A Very Supernatural Christmas Carol
Pairing: Wincest
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer, Jessica Moore, Ellen Harvelle, Jody Mills, Tessa
Wordcount/Medium: 7,723/fic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
AO3: Link
Summary: Sam and Dean return to the Bunker together to iron things out after Gadreel is expelled. Sam wants to celebrate Christmas to help bridge the distance, but Dean only has eyes for hunting Abaddon. After Sam storms out, Dean is visited by four ghosts from his past. Of course, it all goes wrong before it goes right.
aka the one in which Dean is Scrooge, Sam is not Tiny Tim, and Bobby is not impressed by the Bunker
A/N:Written as spn_xmas_exchange fic for deansbeerbottle who gave me free rein and in return got a load of angst, a Stanford flashback and pining brothers. Thanks to sammythankyou for the beta!
Eight hours and fifteen minutes. That’s how long it’s been since Sam left the Bunker. Dean glanced at his cell phone where it sat dark on the library table. No messages, no text, no nothing.
As he unscrewed the top to the bottle of Jack sitting next to him and poured two fingers into a glass, his eye was drawn to the pine tree laying on the steps. The scent of resin and pine filled the war room and the library like a goddamn Yankee Candle. How Sam dragged that thing in here this morning by himself, Dean would never know.
A Christmas tree. What was Sam thinking?
Before moving into the Bunker, the two of them never had a home together to celebrate Christmas. Beer can wreaths and stolen gifts aside, normal holiday traditions like trees and lights were not part of the Winchester family. Last year, when they first moved in, they had been knee-deep in tablets and trials so the holidays hadn’t even been a blip on their radar, and Sam never viewed this place as their home anyway, only as a base of operations.
Their second year in the Bunker had been filled with Gadreel and chasing Abaddon. Dean didn’t even remember it was Christmas. When he stumbled across the tree this morning, he didn’t handle it well. He spent the past two weeks tip-toeing around his brother’s feelings, with Sam’s hurt looks and short responses. Every time Dean walked in a room, Sam walked out, and yeah, maybe Dean deserved some of it, but Sam suddenly deciding that they should decorate “their home”? The freaking whiplash was making his head spin.
“What the hell, Sam? We don’t have time to throw a little Christmas party.”
“I thought it might be nice… that it might help us…” Sam’s eyes were soft and hard all at the same time, and it stoked up the fire in Dean’s belly even more.
“The only thing that will help us right now is killing Abaddon. Not hot chocolate and candy canes, or Santa coming down the chimney.”
“Dean, we don't have a chimney,” Sam tried, but it was the wrong time to make a joke.
Dean frowned. “Get rid of it.”
Sam’s face did that thing where it tightened and collapsed, just like when he was four years old, and it almost made Dean reconsider his words, but stubbornness ran like blood in the Winchester veins. Both of them stood their ground, waiting for the other to back down. Sam broke the stand-off by snatching up his coat and heading out the door.
Now, Dean was stuck here in the Bunker, drinking bottom-shelf whiskey and eating microwave burritos while reading religious texts about Lucifer’s fall and the first demons he created. So far, he found nothing new and just kept pushing. Sam was the scholar who loved research, but Dean was very good at scanning for patterns or clues and he was driven to find a weakness, some way to kill a Knight.
Another glance at his phone showed no incoming messages or texts. Dean ran his hand over his face to wipe the weariness away and poured himself another drink.
***
It was the freezing cold that woke him up. Living in an underground bunker wasn’t the coziest spot at times, but the temperature was kept in a reasonable range thanks to the Men of Letters and whatever systems or spells they put in place. Raising his head from the table, Dean could feel the skin on his arm pebbling up in goosebumps and his breath became visible. It was the same feeling as the Black Dog hunt they went on near Duluth where Dean had been knocked out and woke up laying face first on top of the snow. He shook his head and pushed back from the table, rubbing some warmth into his arms.
That’s when he saw it.
A glowing image of Bobby stood across the library, kicking back against one of the bookshelves, trucker cap firmly in place on his head with arms crossed across his chest.
Dean jumped up from his chair, heart in his throat, judging the distance to the iron sword hanging in its display not five feet away. He started to shout for Sam but the sound died on his tongue as he remembered that Sam wasn’t in the Bunker.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Bobby, or the thing pretending to be Bobby because they salted and burned his corpse over two years ago, sighed dramatically. “Who do you think it is, idjit?”
“I don’t know what you are, but you’re not Bobby.” Dean began to circle the end of the library table, palms itching to grab that sword and put it to use.
“Really?” The ghost pushed away from the bookshelf and walked towards Dean, its arms spread out to show no malice. “You sure about that?”
“We salted and burned you in Sioux Falls, then burned your flask. There’s nothing left of Bobby - so you can’t be here.” He circled the end of the desk, never taking his eyes off the white apparition.
Bobby smirked, and took a turn around the library towards Dean. “Is that what all these fancy books tell you? You think you know everything because the two of you are Men of Letters now? Please, I could do more with lore books from the Sioux Falls public library than these pompous snobs.”
“Wait, what?” Dean cocked his head, momentarily forgetting all the rest. “You knew about the Men of Letters and never said anything to us?”
Instead of coming around to reach Dean, Ghost Bobby reached out for the whiskey bottle on the table, his misty hand wrapping around the neck of it to pour more into the glass.
“Look at that,” he said, holding out the glass for Dean to take. “It’s amazing how well you can move stuff when you have time to practice.”
Dean reached for it, before realizing what he was doing. “I’m only going to ask one more time. What do you want?”
“World peace. To figure out who the Zodiac killer was. To translate the Voynich Manuscript. To save your soul.” Once again, Ghost Bobby offered the glass to Dean. “Trust me, boy, you’re gonna want to drink this.”
Dean’s hand hovered for a moment then grabbed the glass. He licked his lips before taking a sip. “My soul, huh?”
The ghost picked up another glass off the serving table in the corner and sat down in one of the leather armchairs that were Sam’s favorites in the corner. Dean studied Bobby over the rim of his drink, perplexed at the solidity of the figure. Most apparitions were translucent, ethereal, but this Bobby seemed just a pale and vaguely pissed off version of the hunter he knew.
“Yes, your soul, you moron. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t in trouble and I had to save your ass. Again.”
It was a dream. It had to be. Dean drank too much after Sam left, and now he was having a really vivid alcohol-fueled dream, although those usually consisted of Kate Upton in a swimsuit or a certain brother who was MIA right now, not a crusty old hunter-ghost.
“Hey, who ya calling crusty?” Bobby groused, and then smiled at Dean’s surprise. “Another perk to being dead, I can read everything going through that pea-sized brain of yours, and it ain’t pretty. By the way, where’s your brother?”
Dean glanced over at the pine tree lying neglected on the steps. “He’s pissed at me. Took off somewhere.”
“All the drama between you two - it’s like the Real Housewives of Lebanon around here. Nothing you can’t fix if you want.”
“Don’t know that Sam feels the same way.” Dean hung his head. Memories of the last few months weighed on him - Sam’s possession, Kevin’s death, Gadreel’s escape, Abaddon on the loose. Some ghost coming back from the dead didn’t need to tell him he messed up. He looked back up, shoulders set. “I did what I had to.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that old line before.” Bobby crinkled his brow and then leaned forward in the chair, a worried glean in his eyes. “I was sent back to help you before you do something really stupid. To make an impression. And because you can be a stubborn son of a bitch, I invited three friends along to help me make a point.”
“Which is what, Bobby? Why don’t you just tell me your point before I get any older?”
Dean met Bobby’s eyes, which were fierce and otherworldly but still Bobby in the end, and that stopped his joking flat.
“Listen to me, boy. These three ghosts are here to make sure you change the direction of your life. That you don’t let revenge and guilt take you down the wrong path - the same path that all you Winchesters are itching to travel. Right now, that path is leading to a very dark place that you don’t want to go. It’s a responsibility that you don’t want to take on, mark yourself with, and lose your humanity to. For your sake, for Sam’s sake, changes need to be made and you need to remember the most important thing, the thing that makes you human - family.”
Responsibility? Family? What part of Dean’s whole life hadn’t been wrapped up in these two things since he was four years old?
“So, wait, you’re gonna Scrooge me? Really?”
Bobby tipped the bill of his trucker’s cap at Dean. “Well, some people need extra help to see what right in front of them, and you’re one of the stubborn ones.”
Dean leaned forward about to unload an artfully snarky comment when his eyes darkened and he fell to the ground.
***
When he woke up, he found himself on the ground in front of the armchair, whisky spilling from the upturned glass next to him. Dean’s head pulled up, looking for a trace of Bobby in the library, but there was nothing. The second whisky glass now stood back in line with the others on the serving table, reflecting the low lamp light.
He stood up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, clearing his vision and thoughts. What a dream. Stress and alcohol and guilt made for a weird soup of unconsciousness. And Bobby telling him that he needed to change his life? Nothing new there. Maybe skipping dinner earlier wasn’t the smartest thing he could do.
Standing in the hallway, Dean looked left towards the kitchen and right towards his bedroom. If it was a choice between making a sandwich or finding the bottle of whiskey hidden in his closet, only one answer was acceptable tonight.
