Merry Christmas, Baby
Merry Christmas, Baby!
By Swellison
Sam clicked the remote, turning off the post-game football analysis on his 55" TV. He squirmed at the pillow-softened headboard he sat against and conceded that maybe Charley did have a point about his bed being as comfortable as a brick. He glanced sideways at Dean, who had watched the game with boisterous enthusiasm from his side of the bed, rooting for his chosen team.
So, this is Christmas, Sam thought, half-wincing as the lyrics continued in his head. And what have you done? Plenty. Sam mentally rattled off the low points of the past year: he had broken Dean’s heart, Dean had died at Metatron’s hands, been resurrected as a demon and then tried to kill him before being restored to his human self. Not to mention the whole Gadreel business. Sam glanced at Dean’s arm, covered by a long-sleeved shirt. And yet not enough - the Mark’s still there.
Dean's eyes met his. "Give it a rest, Sam. It's Christmas."
Dean always could read my mind. "You're right." Sam grinned. "What d'you want to do next? Watch a Christmas movie, play cribbage - or poker?" Dean hardly needed to keep his poker skills sharp now that they had the financial resources of the bunker at their beck and call.
Dean rose to his feet. "While those are all delightful choices, I'm gonna go start supper. Break in that new cookbook you gave me this morning." Sam's present to Dean had been a thick cookbook containing a selection of Kansans' favorite recipes.
"Oh? What're you gonna make?"
"It's a surprise." With that, Dean left for the kitchen.
So that's when you're going to sneak out to the garage, while dinner's in the oven. Dean didn't tolerate hangers-on when he was in the kitchen, cooking. Breakfast was the exception. Sam could leisurely sip his coffee at the kitchen table, waiting and conversing while Dean cooked eggs, pancakes, bacon, sausage, or any other breakfast-y thing. Sam figured that Dean found cooking both relaxing and enjoyable, so he acquiesced to Dean's kitchen rules - it gave both some necessary space. Egg space, as my psych professor would've dubbed it. As much time as we spend together, we do need some time apart. Sam used his free time to read or explore the bunker, depending on mood. It was how he had discovered Dean's secret garage rendezvous, last Christmas.
Glancing at his watch, Sam noted the time. He easily had a half hour to kill while Dean prepped dinner. Sam picked up the newest Donna Andrews Christmas mystery on his nightstand and settled back for a quick half-hour read. Thirty minutes later, by his internal alarm clock, he closed the book and rose to his feet. He stepped over to the right wall of his room and rummaged in his desk drawer, pulling out a thin, wrapped twelve by six-inch package and quietly slipped out of his room and down the hallway.
He peeked in the kitchen, confirming that it was indeed deserted, and the oven was merrily cooking something that smelled meat-y and delicious. Turkey? It would take too long to cook a whole turkey, but it could be a turkey loaf. Or ham. Or chicken.
Sam continued down the hall, turned at the third intersecting corridor and followed it to the discrete second entrance to the garage that he had discovered while prowling the bunker's corridors last September. He wanted to avoid the clanky metal stairs up to the garage and keep his presence a secret from Dean until the right moment.
He stealthily crept closer to the Impala, parked as usual in the central driveway, nose pointed towards the double garage doors, unlike the vintage cars that lined both sides of the driveway. Sam stopped when he reached the 1935 black Ford truck, parked in the berth closest to the Impala. He leaned against the truck's cab and eavesdropped on his brother.
"That's better, isn't it?" Dean finished rubbing the Impala's driver side fender and then ran the chamois cloth along her side as he stepped towards the driver's door. Cr-eak! Leaving the door open, Dean slid behind the wheel.
Sam figured Dean did most of his car talking behind the wheel-"C'mon, baby, start!" "Please, please, please!"- so that made sense. The garage's acoustics let him easily hear Dean's conversation.
"I promise," Dean stroked the steering wheel, "Won't ever leave you that messy again. The occasional M&M or Snicker's bar under the seat, sure.
Occupational hazard. But no fast-food wrappers, condiment packets and dirty napkins littering the dashboard and backseat, ever again. I-I wasn't myself, then.
"Anyway," Dean bent over and picked up two wrapped Christmas presents from the passenger floorboard. "Think you're gonna like this. I've been looking for them for a long time." Dean unwrapped the Christmas tree and wreath patterned paper on the first box and held up a chrome half-moon spotlight. "Remember this? We haven't had headlamps since the first year Sammy and I hunted. They were demolished in the wreck, and when I rebuilt you that first time, I couldn't find any replacements." He tipped the box forward, crowing, "Look! Two genuine vintage headlamps, guaranteed to work. The other box has all the accessory parts, so we'll get you kitted out in style."
As Dean started unwrapping the second box, Sam made his move, sliding into the passenger seat. Dean snapped his head up as the door slammed shut. "Sam? What are you doing here?"
"Thought it was time I joined the party. I brought a present." Sam passed the thin rectangle over to Dean.
His brother eyed the many Santa sleighs and reindeer on the flat package, then tore off the wrapping paper, exposing the license plate: KAZ 2Y5. Dean's index finger stroked over the raised letters. "Sam-?"
"Kansas lets you put anything on their vanity plates, as long as it's not vulgar, or foreign cursing. It seemed appropriate." Sam tapped one of Dean's boxes. "Especially with what you got her."
"How'd you know about this?" Dean circled a hand loosely encompassing the Impala and the presents on his lap.
"I stumbled upon your gift exchange last year. Decided to join in the fun, this year." Sam decided to tell Dean later about the second entrance to the garage.
Dean turned the ignition, stopping at the auxiliary setting, and the radio began to play. "Merry Christmas Baby," the Boss's vibrant song filled the Impala.
Sam and Dean exchanged a grin, then echoed, "Merry Christmas, Baby!"
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Note: Some of you may recognize this plot from last year's Christmas fic exchange. I asked fledge for her permission to use her prompt in my own story, and she graciously granted it. Since I posted this later than I intended, Happy Boxing Day!