The Twelve Beers of Christmas
TITLE: The Twelve Beers of Christmas
SUMMARY: When the company that makes the beer Sam and Dean give Bobby every year for Christmas goes out of business, they have to make adjustments.
AUTHOR:
tifaching
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Sam, Dean, Bobby
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
LENGTH: 3432
A/N: No offense was intended to any beer or any beer ingredient. All the beer names used in this fic are actual names, researched extensively at my local liquor store. :D
Written for a prompt at the spn_bigpretzel Secret Satan Fic exchange by patriciatepes
You can see the fantastic art twisted_slinky made for this here
“They’ll have some here,” Dean says, wheeling the Impala into the parking lot, and the sad thing, Sam thinks, is that he actually believes it.
“They won’t.” Sam replies. “Nowhere has it. What about ‘the company went out of business’ don’t you understand?”
Dean gestures at the sign blazing above them brightly enough to be seen in the next county. “Liquor Warehouse Superstore, Sam. It’s a warehouse and a superstore and it’s full of booze and it’s the size of freakin’ Wisconsin. I’ve always been able to get it here before.”
“You mean before they stopped making it? Admit it, Dean. You waited too long to get Bobby his Christmas present and now we’re not going to be able to get it at all.”
“I waited too long?”
“Yes, you waited too long. I wanted to get his present back in August.”
“You wanted to get him some Pope’s book of black magic and a Sumatran ceremonial dagger!”
“So?”
“So, what the hell kind of a Christmas present is that?”
Sam’s voice is tight. “The kind Bobby would actually like. The grimoire of Pope Honorius is not a book of black magic, Dean. It’s like Bobby’s Key of Solomon and he’d kill to have it. The dagger can be used in any number of rituals. Do you have any idea what a stroke of luck it was to run across those? Why can’t we give him something different for once?”
“Because giving Bobby sucky Japanese beer is a tradition and you don’t fuck with tradition.”
Sam side eyes his brother. “Since when do you care about tradition?”
Dean snorts. “Aren’t you the one who’s always whining about having normal things?”
“No.” There’s a difference between wishing for a normal life and whining, not that Sam would expect Dean to know the difference.
“Yeah, you are,” Dean smirks, “and traditions are as normal as you can get.”
“Fine, but how about next year we start a new tradition- not waiting until two days before Christmas to get Bobby his present.”
“Yeah, maybe next year I’ll shop at the after Christmas sales.” Dean slides out of the Impala before Sam can reply.
“Jerk,” Sam mutters under his breath as he follows his brother into the store. Dean’s already schmoozing with a cute blonde in a Santa hat when Sam catches up with him.
“You’re sure there’s no more?” Dean asks, giving her his most devilish grin. “Maybe on a back shelf somewhere? I mean, who would buy the stuff anyway?”
The girl just shrugs, making the sequins on her sparkly Christmas sweater glimmer, to Dean’s utter engrossment. “I’ve only been working here a few weeks and that company went out of business a while ago. I heard that only two guys ever came in to buy it, so I guess it can’t have been a very big seller.”
Sam thanks the girl for her time, pulling Dean away before he can make Christmas plans that involve neither Sam nor Bobby. Dean yanks his arm from Sam’s grasp irritably.
“Well, now we’re screwed.”
“We can always go back and get the grimoire and the dagger,” Sam says with a grin.
“Driving fifteen hundred miles back the way we came to commit grand larceny isn’t part of my pre-Christmas plans, Sam. Not very festive, if you ask me. Now,” he sighs, “we’ve got to find another beer that tastes as much like ass as the one they don’t make any more.”
“Maybe not.” Sam’s already headed for the sign that reads ‘Imported Beers’. “Another company might make the same thing and we can get that instead.”
“It’s Japanese beer, Sam. Made from rice.” Dean’s face is screwed up in disgust. “No wonder they went out of business. You really think someone else would be dumb enough to make shit like that?”
“We could always get Bobby good beer,” Sam suggests.
“Bobby doesn’t like good beer.”
Sam’s got his doubts about that, but he keeps his mouth shut and scans the shelves for an alternate rice based beer from Japan. Frankly, he thinks that bad tasting beer is more Dean’s speed and he can’t imagine that there’s any form of alcohol that his brother won’t drink. Dean’s wandered a little further down the aisle and is scanning the multitude of individual bottles of craft beer stacked along both sides.
“Find anything?” Sam asks.
“No, you?” Dean replies distractedly.