As he opened his bedroom door, a pair of long, gorgeous legs crossed at the ankles and stretched across his mattress, came into view. His first thought was Sam, that the jerk had come back while Dean was passed out in the library and decided to camp out in his brother’s room, but the legs were slender and decidedly less hairy.
Instead of the black v-neck Sam wore every night to bed, the sight of a Smurfs t-shirt and blond curly hair stunned him to silence.
“Hey Dean, how ya doing? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” A snort of amusement came from the girl kicking back on Dean’s bed, holding a magazine in her lap. A drop-dead gorgeous girl. A girl who shouldn’t be here. A girl his brother loved once upon a time.
“Jessica?”
“That’s right. In the flesh. Well, really, in the spirit. Either way, you gotta admit I look pretty good for being dead ten years.”
Dean took in the boy shorts and ripped Smurfs t-shirt and remembered so long ago at Stanford. He was thrown off that night by the thought of Sam having a girlfriend that he might have turned on the charm a little strong. Okay, a lot strong. “Yeah, no, definitely. You look amazing for a dead chick.”
“Damn straight, I do.” Her smile was warm as she gestured impatiently for him to enter. “Well, stop hanging out in the hallway and come on in.”
God, he forgot how beautiful Jessica was. Curly blond hair, a smile that could melt the ice caps, with legs for days. He never noticed at the time how strong she looked, like Jess could do some serious damage with some college class self defense moves. No wonder his brother was in love with her. And Sam was missing this.
“So, you’re my ghost of Christmas Past?”
Ghost-Jess rolled her eyes and tossed the magazine carelessly onto Dean’s desk. “Really, Busty Asian Beauties? You and your brother both have lousy taste in porn.”
“You were reading my porn?” Dean’s brain was about to short-circuit, but he couldn’t tell if it was the critique of his choices or the careless treatment of his collection.”Wait, back up a minute. College boy looked at porn? You need to tell me some stories.”
“Listen, Dean, we don’t have much time.” She stood up, almost as tall as he was, and they stared each other down, green eyes to green eyes. “Fine, I’m your first ghost. My job is to show you the past, to make you understand what’s at stake, because the way things are heading right now with the two of you? It isn’t good. That’s not going to be a problem is it, Dean? Because you’re looking a little green in the face right now.”
This was not what he expected. Not that he ever expected to meet Jess again, outside of a djinn dream, but he remembered a young girl, quietly concerned, standing beside Sam as they left. Not this bossy drill sergeant. A pang of lost time clenched his heart, because he obviously didn’t know her at all which means there were parts of Sam that he didn’t know at all.
“Ha! You think I’m bossy? Dude, wait til you meet the Ghost of Christmas Present.” she laughed, reaching out a hand to set it on his shoulder, “But seriously, I know how you Winchesters are. Trust me, I lived with Sam long enough to know that he was an emotional vault, and now I know where he got that from. So, you’re not much for all the sharing and caring, and that’s okay. But you need to work with me right now. Ready?”
Her hand gripped his shoulder and as he glanced down at the pale long fingers resting there, the rest of the world around them went white too.
***
The house was small and messy with pizza boxes stacked five high on a scratched formica table in the kitchen. Backpacks were piled next to them. Most were high quality camping gear, except for one scuffed army surplus one that Dean would recognize anywhere.
“Sam.”
Jess gave him a quizzical look. “Of course, Sam. Who did you think we were going to visit, the Dalai Lama?”
She moved to peek around the corner into the living room, where five people were gathered around a small coffee table, surrounded by empty paper plates and a warm glow from the fireplace.
“A toast.” A short man with dark hair raised his plastic glass filled with egg nog. “To our first Christmas together. Eating pizza with you guys is so much better than going home early after exams. My brother is probably balancing on a ladder hanging outdoor lights right now while my mom yells at him.”
Another man shuddered. “Yeah, well, that sounds better than my dad drinking too much punch and dragging us out caroling in the neighborhood. How about you, Winchester? What horrible holiday traditions are happening at your house right now?”
Sam stood up from his place on the couch, clutching the plate in front of him. “You know what, I’m still hungry. Gonna grab another slice from the kitchen. Anybody else want more?”
His brother looked good - Sam always looked good to Dean - but maybe a little skinny. That was to be expected with the growth spurt he had in college and Sam was never a big eater. Growing up, Dean was always after him to finish up, to eat more and take care of himself. He wondered if Jess had to do the same thing during this pocket of time.
Sam walked towards them in the kitchen doorway, and Dean had a moment of panic.
“He can’t see us. This is just a memory.” Ghost-Jess stepped back, watching as Sam approached the kitchen table. “All of our friends had their issues, which is why we became so close, so quickly. But Sam? Sam was the prince of family secrets.”
Holidays were never an easy time for them growing up. Their mom’s death hung like a spectre for John and Dean, who remembered a time of Christmas lights and sugar cookies. Sam never had that. Dean had tried on occasion to give him something more, to put a smile on his face, with stolen presents or gas-station candy canes, but sometimes it was easier to pretend that Christmas was just another day, like any other.
Dean watched as Sam detoured from the pizza boxes, pulling out his cell phone and looking at the screen thoughtfully. Sam clicked a few buttons on his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the dark kitchen, and bit his bottom lip as he looked down. Dean couldn’t help himself but to move in closer, curious to see what was on that screen.
One name was highlighted and Sam’s finger hovered over the keys, but the phone was snapped shut again and disappeared back into his pocket. Sam ran a hand through his hair, front to back, a sure tell of the kid’s anxiety.
Dean turned toward Ghost-Jess. “He never called me.” Dean sounded defensive and young, and she gave him a sympathetic look back.
“And what would you have done if he had?”
Real Jess popped her head in the doorway from the living room, a worried crease across her brow. “How ya doing in here, babe? Maybe you should come back out and join us. We’re going to start opening presents.”
Sam waved her off with a half-smile. “No, I’m fine, really. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Ghost-Jess sighed and picked a pepperoni off one of the pizzas. “Really, what’s up with you Winchesters and “I’m fine”? If I had a nickel for every time.”
Dean couldn’t pull his gaze away from Sam’s eyes which were wet now, not quite tears but so far from okay. The kid seemed lost amongst the pizza boxes and beer cans in that dark kitchen, and Dean wanted to pull him in, bury Sam’s face into his shoulder, protect him from all of the pain of those years. In the other room, his friends were laughing and Sam wiped at his eyes.
“Hey, Sam, can you grab another egg nog from the fridge? Luis drank all of the other one.” Another familiar blond head appeared in the doorway, with white teeth flashing in the dark, a wolf’s smile on the face of lamb.
“Sure, Brady.” Sam laughed and rubbed at his face with one sleeve before stepping over to the refrigerator. He grabbed a half gallon container from the door and held it out to his ex-roommate with a smile.
“That son of a bitch.” Dean stepped forward towards the demon, hand reaching for Ruby’s knife to gut the traitor, but Jess’ hand pulled him back.
“Memory, not real.” Her nose wrinkled up as she scowled at the scene and at Brady, who took the eggnog with a toothy smile. “Trust me. It’s not like he’s my favorite either. Knowing what I know now, I would have killed him in his sleep that night, Christmas or not.”
Dean turned to face her, speechless. It wasn’t just Sam’s life that had been ruined by demons and destiny.
She turned back towards him. “So, where were you, Dean?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I mean, what were you doing during Christmas that year? Must have been important, that you didn’t call Sam.”
“Hey, he didn’t call me either.”
Ghost-Jess whacked him upside the head. “Don’t be a child. Just answer the question.”
Dean rubbed the back of his head with a scowl and thought back. This whole Christmas scene was about five months before he went to pick up Sam at Stanford. Dad had given him the car back in November, right after the anniversary of Mom’s death, and they had started doing separate hunts. Those first few months were a blur, but Dean vaguely remembered a bar in Tennessee where he pumped quarter after quarter into a jukebox draped in strands of Christmas lights while he got wasted on boilermakers as he nursed a huge hole in his heart.
“Poltergeist in Nashville.”
He looked back at this Sam, so young in this memory with those boyish bangs hanging down as he pulled the cell phone out again. His brother flipped the screen open once more, his thumb hovering over the keys.
Just make the call, Sam. Just do it. I was waiting for you, standing there in that bar listening to old country and western songs. I would have picked up. I would have driven through the night to reach you.
“So, was it worth it?”
“What?” Dean turned back to face her.
“The hunt in Nashville?” she said.
“Of course. People are alive because I killed that thing.”
Jess nodded and placed her hand on his shoulder. “There will always be more monsters, Dean.”
***
This time when he woke up, he was face down on his bed, and he was getting annoyed. If these ghosts really wanted to show him something, maybe they could start with a little less guilt and a lot more common courtesy.
A quick look at his clean desk, sans porn magazine, had him wondering what actually happened. The whole visitation thing felt real, but maybe he wasn’t seeing any ghosts at all. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, and his head and stomach rolled over in protest. Maybe it was just alcohol-induced hallucinations and a big dose of brother guilt. It wouldn’t kill him to dry out a bit, eat a little food, before getting back to work.
