Christmas fic!
If anthropomorphic evil exists, and Sam and Dean have definitive reasons to believe it does, then why not anthropomorphic good?
Thanks to destina for the beta even while being buried in Yuletide! All remaining errors are my own.
I'm Telling You Why
2,018 words
gen (or as we call it around here barkley safe)
PG-13
I'm Telling You Why
Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Sam watched Dean and the owner of the garage dive into the third box of parts searching for a transmission mount for a '67 Impala. It was starting to look like they were going to be there for a long time.
Or not.
"Hey, Dean, I'm going to head out to that diner we passed. You want me to bring you something?"
Breaking off a discussion of a Weston three hole versus a two hole mount, Dean waved a grimy hand. "No, I'm good. I'll meet you there when I'm done."
"I could…"
"Jesus, Sammy, I'm good. Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay."
Dean hadn't asked him to bring back pie since just before Cold Oak. Yet another piece of normal lost from their lives.
The diner -- Connie's Kitchen -- was about two miles down the road on the edge of a small town main street bustling with people in spite of a drop in temperature and intermittent snow flurries. It wasn't until Sam spent a moment staring at the lit Christmas tree in the diner's steamy window and doing the math in his head that he realized it was December 24th. Christmas Eve.
In his own defense, an imminent apocalypse made it hard to keep track of the date.
The diner was packed, the only open seat at the counter next to…
Santa Claus.
Sam slid into the seat and mumbled an apology as his knee dug into the buttocks overflowing the stool next to him.
"Not a problem, son. I am fully aware I'm larger than life." Santa had a friendly laugh and a deep voice that pushed the ambient noise aside. "I expect it's a problem you run into on occasion as well." A big hand with paint-stained fingers appeared in Sam's line of sight. "Nick."
Seriously? Nick? Sam supposed only Kris would have been more cliché. "Sam."
Nick had a strong grip for an old man. And he was old, Sam realized. The weight hid it, lending a florid color to his face, but his eyes, nearly hidden behind the rolls of fat, were bloodshot and a little watery. The weight did make him a better Santa than many Sam had seen and it helped that the beard, while not the lush white fall of polyester, was real.
"I recommend the meatloaf," Nick said and Sam realized that while he'd been staring, the waitress had arrived and was waiting, not particularly patiently, for him to place his order.
"Yeah, uh, sure. Meatloaf. With mashed, gravy and a coffee."
Nick got a refill when Sam's coffee arrived, spreading red glitter all over the counter as he reached for the cream. "Sorry about that." He brushed Sam's paper placemat clean with the side of his hand. "I was making an effort to jazz up the suit but clearly didn't think it through."
"It looks old." It looked antique. Sam could see places the velvet had been worn thin.
"Yeah, I should replace it but you can't beat a classic, right?"
"Apparently not. My brother's looking for car parts at..."
Nick cut him off. "Alan's Wreckers." When Sam nodded, Nick smiled. "Yeah, he's got some good stuff out there. You should eat that before it gets cold," he added as Sam's food arrived. "Put a little meat on your bones."
The meatloaf was great. The mashed potatoes and gravy were the definitive mashed potatoes and gravy. After his fourth enormous forkful, Sam realized that Nick was watching him eat. "So, uh…" He swallowed. "You do the Santa thing every year?"
"Every year. Different town every year, though. Gives me a better idea of what's going on in the world."
Sam put down his fork, the meatloaf suddenly tasting like sawdust. "You really don't want to know what's going on in the world."
Beside him, Nick sighed. "Charles Hannock over at the hardware store donated enough hockey equipment to put three kids on the ice who wouldn't have played otherwise. Shirley Stedman, at the five and dime, hired a woman for a job that didn't exist just so that woman would have a paycheck for the holiday. Ken Ogara, the manager at the grocery store, paid Amy Bradshaw twenty five cents each to distribute his sales flyers around town even though he could have bundled them in with the weekly newspaper for free. Amy's twelve and she wants to get her mother a warmer coat for Christmas. Don't let the shit hide the shine, Sam."
