(no subject)
Rest Beside the Weary Road
Supernatural
Dean, John (gen)
1,045 words
A/N: A little Christmas schmoop, unapologetically. Thanks to mcee and sevenfists.
Minnesota in December is brutally cold, blanketed and buried in snow. The car slides on the icy back roads, and the sound of the tires trying to catch makes Dean's heart slam into his ribs as Sam sleeps, oblivious, stretched across the backseat.
Dad told him once that Mom loved Christmas, loved decorating the house and the tree and buying presents. One of her favorite things to do, Dad said, was to lie under the tree and stare up through the branches, through the lights and ornaments. Dean has vague memories of Mom in a red dress and Dad in a Santa hat, but it never feels real, and he's never been sure that it is. It's not the kind of thing he wants to ask about, even as much as he wants to know. Talking about Mom is hard for Dad, and Dean would rather cling to a half-memory than make Dad miserable just to satisfy his own curiosity.
When they arrive at Pastor Jim's, Dean with a duffel bag on each arm and Sam still asleep, his head on Dad's shoulder, the house is warm, safe. A fire spits in the grate and the glass ornaments hanging from the tree in the corner catch the flickering light, twinkling and glittering. There are two stockings hung from the mantle, "Sam" spelled out in glitter on one, "Dean" on the other, both with candy canes and tiny, brightly wrapped boxes poking out the tops. Dad sets Sammy down on the sofa, covers him with the afghan draped over the back. Sam mumbles in his sleep, curls his fingers around the edge of the blanket, and settles into a soft snore.
Dean thinks the stockings and the gifts are supposed to make him happy, but it makes him sad, too, that this will be the first Christmas he really remembers, that it might be the only real one they ever have; the last three have come and gone mostly without notice. He looks up at Dad, unsure how to react. "Dad?"
Dad's smile is watery, but genuine enough, and he touches the top of Dean's head, tells him to start getting ready for bed. Dean sits down at Sam's feet and tugs off his gloves, watching as Dad turns to Pastor Jim.
"You didn't have to-" he starts, and Pastor Jim claps a hand over his shoulder.
"I would've even if you weren't coming. The only thing I did special was to get stockings for the boys, I hope that's all right."
Dad looks over at Dean, then away, towards the fire. He sniffs and rubs at his nose, and when he speaks his voice is a little gruffer than usual. "It's fine, Jim. Thank you." He turns back to Dean. "You hungry?" Dean shakes his head; he's too cold, too tired to be hungry. "Stay out here with your brother, I need to talk to Pastor Jim in the kitchen. Okay?"
"Sure, Dad." Dean rifles through his bag for the comic book he found at the rest stop outside Duluth. He falls asleep before he even finishes the first page.
The fire's nearly out when he wakes up, 3:28 a.m. by his watch. Someone's thrown a blanket over him and tucked a pillow under his head. The lights on the tree twinkle, and he watches them through tired eyes, waiting for sleep to come back to him. He gives up a little after four, swings his legs to the floor and pads over to the fireplace. He pokes around in his stocking but everything's wrapped and ribboned, and he can't tell what any of it is.
He looks around, listens carefully for any sign he isn't the only one awake, but the house is still and quiet, just the faint crackle of embers, the rush of the wind against the windows. He plunks down on the floor next to the tree, stretches out and squirms around until he's staring up through layers of branch and lights and glass.
The air is heavy with pine and wood smoke, and Dean takes a deep breath, pictures Mom doing this under a different tree, in a house he barely remembers. He imagines her smiling, because that's easy--she's smiling in all the pictures Dad has of her.
"It is kind of nice, I guess," Dean whispers, more embarrassed at talking to a ghost who's not even there than he is worried about waking anyone. The back door creaks open, then closed. Dean scrambles out from under the tree, not wanting to be caught like this, afraid of what Dad might say, would think.
Dad's wet hair drips onto the carpet, trailing dark little drops behind him. He smells like snow and cigarettes, biting and sharp; his cheeks are splotchy, his eyes red. Dean wonders if it's from the cold, or if Dad's been crying again. He doesn't really want to know.
"Dean? What're you doing down there?" There's laughter in Dad's voice, and it loosens the knot in Dean's belly a little. But only a little.
"Nothing," Dean says quickly, brushing pine needles from his hair. He watches Dad's feet as he folds his legs under him and sits, elbows resting on his knees.
"Your mother used to do that, you know. Did I ever tell you that?" There's a faraway look in Dad's eyes, and Dean knows he's here but not. Dad's not looking at him, but Dean nods; he doesn't dare speak, doesn't want to break Dad from his reverie. "She used to lie under the tree and look up through the branches. Said it was one of the prettiest things she ever saw." He laughs suddenly, short and quiet, like he's just remembered something. "That last Christmas, when she was pregnant with Sammy, she barely fit under there. She made me trim some of the lower branches."
"You didn't tell me that part," Dean says quietly. "But the rest I remember."
Dad's smile settles low on his mouth, a little sad but a little pleased, too. "That's good, that you remember." He ruffles Dean's hair and lays back, holding out his large hand. "C'mon back down, kiddo," he says, and Dean scrambles back under the tree, tucking himself into the warm crook of Dad's arm.
