SPN FIC - The Gift of the Winchester
A look at Christmas 2000, with a bit of crackiness.
Characters: Dean and Sam
Pairings: none
Spoilers: none
Length: 1273 words
Rating: PG, for language
Disclaimer: Nope. No money being had here.
Yup, that’s what he’d been aiming for. That awestruck look on Sammy’s face. It’d been so long since Sam had looked anything but pissed off and bitchy that this whole open-mouthed thing was a “right back atcha.” The Winchester version of I love you, man.
The Gift of the Winchester
By Carol Davis
“Dean…my God. This is…I can’t believe this.”
Yup, that’s what he’d been aiming for. That awestruck look on Sammy’s face. It’d been so long since Sam had looked anything but pissed off and bitchy that this whole open-mouthed thing was a “right back atcha.” The Winchester version of I love you, man.
Dumbfounded. Yeah, that was the right word. Sammy was dumbfounded.
“Thought you could use it,” Dean said mildly.
Sam’s hands moved gently over the smooth surface of the box, the tip of his right index finger tracing the pertinent words.
Dean began to wonder if Sam touched women like that, or if he reserved that kind of caress for electronics.
“God,” Sam said again.
Then his face shifted.
“Where did you… Dean, did you… Where’d you get the money for this?”
“Dude. Rude.”
“Did you -“
Rather than answer the question, Dean got up from the couch and padded over to the kitchenette to refill his cup of holiday cheer. He kept his back to Sam as he sipped his drink, though he knew without looking that the Bitch Was Back. The heat from Sam’s expression soaked into Dean’s back like the glow from a fireplace.
Glow? So not the right word.
Dean sighed softly, put the cup down in the sink and shuffled back to the couch. “Look, don’t worry about it. I figure it’s tough, trying to keep up with stuff in school. You can’t always get to the library, and besides, man…library. Very last century. You gotta keep up with the times. Show the rest of the class that they’re gonna be eating your dust.”
“Where’d you get this, Dean? I mean it.”
“You’re seriously asking me for a receipt?”
“I don’t want…” Sam hauled in a long, shuddering breath. “You charged it on one of Dad’s cards?”
“Yeah. That’s what I did.”
And Sam bought that, not at all.
Well, maybe a little. That laptop was talking to him in its little laptoppy voice. Luring him away from reality. “Take it out of the box, dude,” Dean told him.
“It’s not stolen.”
“Dude.”
“Dad’s gonna go right into orbit.”
“Let me deal with Dad. He’ll - we’ll work it out.”
Maybe Dean’s tone was massively convincing, and maybe it wasn’t. Either way, Sam caved in to the sweet siren song of his new computer. Pulled out his pocket knife and slit the tape holding the box flaps together. Slid the laptop out of the box as gently as if he were delivering a baby and with shining eyes pulled the packaging away, tossing it onto the floor piece by piece until nothing was left in his lap but IT. Then he did more stroking, and dear God, if he touched women like that, he’d definitely listened to all the advice Dean had been dishing out to him over the years.
Nah, more than that: the kid was a freakin’ master.
Dean began to smile as Sam attached the power cord and plugged the thing into the wall. It booted up - that was the term, right? - quickly and made a happy little laptoppy welcome sound. Giddier than a little kid with a whole Toys R Us at his disposal, Sam opened up the programs one by one. Dean had no idea what most of them were. Not that it mattered. It wasn’t like he intended to use the thing.
Although he had been giving idle thought to the concept of surfing the ol’ Net. For…you know. Websites of interest.
“Dean, man,” Sam said reverently. “This is amazing. I can’t believe you did this.”
It was worth it. That look on Sam’s face? So worth it.
“No big deal,” Dean said.
The rest of it slipped out before he could stop it.
“I can always take the bus.”
A cloud fell over Sam’s expression. “You can…what?”
That was the thing about Sam. He was a smart kid. He could pick up on the little nuances in what people said.
“Dude,” he wheezed. “You sold your CAR for this?”
Dean gave him a shrug in return. “Enjoy, man. It’s my…”
He hit the floor so hard that every bone in his body sang out in protest - and in harmony with the voice in his head that was shrieking YOU IDIOT. YOU ASSHOLE. WHAT DID YOU DO???
His arms and legs went every whichway.
Your sold your…
Finally, he managed to get his hands and knees underneath him and began to scuttle across the room.
IDIOT!!
“Dean?” Sam said. He was sitting up in bed, pushing his hair out of his face, blinking stupidly. “What… Are you okay?”
Halfway to the door, Dean pulled himself together enough to scramble to his feet. He grabbed at the knob, fumbled, managed to unlock the deadbolt and the chain and thrust the door open. As he stumbled out onto the walkway, he heard Sam come up behind him, still mumbling.
Thank God.
She was there, right there where he’d left her. Unharmed, undamaged, unsold.
“Dean?” Sam muttered. “The hell is wrong with you?”
All a dream. Thank God, all a dream. Dean gabbled at his brother for a moment, flooded with relief so enormous it was like a weird kind of crack. “I…shit. I dreamed…”
Sam stared at him. Waiting.
“I had this dream. That I sold my car to buy you a freakin’ laptop.”
Sam grinned a little and pushed at his hair again. “You realize you’re out here in your underwear, right?”
“Dude. For a computer.”
“I appreciate the generosity of your subconscious. Even if your conscious is freaking out.”
“My CAR, Sam.”
“It’s like twelve degrees out here, man. Come back in the room.”
After one more long, breathless look at his baby, Dean gave in and went - shivering crazily, and not just from the cold - back into the motel room. Sam was looking at him bemusedly as he pushed the door shut and refastened the locks, then reached down to tease the salt line on the threshold back into place.
“It’s like The Gift of the Magi,” Sam said. “You gave up what was most important to you, so I could have something that’s important to me. That’s very warm and fuzzy. I think your subconscious is a girl.”
Dean scowled at him.
“I’m just saying,” Sam grinned.
“Yeah? Well, my subconscious apparently didn’t remember that if we’re playing Gift of the Frickin’ Magi, you were supposed to give up something for me.”
“What can I tell you, man. It’s your subconscious.”
Chuckling softly, Sam crawled back under the covers and squirmed around until he found a comfortable position.
Dean stood there glaring at him.
“Go back to sleep,” Sam said.
“Yeah. I can hardly wait to find out what my subconscious thinks I ought to give up for Dad.” Dean went on grumbling as he got back into the bed closest to the door, the one he’d been taught to take so that he’d be between Sam and the world.
Between Sam and his CAR.
“Losin’ my freakin’ mind,” he groused. Sam, already out cold, answered him with a loud, disturbing snort of a snore. “For a computer?” Dean complained. “Yeah, like that’d ever freakin’ happen. There’s limits to what I’ll do for you, Sam. I’m telling you, man. There. Are. Limits.”
His arms and legs trembled a little as he settled down under the covers.
“Limits,” he said again.
Sam made a small sound in his sleep.
Something that sounded like “Huh.”
“Limits,” Dean told him firmly.
It took him a long while to fall back asleep.