“Nothing made of rice,” Sam says, eyeing a six pack. “Hey, Dean, check this out. Blueberry ale.”
“Blueberries belong in pies, dude.” Dean doesn’t even look his brother’s way as Sam slides the clanking bottles into his shopping cart. “Man, I can’t believe all the beers they’ve got here.”
Sam suppresses a groan. Dean’s like a kid in a candy store and he may never want to leave. “Well, there’s no Japanese rice beer. What do you want to do?”
Dean turns to his brother with a grin. “Well, I’ve got kind of a theme going on over here.” He grabs bottles off the shelf and names them as he slides them into the carriage. “Witch Ale. Wychcraft Ale. Vampire Brew. Hobgoblin Ale.”
“You’re getting three bottles of each?”
“Sure. One for me, one for you, and one for Bobby. We can’t give it to him without trying it out first. What if it sucks?”
“The beer we’ve gotten him every Christmas for the last ten years sucks. I thought the whole idea of this was to get him beer that sucked.”
“Well, I think it’s time to broaden his horizons.” Dean proceeds down the aisle, carefully placing bottle after bottle into the cart. “Holy fuck,” he gasps, pulling a pint off the shelf. “Check this out.”
“Pecan Pie Porter,” Sam obediently reads off the label. “So…what? Blueberries are for pies and pecans are for beer?”
“We’ll just have to try them and see,” Dean says with a gleam in his eye that Sam doesn’t like at all.
“Dude, we’re not going to be able to taste test all these beers. We have to be at Bobby’s tomorrow afternoon.”
“Have you no faith, grasshopper?” Dean stares at his brother in mock seriousness. “It’s Christmas. Oh, my God.” He sweeps chocolate beer and jalapeno beer and a multitude of others into the cart. “I didn’t know there were this many different beers in the world!”
Sam smiles at Dean’s enthusiasm. He’s acting more like a kid at Christmas than he ever had when he was actually a kid.
“Know what we can do, Sammy?”
Sam’s not sure he wants to know, but he replies anyway. “What?”
“We can try them all and give Bobby the best twelve.”
Sam just looks at him blankly.
“Come on, Sam. The twelve beers of Christmas. Would that be awesome, or what?”
“That would be awesome,” Sam admits, because it kind of would. Leave it to Dean to come up with it. “But if we drink all that beer to find the best twelve, neither of us is going to make it to Bobby’s to give him the awesome gift.”
“Lightweight,” Dean scoffs as he heads for the register, Sam trailing behind. The girl in the sparkly sweater rings them up, eyes sending all kinds of invitations Dean’s way, but all Dean can see is the beer. He doesn’t even blink at the total, though Sam almost chokes when he hears how much it comes out to. Sweater girl slides the bottles into boxes, obviously disappointed that Dean has moved on. Once transported to the car, the boxes take up the whole back seat and Dean drives like a grandma on her way to church all the way back to the motel to avoid disturbing them. When Sam suggests leaving some of the beer in the car his brother looks at him like he has two heads.
“Dude. Taste test, remember?”
Sam just shakes his head and refuses to carry more than one box in, leaving Dean to make four trips. When all the boxes have been settled, Dean goes back to the parking lot with the room’s trash cans and fills the bathtub with snow. Once the beers are chilling, Dean heads out to get some food. Even he’s not going to try this on an empty stomach.
Sam eyes the tub despondently. The bottle necks rise above the snow like dozens of tiny periscopes and he grabs one of his blueberry ales even though it’s barely cold. Whatever Dean brings back to eat isn’t likely pair well with fruity beers. He flops into a chair by the room’s wobbly table and takes a sip, closing his eyes with a sigh. It’s definitely beery but with a hint of blueberry in the aftertaste. It’s a tiny taste of summer in spite of the sub zero weather outside and Sam takes a good swallow, relaxing further into the chair. This is one that’s definitely going into Bobby’s twelve. Or fifteen. Or twenty. Or however the hell many beers Dean decides to pick out. There are way too many in that tub for the two of them to drink, no matter how well oiled Dean’s liver is. Bobby’s going to be getting a shit ton of beer for Christmas.
The sound of a bag dropping onto the table and the aroma of beef and onions wake Sam from a half sleep. He blinks up at his brother groggily as Dean digs around in the bag and plops a turkey and avocado wrap in front of him.
“Lightweight,” Dean says again, this time with amusement. He eyes Sam’s beer. “Started with the fruity ones, huh? Typical.” He puts his own food on the table and pulls an aluminum pie plate out of the bag. “Check it out, Sammy: blueberry, pumpkin, raspberry and pecan. One to go with each flavor of beer.”