On the way to the kitchen, he stopped at Sam’s room to look for signs of life. Same bed made with military corners, same stacks of lore, same lack of personal stuff, and no indication that Sam had come back while he was sleeping. Maybe he should drag that damn Christmas tree in here and set it up, make Sam happy. He wouldn’t need to look at it.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, grimacing at the old, lumpy mattress. Time and time again, Dean had harassed Sam about getting his own memory foam, but his brother always managed to change the subject. He certainly wasn’t settling into his own room and he hadn’t spent any time in Dean’s bed either.
Since they moved into the Bunker, it was one thing after the other. Between their tensions over Benny and purgatory and Sam’s sickness from the trials, there was little time for the things they found comfort in before.
And then Gadreel happened. The thought of touching his brother with an angel inside, bearing witness to all of it, was out of the question. One bad decision under pressure and Dean was able to save his brother and lose him all at the same time.
He set off for the kitchen again, deep in thought as to what they might have in the pantry to eat that he ran smack into the ghost standing beside the stove.
“Watch where you’re going, boy. I didn’t come all the way back from heaven to be run over by you.”
That low contralto voice sent a shiver up his spine, remembering the last time he heard it. And Dean? Kick it in the ass. Don't miss.
“Ellen?”
Like Jess, she looked great so heaven must provide amazing spa treatments. Her brown eyes sparkled in warmth as she reached out to cup Dean’s cheek. Seconds later, the slap of her hand startled him out of any nostalgia he felt.
“So, you want to tell me why I’m back here, dragging your ass out of the fire again?”
Dean touched his cheek where it stung and thought it was just his luck that the ghosts haunting his dreams were a real pain in the ass.
“Pain in the ass, huh? I’ll give you a pain in the ass if you don’t answer me, Dean.”
“I don’t know, Ellen. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
She began to pick her way along the countertops of the Bunker kitchen, turning over the industrial pans and utensils. “Not a bad setup you boys got here. Could have really used some of this stuff back in the day at the Roadhouse.”
“So, how are you the Ghost of Christmas Present?”
Ellen turned around with a sour look. “A better question is, where is your brother?”
“As they say, I am not my brother’s keeper.” It was meant to be a joke but fell flat as he soon as he said it.
Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “Cain and Abel. How appropriate. You’re heading down a bad path, Dean.”
He rolled his eyes. “So I’ve heard. For all-knowing ghosts, you guys sure are cryptic. How about you help me out, and tell me exactly what I’m supposed to being doing differently?”
“When was the last time you did what you were told, Dean? Since John died? You and your brother certainly don’t seem to be listening to each other much.”
“For the last time, I don’t know where Sam is and I don’t know what he’s doing. He just left me here.”
She smiled and gave him that fond look that he craved and hated, the one that spoke of home-made meals and bedtime stories, before reaching out to touch his shoulder. “That’s okay, Dean, because I do.”
***
Another blackout and waking up in another kitchen next to a ghost. His life was truly weird.
This kitchen was much cleaner, with its blenders and Cuisinart lined up efficiently along the wall. A few bottles of wine stood on the counter next to a corkscrew and a stack of Christmas cards, half of them sealed and stamped, the rest abandoned. Dean leaned in to see familiar handwriting at the bottom, signed Love, Jody.
The soft tones of Christmas music and laughter from a pair of voices floated in from the living room. Everything suddenly made sense. Sam had run off to Jody’s and was staying with her, to get his hit of the holiday season.
“Nice place.” Ellen’s voice reminded him that he wasn’t really here, only a witness to what was happening.
“Yeah, Jody lives here. She’s a sheriff that’s helped us on a few cases.”
Jody was nothing but good to both Sam and Dean, but as he looked out into the living room and saw the two of them on the couch together, huddled and intimate, his gut twisted. Dean wondered if he knew what their relationship really was.
A fully-decorated tree stood in the corner of the living room, its lights blinking randomly, and Bing Crosby was singing carols over the speakers. For someone who had no family and had seen the worst the world had to offer, Jody was surprising in how she embraced all the happy, normal aspects of life. Of course, Sam gravitated towards her as a friend.
Sam sat facing her, his knee up on the couch cushion and his fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Ordinary glasses and utensils were dwarfed inside of Sam’s enormous hands, looking more like a child’s tea party accouterments. Jody was laughing at something Sam said, tossing her head back, and Dean had to look away. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Sam to have friends, and it wasn’t that he didn’t like Jody. He would do anything for his brother, sacrifice anything for him - hell, he had sacrificed his life and soul for the kid - and all he wanted was to claim some of those rare smiles and laughs for himself.
Jody leaned forward, pouring more wine into Sam’s glass. “All right, cut the shit, Winchester. Tell me why you’re here with me on Christmas Eve and not with your brother.”
“Ooooh, I like her.” Ellen pushed in next to Dean in the doorway to watch. “A straight shooter.”
“You have no idea.The two of you would be peas and carrots.” Dean stepped into the living room, closer to the couch to hear Sam’s reply.
Sam let out one of those little fluttery laughs, the kind he used when he was trying to decide whether to tell the truth or distracted you, and the high sound of it grabbed Dean’s attention as he waited to see which direction Sam went this time.
“Things haven’t been going well recently…” Sam’s forehead scrunched up, and Dean held his breath, wondering if he was going to tell Jody all about Gadreel and the possession and Dean’s part in all of it. Perhaps he could beg Ellen to zap them back to the Bunker before he had to hear the answer.
Sam stopped speaking though, and Jody made a motion to continue.
“We just don’t seem to be communicating at all anymore, and I’m worried. Dean can only think about stopping Abaddon right now. He’s obsessed and transferred all the stuff we’ve been dealing with - frustration, guilt, whatever - into his hunt for her.” Sam gave a wry smile. “Speaking from experience, obsession over revenge never ends well.”
Dean squirmed a little at that, glancing over at Ellen who would be one of the few people that remembered Sam’s one-track hunt for Lilith and its consequences. It had almost broken their relationship. But Dean couldn’t just pull away from Abaddon - they were so close and the stakes were too high.
But isn’t that what Sam said, all those years ago? His brother thought the stakes were high then, to stop the seals from being broken and the start of the apocalypse. And look where that ended.
Ellen’s ghost shimmered for a moment as if it were going to disappear. “What do you think, Dean? Are the stakes so high that you would do anything to stop this demon?”
A movement caught his attention and he turned back to his view of the couch. Jody reached out and was running a hand through Sam’s hair, offering innocent comfort. Dean’s heartbeat skipped erratically. It should be him touching Sam, telling him how much he was loved and wanted.
Jody took a hold of Sam’s chin, pulling his head up to look her in the eyes. “Well, there’s no need to decide today. You’re welcome to stay here with me. I’m planning a quiet day with lots of hot chocolate, maybe with a little peppermint schnapps, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, watching Netflix. We could binge watch five seasons of Fringe together. Whaddya say, Sam?”
“It sounds great, no, more than great - perfect.” Sam ducked his head and Jody tapped him on the leg.
“But?”
“I’m just worried about Dean, all by himself in the Bunker. He’s not in a good place right now.”
“I don’t doubt that’s true, Sam. Dean's a big boy and don’t forgot, you haven’t been in a great place either. You had every right to be mad.”
Dean swallowed hard, pulling back as if shot in the chest. Sam shared with her everything, about Gadreel, about the whole mess. Their world - the one with just the two of them - was cracked open, the messy yolk visible to anyone. Dean didn’t care about other people's judgement (when they went to hell and purgatory and back, then they could judge). What made his blood run cold was the growing divide from his brother. He could negotiate the distance when it meant crossing a motel room to talk with Sam -- to touch him across the table or the mattress -- but when the rest of the world was brought in, Dean was lost.
“I know, Jody, and trust me, I’m still pissed and hurt, and won’t forget it for a long while. But here’s the thing. Dean doesn’t deal well with these situations. Instead of talking, he retreats further and further inside. Guilt eats him up. I don’t need to punish Dean - he does that enough on his own. And right now, he needs me, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
Ellen took his elbow to pull him away from the conversation. “C’mon, Dean. It’s time to go.”
He wrenched his arm back and looked at Sam. Tears welled up in Dean's eyes, like water from a leaky water pipe. “No, I want to stay here. Sam needs me.”
“That’s not possible, sweetie,” Ellen replied. “There’s still one more ghost you need to meet.”
The coddling tone made Dean want to punch a wall. “I don’t want to meet any more ghosts, Ellen. I get it, okay? This important message that you and Jess and Bobby are trying to deliver, that family comes first, that I need to be there for Sam. So, let me stay here. I’ll take him back with me. We’ll work on things, get them right for once.”
The ghost’s smile faded and the light went out of Ellen’s eyes. “It’s not enough to say you’re gonna work on it, Dean. You and your brother make the same mistakes again and again, and there is more at stake. Other people, hell, the whole world is in danger once again because of your decisions. If you’re going to change the present, you need to see the future.”
Before Dean could respond, she touched his shoulder and they were gone.