"There's a lot of shit…" When Nick's hand closed around his wrist, the palm and callused fingers warm against his skin, Sam looked up.
"Then the shine's all the more important," Nick said softly. "The bad's so in your face that people don't see the good when it's right in front of them."
Sam had never been all that keen on strangers touching him. Surprising himself a little, he didn't pull away, letting his hand rest there on the counter until Nick released him.
"Holy cow, is that the time? I've got to get a move on. Still lots to do." Nick pulled out an old, green canvas wallet and slid two twenties under his plate. "Angela, the waitress, she's got a three year old with a cleft palate. She's saving for plastic surgery." He grinned. "Not exactly something I can put under a tree."
"I guess not."
Nick's grin softened. "So, before I hit the road, what do you want from Santa, Sam? I'm not going to insist you sit on my lap, because that would be creepy. Also, you'd likely break my legs."
Sam snorted and pushed the potatoes around on his plate. "Peace on earth would be nice."
"Wouldn't it just. But you can't give people that, you know, they have to work for it or it doesn't mean anything."
Platitudes seemed to be free for the taking though. Sam's grip tightened on the fork until his knuckles whitened. After a long moment, he realized Nick was still sitting there. Waiting.
"If Alan doesn't have a three hole Weston transmission mount for a '67 Impala, I could use one of those."
"No, your brother could use one of those. What do you want, Sam? For you?"
Sam looked over at the thread-bare suit, at the three inches of grayish white beard, at broken capillaries lending a red flush to rounded cheeks, at blue eyes that were looking at him with kindness, and he had to swallow before he could say, "I'd like to believe in something again but you can't put that under a tree either, can you?"
"No, I can't. I don't suppose you'd settle for socks and underwear?"
It wasn't much of a laugh but it was all Sam had. "Thanks, I'll pass."
"Suit yourself, son." Given the tight quarters, Nick had a little trouble getting off his stool and both Sam and the harried looking, middle-aged woman on the other side finally had to stand up to give him room. Standing, he was shorter than Sam had expected and had to reach up to put his hand, now in the grimy white gloves that had been stuffed in behind his worn leather belt, on Sam's shoulder. Sam expected more platitudes but all Nick said was, "Eat your meatloaf before it gets cold."
No one else in the diner seemed to take any particular notice as the old man in the Santa suit winked at the waitress and walked out the door.
"I guess every town has its characters," Sam said to the middle-aged woman as he sat back down.
"He's not local," she sniffed and turned her attention back to her rice pudding.
The meatloaf should have already been cold. It wasn't.
***
Eggnog and porn, rum and beef jerky were well on their way to becoming a Winchester Christmas tradition.
When Sam woke up on Christmas morning, his mouth tasting like he'd been licking the trim on Nick's ancient Santa suit, he half expected to see a Christmas tree in the corner and a pile of presents under it. Socks and underwear at the very least.
What he saw was a cheap motel room, wallpaper that would've given the Grinch pause, and an empty bed. Checking in, they'd seen a sign in the office declaring coffee would be available from eight to ten only. Two guesses where Dean had gone off to and the first one didn't count.
Eyes barely half open, Sam swung his legs out of bed, spent a moment wondering why he'd left one sock on, and staggered to the bathroom. He heard Dean come back in while he was trying to brush the fuzz from between his teeth.
"Think fast, Sam!"
The massive snowball hit Sam on the side of the head, spraying snow over his bare shoulders. "You asshole!"
Scooping up the snow from the worn linoleum, he charged out into the other room, anticipated Dean's dodge, and tackled him to the bed. Knowing what was coming, Dean fought back but was laughing so hard he couldn't put up much of a defense. Sam crowed in triumph as he shoved the snow down the back of Dean's pants, then bounced to his feet and raised both hands over his head.
"Enough with the victory dance, dude! Your lack of rhythm hurts my head." Scooping the snow out of his jeans, Dean grabbed a towel from the bathroom then retrieved two coffees and a plastic bag from where he'd stowed them safely by the television. "Three creams, seventeen sugars, just the way you like it."