“Awesome,” Sam replies unenthusiastically. Dean just laughs and goes to snag his own beer out of the tub.
Dean pops the cap and takes a long pull before settling down with a belch. “Rocket Dog,” he says, nodding approvingly and turning the bottle so Sam can see the bright green robot dog soaring through the air. “Gotta love that label and the brew’s not too bad either.”
“Yeah, this is pretty damned good too,” Sam says, gesturing with his bottle.
“Try it with the pie,” his brother urges.
“I’m not done with my sandwich yet.”
“God forbid you should eat dessert first.” Dean’s already drained his first beer and heads back to the bathroom for another. He returns with a bottle of the blueberry ale and rips open the pie container, digging into a slice of blueberry even though his burger is only half eaten. He spreads his arms wide, fork in one hand, bottle in the other. “See? Nothing bad happens if you have your pie before your dinner.” He takes another sip, then another bite and smacks his lips appreciatively. “Damn, but I never thought of beer and pie as two things that would go together but this is freakin’ delicious. Can’t wait to try the others.”
Sam stares at the inch or so of beer left in his bottle and sighs. There’s no way Dean’s going to let him have two of the same beer when there are so many to try so he grabs a fork and takes a bite of the pie. Then he takes another. “Dean…,” he moans.
“I know, right?” Dean’s already back with another beer before Sam’s even finished his first. He plunks a bottle of Wychcraft Ale in front of Sam and settles down with a bottle of Smashed Pumpkin Ale for himself. The pumpkin pie follows the blueberry down Dean’s gullet along with deep swallows of beer.
Sam just shakes his head and goes back to eating his sandwich. “Ever think about maybe pacing yourself there, Dean?”
“Nope,” Dean smirks. “The pumpkin beer doesn’t go quite as well with the pie as the blueberry, but it’s still damned fine beer. We might be in trouble with the twelve beers thing.”
“Ya think? Maybe we should just give him all of them. You know that’s what we’re going to end up doing anyway.”
“Keep tasting, Sam.”
By the time three a.m. rolls around, Sam’s about a dozen beers behind his brother and more than ready for bed. Taking one mouthful of the beer as a good enough taste isn’t working. Well, it’s working for Sam but Dean, appalled at the waste of the best beer he’s ever had, is insisting on finishing the bottles that Sam only starts. When he catches Sam trying to dump most of his Pecan Pie Porter down the toilet he almost goes ballistic.
“Gimme that,” Dean growls, grabbing the bottle from Sam and draining the last remaining drops. “How can you waste good beer like that? You don’t see me wasting any.”
“No,” Sam mutters, “you’re not wasting it, you’re getting wasted.”
“Bite me.” Dean bends over, staggering slightly, and grabs another beer from the still slightly cold water. Sam resolves right then to drain the tub so the next time his brother comes in here he doesn’t face plant and drown. “It’s the last Elf,” Dean beams drunkenly. He’s already worked his way through Bad Elf, Very Bad Elf and Seriously Bad Elf and now he’s reached his favorite. “Criminally Bad Elf. That could be me you know, because I’m wanted by the F.B.I.”
“You’re not an elf, Dean. You’re just a criminal.”
“Did you have any of the Elves, Sammy? No, you probably didn’t because they don’t make ‘Marginally Bad Elf’ beer.”
Sam just rolls his eyes. He’d stopped long before he’d gotten to elves of any level of badness.
Dean wavers down again and come up with a bottle that he thrusts at Sam. “Here. This one is perfect for you, and if you drink it, I’ll stop bugging you.”
Sam peers at the label. “Lump Of Coal? No.”
“Okay, then how about this one? If anything is going to taste as much like ass as the rice beer it’ll be this.”
“I’m not drinking a beer called ‘Santa’s Butt’, Dean.”
“Bitch,” Dean mutters, taking all three bottles back to the other room, colliding with the doorframe on his way through. Sam’s pretty amazed that his brother’s still upright. Even though he’s seen Dean put away alcohol like it was water before, this time he’s setting a new world record for liquor holding.
Sam pulls the stopper on the tub and follows Dean back to the bedroom, kicking off his jeans as he goes. “It’s bedtime, Dean,” he says, falling down on his mattress and pulling the covers over his head. He peeks out long enough to add, “Don’t keep me up. I’ve got a feeling I’m driving to Bobby’s tomorrow.”