***
He materialized outside his bedroom door in the Bunker. At least I’m not face-down in a puddle of my own drool this time, he thought. The hallway outside room eleven was dark, as if the power were cut, with only a small red emergency light casting blood shadows along the tiles. He looked up and down the hall for any sign of Sam or the ghost of Christmas Future, when a sound coming from the library put him on alert.
“Sam?” He started to walk, but a strong hand darted out from the shadows and held him in place. Long white fingers wrapped around his forearm and the touch sent goosebumps up his arm and into his hairline. Some basic survival instinct told him not to face the threat, whatever it was, but to leave, to find Sam and get out of here.
His eyes lifted, as if drawn, to the ghost’s face but it remained hidden in shadows, like a bad dream, just out of reach.
“Sam!” he yelled, and the ghost stepped out of the dark, bringing a single finger up to its mouth, demanding his silence. But despite the premonition of dread, this ghost wasn’t some horror show attraction. It was another woman. One who had tricked him when they first met. One who was always present in his life, always sitting on the periphery, something inevitable.
Tessa.
Her black hair was now longer, hanging in a soft curtain across her shoulders, framing her face. But the thing that always drew Dean in were her eyes. They were beautiful, large and liquid, but those dark pools trapped him as surely as Charybdis drew sailors down to their death in the sea.
He opened his mouth to say her name and she placed her fingers on his lips. The touch was cold like an ice cube. He wanted so badly to leave but Dean didn’t dare step away, show weakness in front of a reaper. Tessa then pointed at Dean’s bedroom door.
A voice could be heard on the other side, but it wasn’t Sam’s reassuring pitch. It was swarm dressed up in a British accent. Dean pushed open the door, easily spotting Crowley dressed in his black suit, seated at the side of Dean’s bed. The demon appeared to be talking but no one was responding back.
Your brother, bless his soul, is summoning me as I speak. Make a deal, bring you back. It's exactly what I was talking about, isn't it? It's all become so... expected.
Dean pulled back out the door and Tessa caught his eye. He thought the reaper might try to stop him, but she glided back, opening his passage out to the library.
Breathless, he crossed the war room floor and saw a silhouette in the dark, occupying the same seat as Dean had that morning (a million years before). The slouched figure lifted a bottle and poured the liquor into a crystal glass, not lifting it back up before Dean bounded in behind them.
“Sam?” His little brother looked awful, circles under his eyes as dark as if someone had punched him, and sweaty pale as if the whiskey were climbing back out through his pores.
No, no, no. This was not his Sam. His Sam was strong. If Dean were to be the one to die, after everything that happened between them, after goddamn Gadreel for chrissakes, Sam would grieve but he would carry on. He wouldn’t try anything that would go against the natural order he seemed to hold in such high regard. Sam wasn’t the brother who would make a demon deal, not anymore.
“Sam? Sam! You need to listen to me. Crowley is in the Bunker. You need to leave. You’re in no condition to fight.” He tried to grab his brother’s shoulder and pull him out of the chair, but his hand passed through as if made of nothing more than mist.
Sam polished off the drink and stood up. Instead of heading for the bedroom where Crowley was, his brother walked down the hall to the storage room and dungeon.
“There you go, little brother. Get Ruby’s knife, or better yet, locked yourself in, ward the room.” Dean trailed behind Sam, watching his back, since he seemed unaware or uncaring about the King of Hell taking residence in Dean’s room.
Sam flipped on a small light in the storage room and began to pull down ingredients from the supplies on the shelves. Acacia. Oil of Abramelin. A brass bowl. A stick of white chalk.
“Sam, please stop.” Dean would give anything to reach his brother, to tell him not to do this one thing, not to try to bring him back. Nothing was working to get Sam’s attention, and all Dean could do was watch as Sam began to draw the sigil on the concrete floor.
But he could do something else to stop this. Just because Sam was summoning Crowley, didn’t mean the demon had to answer the call. There had to be something that he could offer that would stop all of this from happening.
Dean took off at a sprint out of the library and as he turned the corner into the hallway, he expected to see Tessa again and meet some resistance. Instead, the area was empty. Only the red light blinking above room number eleven remained a constant.
He pushed the door open, panic rising in his throat, to see that Crowley had stood up. A body - Dean’s body - was lifeless on his bed; wounds covering it were plentiful but clean. The demon was placing a large blade into his hand and resting them across his chest and stomach.
Listen to me, Dean Winchester, what you're feeling right now -- it's not death. It's life -- a new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel. And let's go take a howl at that moon.
No. This was all a dream. That’s what Dean decided to cling to, in all of this. It wasn’t real, only one possible future. He could still stop this somehow.
Crowley had stopped speaking, his attention drawn completely to Dean’s body. Dean moved closer, curious what the demon was waiting for, what his play was. When the eyes in his dead body opened, they weren’t the green that Sam said he loved or the red that Dean saw on mornings that followed a bad night. They were black, pitch black.
“This isn’t possible!” he cried out loud, not caring whether Crowley could hear him. “This isn’t happening!”
He had to get back to his time, which meant he had to find Tessa to hitch a ride back to Sam. He would do whatever he had to, to make this right for his brother. Dean turned and as he did, Tessa was right behind him. Her expression was blank and unchanging as a rock on the beach, washed smooth by centuries of waves.
“Tessa, you have to help me.” Begging a reaper once again, because look how well that worked before. “I can make this right. Send me back.”
Behind him, he could hear his Demon self getting off the bed. He closed his eyes, unable to turn around to face the sight. How had he reached the point where he was the monster in a world where he was supposed to be a hero. He was a hero, goddamnit.
When he opened his eyes, Tessa’s face had regained the small bit of humanity he remembered from before. Not quite human, but certainly not evil. Just cold and inevitable.
“Please, send me back. I can make this right. This doesn’t need to be the future.”
She reached out her arm, and her cold touch was the last thing he felt before everything went black.
***
The drive back from Sioux Falls has been stressful. A surprise snow storm had hit halfway through, slowing down Sam’s progress and turning a six-hour drive into eight. As he walked through the hallways from the Bunker garage into the war room, there was no sign of Dean. The worry and fear that was sitting bitter in the pit of his stomach rose up in his throat. And that’s when he saw it.
The evergreen that Sam had bought at the veteran’s Christmas tree lot two days ago was now set up in the library, strings of colorful lights blinking at random with a silver star shining at the top.
He was unsure whether to approach it, thinking maybe it might break the illusion, when he heard the bang of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. Sam checked his watch and it was just coming up on seven in the morning.
“Dean?” His feet carried him forward. The tree might have been a dream but the smell of food cooking in the kitchen was very real.
The sight in front of him wasn’t unusual. Dean loved the kitchen - it was probably his favorite room in their new home - but it hadn’t seen much use in the past few months. What was unusual was the amount of food.
“Sam, you’re home.”
His brother wiped his hands across the apron he was wearing and untied it, laying it carefully on the counter, and before Sam could say a word, he was swept up into a hug. It was the kind of hug that was usually reserved for back-from-the-dead or I’m-glad-you-survived-purgatory reunions, so he was caught completely off guard. After a moment to catch his breath, Sam hugged back, patting Dean’s back, not sure exactly what he was offering reassurance for.
Dean leaned back and clasped his hands around Sam’s face. “I’m so glad you’re back. I shoulda been there with you on the drive back from Sioux Falls. It must have been a bitch in that snow.”
Sam crinkled his brow, trying to think how Dean knew where he came from. Jody must have called and given him the heads up.
“What are you doing? It looks like you’re cooking for an army in here.” There was a freshly baked pecan pie sitting next to a pumpkin pie. A dish of green bean casserole was prepped and waiting to go in the oven, and if that smell was any indication, a turkey was roasting in the oven. “I thought you didn’t want to celebrate Christmas?”
“Sam, I was wrong about that. I was wrong about everything recently.” Dean still hadn’t released the hold on his face, turning him away from the view of the food back to face him.
“No, Dean, I’ve been thinking…”
“Would you just shut up and let me finish?”
A smile cracked his brother’s face, something that shown up in a long time, and that more than anything made Sam quiet.
“No matter what happens, no matter how tough it gets, we need to be there for each other. I know I did some inexcusable things.” Sam started to protest, but Dean continued. “I had my reasons and at the time, they seemed like the best reasons. But now, I know we need to listen to each other, not keep things hidden. I’m not guaranteeing that there won’t be problems, but I’m gonna try. Okay, Sammy?”
Dean looked worried, as if there was a chance that Sam would say no and walk back out the door. Sam brought his hand up to pat his brother’s cheek in turn.
“It’s okay, Dean. It’ll be fine.” He started to move away but Dean held him tight, moving one of his hands to rest on Sam’s chest.
“And another thing. Come Monday, we’re going to get you inked up again. A new anti-possession tattoo. We can’t have you running around like this any more.” Sam ducked his head and Dean chased after him with a gentle kiss, that then deepened into something full of apologies and longing. They broke apart, each surprised at the moment.
Sam nodded seriously, but then his dimples broke out. “But first, we eat all this food right?”
Dean kissed the corner of Sam’s mouth and began to make his way up the jawline. “Oh, yeah, we’re gonna eat all of this, but I can think of a few other things we should do first. Merry Christmas, little brother.”