No more than two sugars, Sam acknowledged, taking a careful sip. Not that he didn't trust Dean; it was more that he knew Dean. "What's in the bag?"
"Transmission mount. Al said he'd keep looking. He must've dropped it off in at the motel office this morning."
"A Christmas miracle."
"Hey, it's exactly what I wanted." Dean pulled the mount out of the bag. "Looks like we'll be spending a few days at Bobby's while I put it in."
"You think the old one will…" Sam frowned.
"Do I think the old one will what? Get us there? Sam? Hello? Earth to Major Tom!"
Dean leaned back as Sam approached until Sam finally had to wrap a hand around his wrist to hold him in place. With the forefinger of his other hand, he wiped a bit of red glitter off the end of the mount.
"You ever think," he said softly, "that the bad's so up in our face that we don't see the good when it's right in front of us?"
"I think," Dean said, in exactly the same tone, "that there's a My Little Pony in it for you if you can get dressed all by yourself and into the car before I starve to death."
Sam considered and discarded a couple of responses, finally settling on, "If it's not Raspberry Sparkle, you're buying breakfast."
Dean's eyes crinkled at the corners. "No surprise you know their names, Samantha."
"Bite me." Sam rubbed the red glitter off the end of his finger onto Dean's nose. Then backed up fast as Dean scrubbed at it with the back of his hand.
It took less than ten minutes to drink their coffee, dress, pack, and load the Impala. One hand on the glossy black of her roof, Sam paused inside the open wing of the door, and looked across at Dean.
Dean scrubbed at his nose again. "What?"
"Merry Christmas."
"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised but pleased. "Merry Christmas, Sammy." He lifted the bag holding the transmission mount. "Sorry, Santa didn't bring you anything."
Sam watched a single piece of red glitter catch the light as Dean smiled. Not a smirk, not a grin, but the smile Sam hadn't seen for a couple of years now. He managed a strangled, "I'm good." before dropping down into the car.
They were alive, they were together, and Sam figured, when it came right down to it, he didn't need to believe in anything more than that.
Even if, as it turned out, there might be more to believe in.
Thanks to destina for the beta even while being buried in Yuletide! All remaining errors are my own.
I'm Telling You Why
2,018 words
gen (or as we call it around here barkley safe)
PG-13
I'm Telling You Why
Hands shoved deep in his pockets, Sam watched Dean and the owner of the garage dive into the third box of parts searching for a transmission mount for a '67 Impala. It was starting to look like they were going to be there for a long time.
Or not.
"Hey, Dean, I'm going to head out to that diner we passed. You want me to bring you something?"
Breaking off a discussion of a Weston three hole versus a two hole mount, Dean waved a grimy hand. "No, I'm good. I'll meet you there when I'm done."
"I could…"
"Jesus, Sammy, I'm good. Okay?"
"Yeah. Okay."
Dean hadn't asked him to bring back pie since just before Cold Oak. Yet another piece of normal lost from their lives.
The diner -- Connie's Kitchen -- was about two miles down the road on the edge of a small town main street bustling with people in spite of a drop in temperature and intermittent snow flurries. It wasn't until Sam spent a moment staring at the lit Christmas tree in the diner's steamy window and doing the math in his head that he realized it was December 24th. Christmas Eve.
In his own defense, an imminent apocalypse made it hard to keep track of the date.
The diner was packed, the only open seat at the counter next to…
Santa Claus.
Sam slid into the seat and mumbled an apology as his knee dug into the buttocks overflowing the stool next to him.
"Not a problem, son. I am fully aware I'm larger than life." Santa had a friendly laugh and a deep voice that pushed the ambient noise aside. "I expect it's a problem you run into on occasion as well." A big hand with paint-stained fingers appeared in Sam's line of sight. "Nick."
Seriously? Nick? Sam supposed only Kris would have been more cliché. "Sam."
Nick had a strong grip for an old man. And he was old, Sam realized. The weight hid it, lending a florid color to his face, but his eyes, nearly hidden behind the rolls of fat, were bloodshot and a little watery. The weight did make him a better Santa than many Sam had seen and it helped that the beard, while not the lush white fall of polyester, was real.