Supernatural
Dean, John (gen)
1,045 words
A/N: A little Christmas schmoop, unapologetically. Thanks to mcee and sevenfists.
Minnesota in December is brutally cold, blanketed and buried in snow. The car slides on the icy back roads, and the sound of the tires trying to catch makes Dean's heart slam into his ribs as Sam sleeps, oblivious, stretched across the backseat.
Dad told him once that Mom loved Christmas, loved decorating the house and the tree and buying presents. One of her favorite things to do, Dad said, was to lie under the tree and stare up through the branches, through the lights and ornaments. Dean has vague memories of Mom in a red dress and Dad in a Santa hat, but it never feels real, and he's never been sure that it is. It's not the kind of thing he wants to ask about, even as much as he wants to know. Talking about Mom is hard for Dad, and Dean would rather cling to a half-memory than make Dad miserable just to satisfy his own curiosity.
When they arrive at Pastor Jim's, Dean with a duffel bag on each arm and Sam still asleep, his head on Dad's shoulder, the house is warm, safe. A fire spits in the grate and the glass ornaments hanging from the tree in the corner catch the flickering light, twinkling and glittering. There are two stockings hung from the mantle, "Sam" spelled out in glitter on one, "Dean" on the other, both with candy canes and tiny, brightly wrapped boxes poking out the tops. Dad sets Sammy down on the sofa, covers him with the afghan draped over the back. Sam mumbles in his sleep, curls his fingers around the edge of the blanket, and settles into a soft snore.
Dean thinks the stockings and the gifts are supposed to make him happy, but it makes him sad, too, that this will be the first Christmas he really remembers, that it might be the only real one they ever have; the last three have come and gone mostly without notice. He looks up at Dad, unsure how to react. "Dad?"
Dad's smile is watery, but genuine enough, and he touches the top of Dean's head, tells him to start getting ready for bed. Dean sits down at Sam's feet and tugs off his gloves, watching as Dad turns to Pastor Jim.
"You didn't have to-" he starts, and Pastor Jim claps a hand over his shoulder.
"I would've even if you weren't coming. The only thing I did special was to get stockings for the boys, I hope that's all right."
Dad looks over at Dean, then away, towards the fire. He sniffs and rubs at his nose, and when he speaks his voice is a little gruffer than usual. "It's fine, Jim. Thank you." He turns back to Dean. "You hungry?" Dean shakes his head; he's too cold, too tired to be hungry. "Stay out here with your brother, I need to talk to Pastor Jim in the kitchen. Okay?"
"Sure, Dad." Dean rifles through his bag for the comic book he found at the rest stop outside Duluth. He falls asleep before he even finishes the first page.
The fire's nearly out when he wakes up, 3:28 a.m. by his watch. Someone's thrown a blanket over him and tucked a pillow under his head. The lights on the tree twinkle, and he watches them through tired eyes, waiting for sleep to come back to him. He gives up a little after four, swings his legs to the floor and pads over to the fireplace. He pokes around in his stocking but everything's wrapped and ribboned, and he can't tell what any of it is.
He looks around, listens carefully for any sign he isn't the only one awake, but the house is still and quiet, just the faint crackle of embers, the rush of the wind against the windows. He plunks down on the floor next to the tree, stretches out and squirms around until he's staring up through layers of branch and lights and glass.
The air is heavy with pine and wood smoke, and Dean takes a deep breath, pictures Mom doing this under a different tree, in a house he barely remembers. He imagines her smiling, because that's easy--she's smiling in all the pictures Dad has of her.
"It is kind of nice, I guess," Dean whispers, more embarrassed at talking to a ghost who's not even there than he is worried about waking anyone. The back door creaks open, then closed. Dean scrambles out from under the tree, not wanting to be caught like this, afraid of what Dad might say, would think.
Dad's wet hair drips onto the carpet, trailing dark little drops behind him. He smells like snow and cigarettes, biting and sharp; his cheeks are splotchy, his eyes red. Dean wonders if it's from the cold, or if Dad's been crying again. He doesn't really want to know.
"Dean? What're you doing down there?" There's laughter in Dad's voice, and it loosens the knot in Dean's belly a little. But only a little.
"Nothing," Dean says quickly, brushing pine needles from his hair. He watches Dad's feet as he folds his legs under him and sits, elbows resting on his knees.
"Your mother used to do that, you know. Did I ever tell you that?" There's a faraway look in Dad's eyes, and Dean knows he's here but not. Dad's not looking at him, but Dean nods; he doesn't dare speak, doesn't want to break Dad from his reverie. "She used to lie under the tree and look up through the branches. Said it was one of the prettiest things she ever saw." He laughs suddenly, short and quiet, like he's just remembered something. "That last Christmas, when she was pregnant with Sammy, she barely fit under there. She made me trim some of the lower branches."
"You didn't tell me that part," Dean says quietly. "But the rest I remember."
Dad's smile settles low on his mouth, a little sad but a little pleased, too. "That's good, that you remember." He ruffles Dean's hair and lays back, holding out his large hand. "C'mon back down, kiddo," he says, and Dean scrambles back under the tree, tucking himself into the warm crook of Dad's arm.