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer, Jessica Moore, Ellen Harvelle, Jody Mills, Tessa
Wordcount/Medium: 7,723/fic
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
AO3: Link
Summary: Sam and Dean return to the Bunker together to iron things out after Gadreel is expelled. Sam wants to celebrate Christmas to help bridge the distance, but Dean only has eyes for hunting Abaddon. After Sam storms out, Dean is visited by four ghosts from his past. Of course, it all goes wrong before it goes right.
aka the one in which Dean is Scrooge, Sam is not Tiny Tim, and Bobby is not impressed by the Bunker
A/N:Written as spn_xmas_exchange fic for deansbeerbottle who gave me free rein and in return got a load of angst, a Stanford flashback and pining brothers. Thanks to sammythankyou for the beta!
Eight hours and fifteen minutes. That’s how long it’s been since Sam left the Bunker. Dean glanced at his cell phone where it sat dark on the library table. No messages, no text, no nothing.
As he unscrewed the top to the bottle of Jack sitting next to him and poured two fingers into a glass, his eye was drawn to the pine tree laying on the steps. The scent of resin and pine filled the war room and the library like a goddamn Yankee Candle. How Sam dragged that thing in here this morning by himself, Dean would never know.
A Christmas tree. What was Sam thinking?
Before moving into the Bunker, the two of them never had a home together to celebrate Christmas. Beer can wreaths and stolen gifts aside, normal holiday traditions like trees and lights were not part of the Winchester family. Last year, when they first moved in, they had been knee-deep in tablets and trials so the holidays hadn’t even been a blip on their radar, and Sam never viewed this place as their home anyway, only as a base of operations.
Their second year in the Bunker had been filled with Gadreel and chasing Abaddon. Dean didn’t even remember it was Christmas. When he stumbled across the tree this morning, he didn’t handle it well. He spent the past two weeks tip-toeing around his brother’s feelings, with Sam’s hurt looks and short responses. Every time Dean walked in a room, Sam walked out, and yeah, maybe Dean deserved some of it, but Sam suddenly deciding that they should decorate “their home”? The freaking whiplash was making his head spin.
“What the hell, Sam? We don’t have time to throw a little Christmas party.”
“I thought it might be nice… that it might help us…” Sam’s eyes were soft and hard all at the same time, and it stoked up the fire in Dean’s belly even more.
“The only thing that will help us right now is killing Abaddon. Not hot chocolate and candy canes, or Santa coming down the chimney.”
“Dean, we don't have a chimney,” Sam tried, but it was the wrong time to make a joke.
Dean frowned. “Get rid of it.”
Sam’s face did that thing where it tightened and collapsed, just like when he was four years old, and it almost made Dean reconsider his words, but stubbornness ran like blood in the Winchester veins. Both of them stood their ground, waiting for the other to back down. Sam broke the stand-off by snatching up his coat and heading out the door.
Now, Dean was stuck here in the Bunker, drinking bottom-shelf whiskey and eating microwave burritos while reading religious texts about Lucifer’s fall and the first demons he created. So far, he found nothing new and just kept pushing. Sam was the scholar who loved research, but Dean was very good at scanning for patterns or clues and he was driven to find a weakness, some way to kill a Knight.
Another glance at his phone showed no incoming messages or texts. Dean ran his hand over his face to wipe the weariness away and poured himself another drink.
***
It was the freezing cold that woke him up. Living in an underground bunker wasn’t the coziest spot at times, but the temperature was kept in a reasonable range thanks to the Men of Letters and whatever systems or spells they put in place. Raising his head from the table, Dean could feel the skin on his arm pebbling up in goosebumps and his breath became visible. It was the same feeling as the Black Dog hunt they went on near Duluth where Dean had been knocked out and woke up laying face first on top of the snow. He shook his head and pushed back from the table, rubbing some warmth into his arms.
That’s when he saw it.
A glowing image of Bobby stood across the library, kicking back against one of the bookshelves, trucker cap firmly in place on his head with arms crossed across his chest.
Dean jumped up from his chair, heart in his throat, judging the distance to the iron sword hanging in its display not five feet away. He started to shout for Sam but the sound died on his tongue as he remembered that Sam wasn’t in the Bunker.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
Bobby, or the thing pretending to be Bobby because they salted and burned his corpse over two years ago, sighed dramatically. “Who do you think it is, idjit?”
“I don’t know what you are, but you’re not Bobby.” Dean began to circle the end of the library table, palms itching to grab that sword and put it to use.
“Really?” The ghost pushed away from the bookshelf and walked towards Dean, its arms spread out to show no malice. “You sure about that?”
“We salted and burned you in Sioux Falls, then burned your flask. There’s nothing left of Bobby - so you can’t be here.” He circled the end of the desk, never taking his eyes off the white apparition.
Bobby smirked, and took a turn around the library towards Dean. “Is that what all these fancy books tell you? You think you know everything because the two of you are Men of Letters now? Please, I could do more with lore books from the Sioux Falls public library than these pompous snobs.”
“Wait, what?” Dean cocked his head, momentarily forgetting all the rest. “You knew about the Men of Letters and never said anything to us?”
Instead of coming around to reach Dean, Ghost Bobby reached out for the whiskey bottle on the table, his misty hand wrapping around the neck of it to pour more into the glass.
“Look at that,” he said, holding out the glass for Dean to take. “It’s amazing how well you can move stuff when you have time to practice.”
Dean reached for it, before realizing what he was doing. “I’m only going to ask one more time. What do you want?”
“World peace. To figure out who the Zodiac killer was. To translate the Voynich Manuscript. To save your soul.” Once again, Ghost Bobby offered the glass to Dean. “Trust me, boy, you’re gonna want to drink this.”
Dean’s hand hovered for a moment then grabbed the glass. He licked his lips before taking a sip. “My soul, huh?”
The ghost picked up another glass off the serving table in the corner and sat down in one of the leather armchairs that were Sam’s favorites in the corner. Dean studied Bobby over the rim of his drink, perplexed at the solidity of the figure. Most apparitions were translucent, ethereal, but this Bobby seemed just a pale and vaguely pissed off version of the hunter he knew.
“Yes, your soul, you moron. I wouldn’t be here if you weren’t in trouble and I had to save your ass. Again.”
It was a dream. It had to be. Dean drank too much after Sam left, and now he was having a really vivid alcohol-fueled dream, although those usually consisted of Kate Upton in a swimsuit or a certain brother who was MIA right now, not a crusty old hunter-ghost.
“Hey, who ya calling crusty?” Bobby groused, and then smiled at Dean’s surprise. “Another perk to being dead, I can read everything going through that pea-sized brain of yours, and it ain’t pretty. By the way, where’s your brother?”
Dean glanced over at the pine tree lying neglected on the steps. “He’s pissed at me. Took off somewhere.”
“All the drama between you two - it’s like the Real Housewives of Lebanon around here. Nothing you can’t fix if you want.”
“Don’t know that Sam feels the same way.” Dean hung his head. Memories of the last few months weighed on him - Sam’s possession, Kevin’s death, Gadreel’s escape, Abaddon on the loose. Some ghost coming back from the dead didn’t need to tell him he messed up. He looked back up, shoulders set. “I did what I had to.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that old line before.” Bobby crinkled his brow and then leaned forward in the chair, a worried glean in his eyes. “I was sent back to help you before you do something really stupid. To make an impression. And because you can be a stubborn son of a bitch, I invited three friends along to help me make a point.”
“Which is what, Bobby? Why don’t you just tell me your point before I get any older?”
Dean met Bobby’s eyes, which were fierce and otherworldly but still Bobby in the end, and that stopped his joking flat.
“Listen to me, boy. These three ghosts are here to make sure you change the direction of your life. That you don’t let revenge and guilt take you down the wrong path - the same path that all you Winchesters are itching to travel. Right now, that path is leading to a very dark place that you don’t want to go. It’s a responsibility that you don’t want to take on, mark yourself with, and lose your humanity to. For your sake, for Sam’s sake, changes need to be made and you need to remember the most important thing, the thing that makes you human - family.”
Responsibility? Family? What part of Dean’s whole life hadn’t been wrapped up in these two things since he was four years old?
“So, wait, you’re gonna Scrooge me? Really?”
Bobby tipped the bill of his trucker’s cap at Dean. “Well, some people need extra help to see what right in front of them, and you’re one of the stubborn ones.”
Dean leaned forward about to unload an artfully snarky comment when his eyes darkened and he fell to the ground.
***
When he woke up, he found himself on the ground in front of the armchair, whisky spilling from the upturned glass next to him. Dean’s head pulled up, looking for a trace of Bobby in the library, but there was nothing. The second whisky glass now stood back in line with the others on the serving table, reflecting the low lamp light.
He stood up and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, clearing his vision and thoughts. What a dream. Stress and alcohol and guilt made for a weird soup of unconsciousness. And Bobby telling him that he needed to change his life? Nothing new there. Maybe skipping dinner earlier wasn’t the smartest thing he could do.
Standing in the hallway, Dean looked left towards the kitchen and right towards his bedroom. If it was a choice between making a sandwich or finding the bottle of whiskey hidden in his closet, only one answer was acceptable tonight.