"I recommend the meatloaf," Nick said and Sam realized that while he'd been staring, the waitress had arrived and was waiting, not particularly patiently, for him to place his order.
"Yeah, uh, sure. Meatloaf. With mashed, gravy and a coffee."
Nick got a refill when Sam's coffee arrived, spreading red glitter all over the counter as he reached for the cream. "Sorry about that." He brushed Sam's paper placemat clean with the side of his hand. "I was making an effort to jazz up the suit but clearly didn't think it through."
"It looks old." It looked antique. Sam could see places the velvet had been worn thin.
"Yeah, I should replace it but you can't beat a classic, right?"
"Apparently not. My brother's looking for car parts at..."
Nick cut him off. "Alan's Wreckers." When Sam nodded, Nick smiled. "Yeah, he's got some good stuff out there. You should eat that before it gets cold," he added as Sam's food arrived. "Put a little meat on your bones."
The meatloaf was great. The mashed potatoes and gravy were the definitive mashed potatoes and gravy. After his fourth enormous forkful, Sam realized that Nick was watching him eat. "So, uh…" He swallowed. "You do the Santa thing every year?"
"Every year. Different town every year, though. Gives me a better idea of what's going on in the world."
Sam put down his fork, the meatloaf suddenly tasting like sawdust. "You really don't want to know what's going on in the world."
Beside him, Nick sighed. "Charles Hannock over at the hardware store donated enough hockey equipment to put three kids on the ice who wouldn't have played otherwise. Shirley Stedman, at the five and dime, hired a woman for a job that didn't exist just so that woman would have a paycheck for the holiday. Ken Ogara, the manager at the grocery store, paid Amy Bradshaw twenty five cents each to distribute his sales flyers around town even though he could have bundled them in with the weekly newspaper for free. Amy's twelve and she wants to get her mother a warmer coat for Christmas. Don't let the shit hide the shine, Sam."
"There's a lot of shit…" When Nick's hand closed around his wrist, the palm and callused fingers warm against his skin, Sam looked up.
"Then the shine's all the more important," Nick said softly. "The bad's so in your face that people don't see the good when it's right in front of them."
Sam had never been all that keen on strangers touching him. Surprising himself a little, he didn't pull away, letting his hand rest there on the counter until Nick released him.
"Holy cow, is that the time? I've got to get a move on. Still lots to do." Nick pulled out an old, green canvas wallet and slid two twenties under his plate. "Angela, the waitress, she's got a three year old with a cleft palate. She's saving for plastic surgery." He grinned. "Not exactly something I can put under a tree."
"I guess not."
Nick's grin softened. "So, before I hit the road, what do you want from Santa, Sam? I'm not going to insist you sit on my lap, because that would be creepy. Also, you'd likely break my legs."
Sam snorted and pushed the potatoes around on his plate. "Peace on earth would be nice."
"Wouldn't it just. But you can't give people that, you know, they have to work for it or it doesn't mean anything."
Platitudes seemed to be free for the taking though. Sam's grip tightened on the fork until his knuckles whitened. After a long moment, he realized Nick was still sitting there. Waiting.
"If Alan doesn't have a three hole Weston transmission mount for a '67 Impala, I could use one of those."
"No, your brother could use one of those. What do you want, Sam? For you?"
Sam looked over at the thread-bare suit, at the three inches of grayish white beard, at broken capillaries lending a red flush to rounded cheeks, at blue eyes that were looking at him with kindness, and he had to swallow before he could say, "I'd like to believe in something again but you can't put that under a tree either, can you?"
"No, I can't. I don't suppose you'd settle for socks and underwear?"
It wasn't much of a laugh but it was all Sam had. "Thanks, I'll pass."
"Suit yourself, son." Given the tight quarters, Nick had a little trouble getting off his stool and both Sam and the harried looking, middle-aged woman on the other side finally had to stand up to give him room. Standing, he was shorter than Sam had expected and had to reach up to put his hand, now in the grimy white gloves that had been stuffed in behind his worn leather belt, on Sam's shoulder. Sam expected more platitudes but all Nick said was, "Eat your meatloaf before it gets cold."