“Not in my car you’re not,” his brother slurs, taking only three tries to pop the top off his bottle.
“Whatever,” Sam murmurs from under the covers and is out like a light.
Twelve hours later
“ ‘m sorry, Bobby,” Dean’s voice is low and slurred and Bobby’s heart drops. The boy can’t do this to him on Christmas Eve.
“Where are you, Dean?” He keeps his voice steady, but makes the tone harsh. Not answering isn’t an option. “Is Sam with you?”
“Yeah,” Dean groans, a low, sick sound. “I m’n, he was. He’s gone now and… ‘s my fault, Bobby. I tried, but there were too many, even for me… I’m sorry.”
The line goes dead and Bobby swears frantically. The boys are usually too on top of things to allow their cell phones to be traced, but maybe this time they’ve slipped up. They have to have in one way or another for Dean to be that wrecked and for Sam to not be there. There’s a heavy knock on the door and Bobby curses as he goes to open it. “Look, I don’t have time,” he says, quieting with a start when he looks up to see Sam looming over him in the doorway. “Sam? What are you doing here?”
Sam shifts under Bobby’s glare, bottles clinking in the box he’s suddenly holding like a shield. “It’s Christmas Eve. I thought I was invited.”
“Where the hell did you leave your brother?”
Sam looks even more confused at Bobby’s anger. “Um, in the car. Why?”
“Because I just got a phone call from him and it sounded like he was dying.”
“He called you in the time it took me to get here from the car? I didn’t even think he was conscious.”
Bobby’s eyes narrow and he takes a deep breath. “What happened?”
Sam holds up the box and flips open the top with a grin. “This.”
Bobby peers at the bottles. “Beer happened?”
“Not just any beer. The twelve beers of Christmas.”
“Hate to break it to you boy, but there’s twenty-four bottles of beer in here.”
“That’s the other twelve beers of Christmas. There are another dozen in the car. Let me get him in and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Need any help?”
“Nah, I’m good. If he’s awake enough to see the numbers on a cell phone, he should be at least partly ambulatory.”
Bobby takes the box into the kitchen and begins to unload the beer into the refrigerator snorting softly at the labels. Sam might have brought the beer in, but this gift has Dean written all over it. The front door bangs closed and he gets back to the living room in time to see Sam lowering a mutinous Dean onto the couch.
“’m not an invalid, Sam.” Dean glares up at his brother as Sam pushes him onto his back and tucks a blanket over him.
“No,” Sam agrees, “but I think you might still be just a little intoxicated. Finish sleeping it off on Bobby’s nice comfy couch and when you wake up we’ll have dinner, okay?”
“Leave me some Elf, bitch,” Dean mutters, curling onto his side and pillowing his head on the arm of the couch.
“Elf?” Bobby asks when he and Sam are in the kitchen.
“Yeah,” Sam answers, scanning the bottles in the fridge. “Dean got some crazy beers, Bobby. Those must still be in the car.”
“Got any rice beer out there, Sam?”
“No,” Sam shakes his head. “Sorry, the company went out of business and we couldn’t find any more in time.”
“So you bought all this instead.”
“Yep.”
“And…?”
“And Dean wanted to taste test them all before we gave them to you to make sure they were good.”
“Don’t see anything wrong with that,” Bobby shrugs.
“He started yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh.” Bobby shakes his head with a grin. “Of course he did. You didn’t help?”
“Yeah, I had some. But not all.”
“Well, when you boys have a tradition, you stick with it, I’ll give you that.”
“Well,” Sam admits, “it was mostly Dean, if you can believe it. I didn’t think there was a tradition in the world that he gave a damn about.” He pauses and looks at Bobby from underneath his bangs. “Just out of curiosity, how would you have felt about getting the grimoire of Pope Honorius and a Sumatran ceremonial dagger?”
Bobby lets out a low whistle. “That’s a serious gift, son. Maybe next year?” He pulls a couple of bottles of Michelob out of the fridge and hands one to Sam. He doesn’t want to start on the gift beer until Dean’s awake enough to join them. And even then it’s going to be strictly rationed.
“Come on.” Bobby leads Sam back to the living room and sits him down. “You can help me finish the research I was working on when your brother called and almost ruined my holiday.”
Logs are crackling in the fireplace and Bobby steals glances at Dean’s tousled head, barely visible under the blanket and Sam’s quick hands taking notes and sipping beer. He raises his bottle and sends thanks out to whatever might be listening before adding his own message. I’ve got ‘em, John, he thinks. For now, I’ve got ’em.