As he opened his bedroom door, a pair of long, gorgeous legs crossed at the ankles and stretched across his mattress, came into view. His first thought was Sam, that the jerk had come back while Dean was passed out in the library and decided to camp out in his brother’s room, but the legs were slender and decidedly less hairy.
Instead of the black v-neck Sam wore every night to bed, the sight of a Smurfs t-shirt and blond curly hair stunned him to silence.
“Hey Dean, how ya doing? Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.” A snort of amusement came from the girl kicking back on Dean’s bed, holding a magazine in her lap. A drop-dead gorgeous girl. A girl who shouldn’t be here. A girl his brother loved once upon a time.
“Jessica?”
“That’s right. In the flesh. Well, really, in the spirit. Either way, you gotta admit I look pretty good for being dead ten years.”
Dean took in the boy shorts and ripped Smurfs t-shirt and remembered so long ago at Stanford. He was thrown off that night by the thought of Sam having a girlfriend that he might have turned on the charm a little strong. Okay, a lot strong. “Yeah, no, definitely. You look amazing for a dead chick.”
“Damn straight, I do.” Her smile was warm as she gestured impatiently for him to enter. “Well, stop hanging out in the hallway and come on in.”
God, he forgot how beautiful Jessica was. Curly blond hair, a smile that could melt the ice caps, with legs for days. He never noticed at the time how strong she looked, like Jess could do some serious damage with some college class self defense moves. No wonder his brother was in love with her. And Sam was missing this.
“So, you’re my ghost of Christmas Past?”
Ghost-Jess rolled her eyes and tossed the magazine carelessly onto Dean’s desk. “Really, Busty Asian Beauties? You and your brother both have lousy taste in porn.”
“You were reading my porn?” Dean’s brain was about to short-circuit, but he couldn’t tell if it was the critique of his choices or the careless treatment of his collection.”Wait, back up a minute. College boy looked at porn? You need to tell me some stories.”
“Listen, Dean, we don’t have much time.” She stood up, almost as tall as he was, and they stared each other down, green eyes to green eyes. “Fine, I’m your first ghost. My job is to show you the past, to make you understand what’s at stake, because the way things are heading right now with the two of you? It isn’t good. That’s not going to be a problem is it, Dean? Because you’re looking a little green in the face right now.”
This was not what he expected. Not that he ever expected to meet Jess again, outside of a djinn dream, but he remembered a young girl, quietly concerned, standing beside Sam as they left. Not this bossy drill sergeant. A pang of lost time clenched his heart, because he obviously didn’t know her at all which means there were parts of Sam that he didn’t know at all.
“Ha! You think I’m bossy? Dude, wait til you meet the Ghost of Christmas Present.” she laughed, reaching out a hand to set it on his shoulder, “But seriously, I know how you Winchesters are. Trust me, I lived with Sam long enough to know that he was an emotional vault, and now I know where he got that from. So, you’re not much for all the sharing and caring, and that’s okay. But you need to work with me right now. Ready?”
Her hand gripped his shoulder and as he glanced down at the pale long fingers resting there, the rest of the world around them went white too.
***
The house was small and messy with pizza boxes stacked five high on a scratched formica table in the kitchen. Backpacks were piled next to them. Most were high quality camping gear, except for one scuffed army surplus one that Dean would recognize anywhere.
“Sam.”
Jess gave him a quizzical look. “Of course, Sam. Who did you think we were going to visit, the Dalai Lama?”
She moved to peek around the corner into the living room, where five people were gathered around a small coffee table, surrounded by empty paper plates and a warm glow from the fireplace.
“A toast.” A short man with dark hair raised his plastic glass filled with egg nog. “To our first Christmas together. Eating pizza with you guys is so much better than going home early after exams. My brother is probably balancing on a ladder hanging outdoor lights right now while my mom yells at him.”
Another man shuddered. “Yeah, well, that sounds better than my dad drinking too much punch and dragging us out caroling in the neighborhood. How about you, Winchester? What horrible holiday traditions are happening at your house right now?”
Sam stood up from his place on the couch, clutching the plate in front of him. “You know what, I’m still hungry. Gonna grab another slice from the kitchen. Anybody else want more?”
His brother looked good - Sam always looked good to Dean - but maybe a little skinny. That was to be expected with the growth spurt he had in college and Sam was never a big eater. Growing up, Dean was always after him to finish up, to eat more and take care of himself. He wondered if Jess had to do the same thing during this pocket of time.
Sam walked towards them in the kitchen doorway, and Dean had a moment of panic.
“He can’t see us. This is just a memory.” Ghost-Jess stepped back, watching as Sam approached the kitchen table. “All of our friends had their issues, which is why we became so close, so quickly. But Sam? Sam was the prince of family secrets.”
Holidays were never an easy time for them growing up. Their mom’s death hung like a spectre for John and Dean, who remembered a time of Christmas lights and sugar cookies. Sam never had that. Dean had tried on occasion to give him something more, to put a smile on his face, with stolen presents or gas-station candy canes, but sometimes it was easier to pretend that Christmas was just another day, like any other.
Dean watched as Sam detoured from the pizza boxes, pulling out his cell phone and looking at the screen thoughtfully. Sam clicked a few buttons on his phone, the screen lighting up his face in the dark kitchen, and bit his bottom lip as he looked down. Dean couldn’t help himself but to move in closer, curious to see what was on that screen.
One name was highlighted and Sam’s finger hovered over the keys, but the phone was snapped shut again and disappeared back into his pocket. Sam ran a hand through his hair, front to back, a sure tell of the kid’s anxiety.
Dean turned toward Ghost-Jess. “He never called me.” Dean sounded defensive and young, and she gave him a sympathetic look back.
“And what would you have done if he had?”
Real Jess popped her head in the doorway from the living room, a worried crease across her brow. “How ya doing in here, babe? Maybe you should come back out and join us. We’re going to start opening presents.”
Sam waved her off with a half-smile. “No, I’m fine, really. I’ll be out in a minute.”
Ghost-Jess sighed and picked a pepperoni off one of the pizzas. “Really, what’s up with you Winchesters and “I’m fine”? If I had a nickel for every time.”
Dean couldn’t pull his gaze away from Sam’s eyes which were wet now, not quite tears but so far from okay. The kid seemed lost amongst the pizza boxes and beer cans in that dark kitchen, and Dean wanted to pull him in, bury Sam’s face into his shoulder, protect him from all of the pain of those years. In the other room, his friends were laughing and Sam wiped at his eyes.
“Hey, Sam, can you grab another egg nog from the fridge? Luis drank all of the other one.” Another familiar blond head appeared in the doorway, with white teeth flashing in the dark, a wolf’s smile on the face of lamb.
“Sure, Brady.” Sam laughed and rubbed at his face with one sleeve before stepping over to the refrigerator. He grabbed a half gallon container from the door and held it out to his ex-roommate with a smile.
“That son of a bitch.” Dean stepped forward towards the demon, hand reaching for Ruby’s knife to gut the traitor, but Jess’ hand pulled him back.
“Memory, not real.” Her nose wrinkled up as she scowled at the scene and at Brady, who took the eggnog with a toothy smile. “Trust me. It’s not like he’s my favorite either. Knowing what I know now, I would have killed him in his sleep that night, Christmas or not.”
Dean turned to face her, speechless. It wasn’t just Sam’s life that had been ruined by demons and destiny.
She turned back towards him. “So, where were you, Dean?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“I mean, what were you doing during Christmas that year? Must have been important, that you didn’t call Sam.”
“Hey, he didn’t call me either.”
Ghost-Jess whacked him upside the head. “Don’t be a child. Just answer the question.”
Dean rubbed the back of his head with a scowl and thought back. This whole Christmas scene was about five months before he went to pick up Sam at Stanford. Dad had given him the car back in November, right after the anniversary of Mom’s death, and they had started doing separate hunts. Those first few months were a blur, but Dean vaguely remembered a bar in Tennessee where he pumped quarter after quarter into a jukebox draped in strands of Christmas lights while he got wasted on boilermakers as he nursed a huge hole in his heart.
“Poltergeist in Nashville.”
He looked back at this Sam, so young in this memory with those boyish bangs hanging down as he pulled the cell phone out again. His brother flipped the screen open once more, his thumb hovering over the keys.
Just make the call, Sam. Just do it. I was waiting for you, standing there in that bar listening to old country and western songs. I would have picked up. I would have driven through the night to reach you.
“So, was it worth it?”
“What?” Dean turned back to face her.
“The hunt in Nashville?” she said.
“Of course. People are alive because I killed that thing.”
Jess nodded and placed her hand on his shoulder. “There will always be more monsters, Dean.”
***
This time when he woke up, he was face down on his bed, and he was getting annoyed. If these ghosts really wanted to show him something, maybe they could start with a little less guilt and a lot more common courtesy.
A quick look at his clean desk, sans porn magazine, had him wondering what actually happened. The whole visitation thing felt real, but maybe he wasn’t seeing any ghosts at all. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, and his head and stomach rolled over in protest. Maybe it was just alcohol-induced hallucinations and a big dose of brother guilt. It wouldn’t kill him to dry out a bit, eat a little food, before getting back to work.