No one else in the diner seemed to take any particular notice as the old man in the Santa suit winked at the waitress and walked out the door.
"I guess every town has its characters," Sam said to the middle-aged woman as he sat back down.
"He's not local," she sniffed and turned her attention back to her rice pudding.
The meatloaf should have already been cold. It wasn't.
***
Eggnog and porn, rum and beef jerky were well on their way to becoming a Winchester Christmas tradition.
When Sam woke up on Christmas morning, his mouth tasting like he'd been licking the trim on Nick's ancient Santa suit, he half expected to see a Christmas tree in the corner and a pile of presents under it. Socks and underwear at the very least.
What he saw was a cheap motel room, wallpaper that would've given the Grinch pause, and an empty bed. Checking in, they'd seen a sign in the office declaring coffee would be available from eight to ten only. Two guesses where Dean had gone off to and the first one didn't count.
Eyes barely half open, Sam swung his legs out of bed, spent a moment wondering why he'd left one sock on, and staggered to the bathroom. He heard Dean come back in while he was trying to brush the fuzz from between his teeth.
"Think fast, Sam!"
The massive snowball hit Sam on the side of the head, spraying snow over his bare shoulders. "You asshole!"
Scooping up the snow from the worn linoleum, he charged out into the other room, anticipated Dean's dodge, and tackled him to the bed. Knowing what was coming, Dean fought back but was laughing so hard he couldn't put up much of a defense. Sam crowed in triumph as he shoved the snow down the back of Dean's pants, then bounced to his feet and raised both hands over his head.
"Enough with the victory dance, dude! Your lack of rhythm hurts my head." Scooping the snow out of his jeans, Dean grabbed a towel from the bathroom then retrieved two coffees and a plastic bag from where he'd stowed them safely by the television. "Three creams, seventeen sugars, just the way you like it."
No more than two sugars, Sam acknowledged, taking a careful sip. Not that he didn't trust Dean; it was more that he knew Dean. "What's in the bag?"
"Transmission mount. Al said he'd keep looking. He must've dropped it off in at the motel office this morning."
"A Christmas miracle."
"Hey, it's exactly what I wanted." Dean pulled the mount out of the bag. "Looks like we'll be spending a few days at Bobby's while I put it in."
"You think the old one will…" Sam frowned.
"Do I think the old one will what? Get us there? Sam? Hello? Earth to Major Tom!"
Dean leaned back as Sam approached until Sam finally had to wrap a hand around his wrist to hold him in place. With the forefinger of his other hand, he wiped a bit of red glitter off the end of the mount.
"You ever think," he said softly, "that the bad's so up in our face that we don't see the good when it's right in front of us?"
"I think," Dean said, in exactly the same tone, "that there's a My Little Pony in it for you if you can get dressed all by yourself and into the car before I starve to death."
Sam considered and discarded a couple of responses, finally settling on, "If it's not Raspberry Sparkle, you're buying breakfast."
Dean's eyes crinkled at the corners. "No surprise you know their names, Samantha."
"Bite me." Sam rubbed the red glitter off the end of his finger onto Dean's nose. Then backed up fast as Dean scrubbed at it with the back of his hand.
It took less than ten minutes to drink their coffee, dress, pack, and load the Impala. One hand on the glossy black of her roof, Sam paused inside the open wing of the door, and looked across at Dean.
Dean scrubbed at his nose again. "What?"
"Merry Christmas."
"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised but pleased. "Merry Christmas, Sammy." He lifted the bag holding the transmission mount. "Sorry, Santa didn't bring you anything."
Sam watched a single piece of red glitter catch the light as Dean smiled. Not a smirk, not a grin, but the smile Sam hadn't seen for a couple of years now. He managed a strangled, "I'm good." before dropping down into the car.
They were alive, they were together, and Sam figured, when it came right down to it, he didn't need to believe in anything more than that.
Even if, as it turned out, there might be more to believe in.