the counter to cool. They were indeed delicious to look at, and Sam felt his determination waver, but then as Dean opened his mouth to begin a new verse of Silent Night, he stiffened his resolve.
“It’s not Christmas without a tree,” he said.
“Come on then. Let’s go find a really good one,” said Dean, smiling fondly at his Sammy.
~*~
Half an hour later a small party set out to cross the road from the bunker and head into the woods in search of a tree. Dean was carrying an axe whose blade had been honed to a brilliant edge, while Sam towed a sled onto which to load the tree that they hoped to find.
It was cold, very cold, and while their trio of supernatural hangers-on didn’t appear to be affected by the frost and ice, both Sam and Dean had bundled up, and their noses were decidedly pink. Making their way through the undergrowth, they peered about as they searched for the perfect tree.
Despite the cold, they rambled on through the herbage until at last, Sam saw it. The perfect tree.
It was a Douglas fir, around seven feet tall with fluffy branches, and it would be absolutely perfect for the library. It stood alone among the cottonwoods and elms, and the frost on it glittered in the dying daylight. Sam gazed at it, picturing it decked out with tinsel and sighed. It was going to make their Christmas perfect.
“This one?” Dean smiled as his brother nodded and swung his axe back. Just as he was poised to cut it down, however, at the height of his swing, the axe kept moving as if it had a life of its own, flying out of Dean’s hands and burying itself in the loam of the woodland floor. Dean himself had toppled backwards and now lay supine, a look of bewilderment on his face.
Getting back to his feet and attempting to look as if he meant to do that, Dean brushed pieces of debris from his flannel and shrugged. “Practice swing,” he announced and took up his stance, ready to take another swipe at the tree. This attempt was no better than his first, and in fact they had to mount a search party to find the axe, which had flown off with such force that it had wound up in some brambles.
Dean, too had been badly scratched after being somehow blown off his feet, and he assumed a look of murderous determination as he seized the axe one more time, prepared to commit mayhem upon the hapless conifer. He was stepping up grimly, when a woman’s voice called out. ”I don’t advise it, Dean Winchester. Third time is the charm, you know, and not at all in a good way.”
Sam gasped, looking around himself as he tried to find out who was speaking, but it was Dean himself who finally saw her as she slowly materialized in front of the tree he was hoping to murder. She somehow looked taller, more commanding than she had ever done in the bunker, and at the sight of her, both Gabriel and Crowley winked out. The Winchesters merely stood gaping at the changes they saw in their former friend.
Mrs. Butters was wearing a dress that appeared to be made from leaves, and there was a crown of leaves around her hair, which was a little longer now than when she had been with them in the bunker. She looked… well, to be honest, she looked dangerous.
Sam went to hug her but stopped when she gave him a steely-eyed glare. Dean stood, wide-eyed, and the axe dropped from his apparently suddenly nerveless fingers. Death stood behind them, unsmiling as usual, but Sam could tell that he was alert. The soft sounds of the woodland were suddenly stilled.
“You, Winchesters, what right do you have to kill this tree, just for a couple of nights of revelry?” Both brothers hung their heads, neither of them able to look her in the eye. “This is my tree, under my protection. She will grow taller than the ashes and elms, and she will feed the creatures that live here. You may not harm her.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Butters,” muttered Sam, and Dean grunted what might have been an apology, too.
“Go home to your celebrations, boys, and enjoy them without destroying lives. If it makes you happy, decorate the tree right here with food for the birds and the squirrels. That would be in keeping with the season.” She cracked a smile then as Dean’s face brightened up. “I know you have good hearts. Merry Christmas, boys.”
Death stepped forward then as the two brothers turned away. “May your life be long,” he said, softly. “I will see you again, when it’s time.” Nodding, he followed the boys back through the woods.
~*~
Back in the bunker, they found Crowley working on yet another glass of Scotch, while Gabriel was munching his way through one of Dean’s mince pies with every appearance of dessert-induced ecstasy. There in the alcove in front of the telescope was a tree. It was obviously fake, with tinsel branches and glitter, and hanging from it were pine scented air fresheners. To Sam it was the most beautiful sight he could imagine.
“I took the liberty of providing you with some consolation,” announced Death, and he almost smiled. “But now, I would like some of that excellent shortbread, if I may.”
Dean nodded. “Of course,” he mumbled. “Merry Christmas.