On the way to the kitchen, he stopped at Sam’s room to look for signs of life. Same bed made with military corners, same stacks of lore, same lack of personal stuff, and no indication that Sam had come back while he was sleeping. Maybe he should drag that damn Christmas tree in here and set it up, make Sam happy. He wouldn’t need to look at it.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, grimacing at the old, lumpy mattress. Time and time again, Dean had harassed Sam about getting his own memory foam, but his brother always managed to change the subject. He certainly wasn’t settling into his own room and he hadn’t spent any time in Dean’s bed either.
Since they moved into the Bunker, it was one thing after the other. Between their tensions over Benny and purgatory and Sam’s sickness from the trials, there was little time for the things they found comfort in before.
And then Gadreel happened. The thought of touching his brother with an angel inside, bearing witness to all of it, was out of the question. One bad decision under pressure and Dean was able to save his brother and lose him all at the same time.
He set off for the kitchen again, deep in thought as to what they might have in the pantry to eat that he ran smack into the ghost standing beside the stove.
“Watch where you’re going, boy. I didn’t come all the way back from heaven to be run over by you.”
That low contralto voice sent a shiver up his spine, remembering the last time he heard it. And Dean? Kick it in the ass. Don't miss.
“Ellen?”
Like Jess, she looked great so heaven must provide amazing spa treatments. Her brown eyes sparkled in warmth as she reached out to cup Dean’s cheek. Seconds later, the slap of her hand startled him out of any nostalgia he felt.
“So, you want to tell me why I’m back here, dragging your ass out of the fire again?”
Dean touched his cheek where it stung and thought it was just his luck that the ghosts haunting his dreams were a real pain in the ass.
“Pain in the ass, huh? I’ll give you a pain in the ass if you don’t answer me, Dean.”
“I don’t know, Ellen. I didn’t ask for any of this.”
She began to pick her way along the countertops of the Bunker kitchen, turning over the industrial pans and utensils. “Not a bad setup you boys got here. Could have really used some of this stuff back in the day at the Roadhouse.”
“So, how are you the Ghost of Christmas Present?”
Ellen turned around with a sour look. “A better question is, where is your brother?”
“As they say, I am not my brother’s keeper.” It was meant to be a joke but fell flat as he soon as he said it.
Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “Cain and Abel. How appropriate. You’re heading down a bad path, Dean.”
He rolled his eyes. “So I’ve heard. For all-knowing ghosts, you guys sure are cryptic. How about you help me out, and tell me exactly what I’m supposed to being doing differently?”
“When was the last time you did what you were told, Dean? Since John died? You and your brother certainly don’t seem to be listening to each other much.”
“For the last time, I don’t know where Sam is and I don’t know what he’s doing. He just left me here.”
She smiled and gave him that fond look that he craved and hated, the one that spoke of home-made meals and bedtime stories, before reaching out to touch his shoulder. “That’s okay, Dean, because I do.”
***
Another blackout and waking up in another kitchen next to a ghost. His life was truly weird.
This kitchen was much cleaner, with its blenders and Cuisinart lined up efficiently along the wall. A few bottles of wine stood on the counter next to a corkscrew and a stack of Christmas cards, half of them sealed and stamped, the rest abandoned. Dean leaned in to see familiar handwriting at the bottom, signed Love, Jody.
The soft tones of Christmas music and laughter from a pair of voices floated in from the living room. Everything suddenly made sense. Sam had run off to Jody’s and was staying with her, to get his hit of the holiday season.
“Nice place.” Ellen’s voice reminded him that he wasn’t really here, only a witness to what was happening.
“Yeah, Jody lives here. She’s a sheriff that’s helped us on a few cases.”
Jody was nothing but good to both Sam and Dean, but as he looked out into the living room and saw the two of them on the couch together, huddled and intimate, his gut twisted. Dean wondered if he knew what their relationship really was.
A fully-decorated tree stood in the corner of the living room, its lights blinking randomly, and Bing Crosby was singing carols over the speakers. For someone who had no family and had seen the worst the world had to offer, Jody was surprising in how she embraced all the happy, normal aspects of life. Of course, Sam gravitated towards her as a friend.
Sam sat facing her, his knee up on the couch cushion and his fingers wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Ordinary glasses and utensils were dwarfed inside of Sam’s enormous hands, looking more like a child’s tea party accouterments. Jody was laughing at something Sam said, tossing her head back, and Dean had to look away. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Sam to have friends, and it wasn’t that he didn’t like Jody. He would do anything for his brother, sacrifice anything for him - hell, he had sacrificed his life and soul for the kid - and all he wanted was to claim some of those rare smiles and laughs for himself.
Jody leaned forward, pouring more wine into Sam’s glass. “All right, cut the shit, Winchester. Tell me why you’re here with me on Christmas Eve and not with your brother.”
“Ooooh, I like her.” Ellen pushed in next to Dean in the doorway to watch. “A straight shooter.”
“You have no idea.The two of you would be peas and carrots.” Dean stepped into the living room, closer to the couch to hear Sam’s reply.
Sam let out one of those little fluttery laughs, the kind he used when he was trying to decide whether to tell the truth or distracted you, and the high sound of it grabbed Dean’s attention as he waited to see which direction Sam went this time.
“Things haven’t been going well recently…” Sam’s forehead scrunched up, and Dean held his breath, wondering if he was going to tell Jody all about Gadreel and the possession and Dean’s part in all of it. Perhaps he could beg Ellen to zap them back to the Bunker before he had to hear the answer.
Sam stopped speaking though, and Jody made a motion to continue.
“We just don’t seem to be communicating at all anymore, and I’m worried. Dean can only think about stopping Abaddon right now. He’s obsessed and transferred all the stuff we’ve been dealing with - frustration, guilt, whatever - into his hunt for her.” Sam gave a wry smile. “Speaking from experience, obsession over revenge never ends well.”
Dean squirmed a little at that, glancing over at Ellen who would be one of the few people that remembered Sam’s one-track hunt for Lilith and its consequences. It had almost broken their relationship. But Dean couldn’t just pull away from Abaddon - they were so close and the stakes were too high.
But isn’t that what Sam said, all those years ago? His brother thought the stakes were high then, to stop the seals from being broken and the start of the apocalypse. And look where that ended.
Ellen’s ghost shimmered for a moment as if it were going to disappear. “What do you think, Dean? Are the stakes so high that you would do anything to stop this demon?”
A movement caught his attention and he turned back to his view of the couch. Jody reached out and was running a hand through Sam’s hair, offering innocent comfort. Dean’s heartbeat skipped erratically. It should be him touching Sam, telling him how much he was loved and wanted.
Jody took a hold of Sam’s chin, pulling his head up to look her in the eyes. “Well, there’s no need to decide today. You’re welcome to stay here with me. I’m planning a quiet day with lots of hot chocolate, maybe with a little peppermint schnapps, wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, watching Netflix. We could binge watch five seasons of Fringe together. Whaddya say, Sam?”
“It sounds great, no, more than great - perfect.” Sam ducked his head and Jody tapped him on the leg.
“But?”
“I’m just worried about Dean, all by himself in the Bunker. He’s not in a good place right now.”
“I don’t doubt that’s true, Sam. Dean's a big boy and don’t forgot, you haven’t been in a great place either. You had every right to be mad.”
Dean swallowed hard, pulling back as if shot in the chest. Sam shared with her everything, about Gadreel, about the whole mess. Their world - the one with just the two of them - was cracked open, the messy yolk visible to anyone. Dean didn’t care about other people's judgement (when they went to hell and purgatory and back, then they could judge). What made his blood run cold was the growing divide from his brother. He could negotiate the distance when it meant crossing a motel room to talk with Sam -- to touch him across the table or the mattress -- but when the rest of the world was brought in, Dean was lost.
“I know, Jody, and trust me, I’m still pissed and hurt, and won’t forget it for a long while. But here’s the thing. Dean doesn’t deal well with these situations. Instead of talking, he retreats further and further inside. Guilt eats him up. I don’t need to punish Dean - he does that enough on his own. And right now, he needs me, even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
Ellen took his elbow to pull him away from the conversation. “C’mon, Dean. It’s time to go.”
He wrenched his arm back and looked at Sam. Tears welled up in Dean's eyes, like water from a leaky water pipe. “No, I want to stay here. Sam needs me.”
“That’s not possible, sweetie,” Ellen replied. “There’s still one more ghost you need to meet.”
The coddling tone made Dean want to punch a wall. “I don’t want to meet any more ghosts, Ellen. I get it, okay? This important message that you and Jess and Bobby are trying to deliver, that family comes first, that I need to be there for Sam. So, let me stay here. I’ll take him back with me. We’ll work on things, get them right for once.”
The ghost’s smile faded and the light went out of Ellen’s eyes. “It’s not enough to say you’re gonna work on it, Dean. You and your brother make the same mistakes again and again, and there is more at stake. Other people, hell, the whole world is in danger once again because of your decisions. If you’re going to change the present, you need to see the future.”
Before Dean could respond, she touched his shoulder and they were gone.
***
He materialized outside his bedroom door in the Bunker. At least I’m not face-down in a puddle of my own drool this time, he thought. The hallway outside room eleven was dark, as if the power were cut, with only a small red emergency light casting blood shadows along the tiles. He looked up and down the hall for any sign of Sam or the ghost of Christmas Future, when a sound coming from the library put him on alert.
“Sam?” He started to walk, but a strong hand darted out from the shadows and held him in place. Long white fingers wrapped around his forearm and the touch sent goosebumps up his arm and into his hairline. Some basic survival instinct told him not to face the threat, whatever it was, but to leave, to find Sam and get out of here.
His eyes lifted, as if drawn, to the ghost’s face but it remained hidden in shadows, like a bad dream, just out of reach.
“Sam!” he yelled, and the ghost stepped out of the dark, bringing a single finger up to its mouth, demanding his silence. But despite the premonition of dread, this ghost wasn’t some horror show attraction. It was another woman. One who had tricked him when they first met. One who was always present in his life, always sitting on the periphery, something inevitable.
Tessa.
Her black hair was now longer, hanging in a soft curtain across her shoulders, framing her face. But the thing that always drew Dean in were her eyes. They were beautiful, large and liquid, but those dark pools trapped him as surely as Charybdis drew sailors down to their death in the sea.
He opened his mouth to say her name and she placed her fingers on his lips. The touch was cold like an ice cube. He wanted so badly to leave but Dean didn’t dare step away, show weakness in front of a reaper. Tessa then pointed at Dean’s bedroom door.
A voice could be heard on the other side, but it wasn’t Sam’s reassuring pitch. It was swarm dressed up in a British accent. Dean pushed open the door, easily spotting Crowley dressed in his black suit, seated at the side of Dean’s bed. The demon appeared to be talking but no one was responding back.
Your brother, bless his soul, is summoning me as I speak. Make a deal, bring you back. It's exactly what I was talking about, isn't it? It's all become so... expected.
Dean pulled back out the door and Tessa caught his eye. He thought the reaper might try to stop him, but she glided back, opening his passage out to the library.
Breathless, he crossed the war room floor and saw a silhouette in the dark, occupying the same seat as Dean had that morning (a million years before). The slouched figure lifted a bottle and poured the liquor into a crystal glass, not lifting it back up before Dean bounded in behind them.
“Sam?” His little brother looked awful, circles under his eyes as dark as if someone had punched him, and sweaty pale as if the whiskey were climbing back out through his pores.
No, no, no. This was not his Sam. His Sam was strong. If Dean were to be the one to die, after everything that happened between them, after goddamn Gadreel for chrissakes, Sam would grieve but he would carry on. He wouldn’t try anything that would go against the natural order he seemed to hold in such high regard. Sam wasn’t the brother who would make a demon deal, not anymore.
“Sam? Sam! You need to listen to me. Crowley is in the Bunker. You need to leave. You’re in no condition to fight.” He tried to grab his brother’s shoulder and pull him out of the chair, but his hand passed through as if made of nothing more than mist.
Sam polished off the drink and stood up. Instead of heading for the bedroom where Crowley was, his brother walked down the hall to the storage room and dungeon.
“There you go, little brother. Get Ruby’s knife, or better yet, locked yourself in, ward the room.” Dean trailed behind Sam, watching his back, since he seemed unaware or uncaring about the King of Hell taking residence in Dean’s room.
Sam flipped on a small light in the storage room and began to pull down ingredients from the supplies on the shelves. Acacia. Oil of Abramelin. A brass bowl. A stick of white chalk.
“Sam, please stop.” Dean would give anything to reach his brother, to tell him not to do this one thing, not to try to bring him back. Nothing was working to get Sam’s attention, and all Dean could do was watch as Sam began to draw the sigil on the concrete floor.
But he could do something else to stop this. Just because Sam was summoning Crowley, didn’t mean the demon had to answer the call. There had to be something that he could offer that would stop all of this from happening.
Dean took off at a sprint out of the library and as he turned the corner into the hallway, he expected to see Tessa again and meet some resistance. Instead, the area was empty. Only the red light blinking above room number eleven remained a constant.
He pushed the door open, panic rising in his throat, to see that Crowley had stood up. A body - Dean’s body - was lifeless on his bed; wounds covering it were plentiful but clean. The demon was placing a large blade into his hand and resting them across his chest and stomach.
Listen to me, Dean Winchester, what you're feeling right now -- it's not death. It's life -- a new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel. And let's go take a howl at that moon.
No. This was all a dream. That’s what Dean decided to cling to, in all of this. It wasn’t real, only one possible future. He could still stop this somehow.
Crowley had stopped speaking, his attention drawn completely to Dean’s body. Dean moved closer, curious what the demon was waiting for, what his play was. When the eyes in his dead body opened, they weren’t the green that Sam said he loved or the red that Dean saw on mornings that followed a bad night. They were black, pitch black.
“This isn’t possible!” he cried out loud, not caring whether Crowley could hear him. “This isn’t happening!”
He had to get back to his time, which meant he had to find Tessa to hitch a ride back to Sam. He would do whatever he had to, to make this right for his brother. Dean turned and as he did, Tessa was right behind him. Her expression was blank and unchanging as a rock on the beach, washed smooth by centuries of waves.
“Tessa, you have to help me.” Begging a reaper once again, because look how well that worked before. “I can make this right. Send me back.”
Behind him, he could hear his Demon self getting off the bed. He closed his eyes, unable to turn around to face the sight. How had he reached the point where he was the monster in a world where he was supposed to be a hero. He was a hero, goddamnit.
When he opened his eyes, Tessa’s face had regained the small bit of humanity he remembered from before. Not quite human, but certainly not evil. Just cold and inevitable.
“Please, send me back. I can make this right. This doesn’t need to be the future.”
She reached out her arm, and her cold touch was the last thing he felt before everything went black.
***
The drive back from Sioux Falls has been stressful. A surprise snow storm had hit halfway through, slowing down Sam’s progress and turning a six-hour drive into eight. As he walked through the hallways from the Bunker garage into the war room, there was no sign of Dean. The worry and fear that was sitting bitter in the pit of his stomach rose up in his throat. And that’s when he saw it.
The evergreen that Sam had bought at the veteran’s Christmas tree lot two days ago was now set up in the library, strings of colorful lights blinking at random with a silver star shining at the top.
He was unsure whether to approach it, thinking maybe it might break the illusion, when he heard the bang of pots and pans coming from the kitchen. Sam checked his watch and it was just coming up on seven in the morning.
“Dean?” His feet carried him forward. The tree might have been a dream but the smell of food cooking in the kitchen was very real.
The sight in front of him wasn’t unusual. Dean loved the kitchen - it was probably his favorite room in their new home - but it hadn’t seen much use in the past few months. What was unusual was the amount of food.
“Sam, you’re home.”
His brother wiped his hands across the apron he was wearing and untied it, laying it carefully on the counter, and before Sam could say a word, he was swept up into a hug. It was the kind of hug that was usually reserved for back-from-the-dead or I’m-glad-you-survived-purgatory reunions, so he was caught completely off guard. After a moment to catch his breath, Sam hugged back, patting Dean’s back, not sure exactly what he was offering reassurance for.
Dean leaned back and clasped his hands around Sam’s face. “I’m so glad you’re back. I shoulda been there with you on the drive back from Sioux Falls. It must have been a bitch in that snow.”
Sam crinkled his brow, trying to think how Dean knew where he came from. Jody must have called and given him the heads up.
“What are you doing? It looks like you’re cooking for an army in here.” There was a freshly baked pecan pie sitting next to a pumpkin pie. A dish of green bean casserole was prepped and waiting to go in the oven, and if that smell was any indication, a turkey was roasting in the oven. “I thought you didn’t want to celebrate Christmas?”
“Sam, I was wrong about that. I was wrong about everything recently.” Dean still hadn’t released the hold on his face, turning him away from the view of the food back to face him.
“No, Dean, I’ve been thinking…”
“Would you just shut up and let me finish?”
A smile cracked his brother’s face, something that shown up in a long time, and that more than anything made Sam quiet.
“No matter what happens, no matter how tough it gets, we need to be there for each other. I know I did some inexcusable things.” Sam started to protest, but Dean continued. “I had my reasons and at the time, they seemed like the best reasons. But now, I know we need to listen to each other, not keep things hidden. I’m not guaranteeing that there won’t be problems, but I’m gonna try. Okay, Sammy?”
Dean looked worried, as if there was a chance that Sam would say no and walk back out the door. Sam brought his hand up to pat his brother’s cheek in turn.
“It’s okay, Dean. It’ll be fine.” He started to move away but Dean held him tight, moving one of his hands to rest on Sam’s chest.
“And another thing. Come Monday, we’re going to get you inked up again. A new anti-possession tattoo. We can’t have you running around like this any more.” Sam ducked his head and Dean chased after him with a gentle kiss, that then deepened into something full of apologies and longing. They broke apart, each surprised at the moment.
Sam nodded seriously, but then his dimples broke out. “But first, we eat all this food right?”
Dean kissed the corner of Sam’s mouth and began to make his way up the jawline. “Oh, yeah, we’re gonna eat all of this, but I can think of a few other things we should do first. Merry Christmas, little brother.”
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”