Eight Cozy Nights (of Schmoop): Five Golden... Something...
Perpetually late, yes, but I am happy because woo! I'm past the halfway mark!! :D
Title: Christmas With You Is The Best
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R (for language mostly)
Word Count: 1,343
Notes: nomelon requested: Sam/Dean with Bah Humbug!Dean and Childlike Excitement!Sam on Christmas Eve.
Summary: How Sam Winchester saved Dean from a life wrought with humbug and grinchery.
It's subtle at first. Whenever the Christmas music comes up on the radio, Dean switches stations.
He avoids talking about the holiday, having the requisite discussion with Sam about what he wants, where they should go, should they dare impose themselves on Bobby or Ellen; and if so, what kind of liquor to buy.
Sam buys a carton of eggnog on December 14th, and Dean pours it all down the drain when he's not looking.
Sam sends out e-cards to his Stanford pals, and the few hand-written Christmas cards he can put together on whim. Dean watches him and leaves the motel room, drives for three days straight to their P.O. Box in Allentown, Pennsylvania, and tears up every holiday card in there. He presents Sam with the scraps when he finally returns, and then drinks a six-pack of beer and falls asleep.
It really hits the fan when they're in the Eden Prairie Mall in Minnesota, and Sam catches Dean snatching a candy cane from a kid and breaking it in two. The kid runs off crying and Dean shouts out after him. "Yeah? Well the Easter Bunny isn't real either! Crybaby!"
"Dean!" Sam yells, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him off to the side. "What the hell has gotten into you? He's just a kid, and it's Christmas!"
"Bah... humbug."
"What?"
"I said... humbug?" Dean grabs his head, "Sam, what's wrong with me? What the fuck? I said humbug! And I meant it!"
***
Of course there's a curse, there's always a curse. Dean tends to piss off the types of people who use curses. It's all very much expected, like Sam's ability to find said curses, and their cures.
"It's a mood altering thing, has a lot to do with the weather and the amount of sunlight and the effects of tree lights... And you're not paying attention."
"Nope. Busy trying to think of a way to set fire to that tree," Dean says pointing at the TV showing the Radio City tree-lighting.
"Luckily, there's a cure. You're probably not going to like it though."
"Maybe some plastics, yeah, set the detonator by the ice-rink."
Sam flips off the TV. "Look, I've got to go get some, things. Try not to terrorize all the Whos in Whoville while I'm out."
"I hate roast beast..."
***
When Dean wakes up, he realizes two things. First, that he fell asleep on the couch, and secondly, the room seems to have exploded in tinsel. It's coated wall-to-wall with chintzy decorations, garlands of paper chains and snowflakes. A tiny, but respectable tree stands in the corner, glistening with shiny glass balls and twinkling lights, and a cutesy little angel on the top. The smell of aerosol-canned snow lingers in the air.
Dean gets up, walks to the bathroom, and vomits.
***
Sam. It's all Sam's doing. Sam is wearing a fucking holiday hoodie, and a Santa hat. He's humming as he continues to decorate the room when Dean emerges from the bathroom feeling empty and weak.
"Morning Dean! It's Christmas Eve! I made hot cocoa with candy canes stirred in just like you-"
"What. The. Fuck?!" Dean growls.
Sam gets quiet. "It's the only cure Dean, you've got to find your Christmas spirit."
"I died last night and this is my hell, right? Stuck in a fucking Hallmark card with my brother; who is apparently drinking hot chocolate cut with crack cocaine."
"I am going to inject you with Christmas spirit Dean, even if it kills me. Drink!" And Sam shoves the cocoa to Dean, splashing him, and he recoils and hisses as his chest gets burned through the thin t-shirt.
"Well, that's a good start," Sam says under his breath, and forces out an embarrassed smile.
***
Sam finally gets a warm, fuzzy holiday sweater on Dean, and drags him out of the room. They drive towards the nearest town, shining with lights and buzzing with holiday shopping. Along the way he makes Dean stop in front of each house to admire the garish decorations and light displays. Dean rolls his eyes and pouts and kicks over snowmen whenever he has a chance. Sam finally gives up and promises no more stops when Dean threatens to write his name in the snow.
They head for the town mall, and Sam buys him cider and cocoa and candy and other kinds of baked goods. But no snowman-shaped cookies, or mince pies seem to be doing the trick. He even gets Dean to sample some plum pudding at a gourmet shop, and not even a smile as the fat and sugar and sweetness goes down. Just grumbling "thanks", and shoving his hands in his pockets, ducking his head.
Sam needs some help.
***
"No. Fuck you. No fucking way!"
"I'll start singing again."
"You wouldn't dare. You know how much I hate-"
"Ohhhh! You better watch out! You better not crrryyyy!" Sam stops when Dean clamps a hand over his mouth and shushes him.
"FINE." Dean huffs and sits on the old guy's lap, gently, so as not to crush him. He's humoring them, after all.
"So... Have you been a good boy this year?" the mall-Santa asks.
"Dean," Sam whispers.
"Dean! Dean, have you been a good boy this year?" he asks again, with a glimmer in his eye.
Dean crosses his arms and speaks through clenched teeth, "Yessir."
"Well, what do you want for Christmas?"
"Right now, I think I'd like to die." Sam smacks his arm and Dean rolls his eyes.
"Tell him!" Sam says, hands on his hips.
"God! Fine! I want a million dollars, a custom-built carburetor for a '67 Impala, a new 12-gauge with ammo, a stainless steel machete with my initials on the hilt, backstage passes to a KISS reunion tour (with Peter Criss), and a night of ilicit passion in a hot tub with Heidi Klum... And Sam can watch... if he agrees to hold the Dixie cup."
The look of sheer amazement on the Santa's face, and horror on Sam's; is enough to motivate Dean to smile while Mrs. Claus takes the picture.
***
The entire day spent at the mall, and Dean's no better then he was that morning. Sam holds the tiny box in his hands, as he watches Dean roll his eyes and shout at the TV screen. "For fuck's sake will you just let fucking Rudolph play the god damn games already!"
Maybe having Dean watch those old Christmas specials on TV wasn't such a good idea.
"There's one, last thing I can try," Sam swallows and stands. He walks to Dean and shuts off the TV, holding something behind his back. Dean stands up to meet his gaze.
"Sam, I can't take it anymore, just get me some bourbon and let me drink myself stupid and cheery."
Sam takes the green sprig of mistletoe out from behind his back and holds it over him and Dean, kissing him chaste, right on the lips.
And what happened then? Well, Sam likes to say, that Dean Winchester's heart grew three sizes that day.
(But really, he just kind of shook off the curse, and kissed his brother breathless under the mistletoe.)
***
Sam pulls the blanket over the both of them as they lie on the couch together, Dean sprawled out on his chest. "So, can we just drop all this now?" Sam asks, gesturing to the mess of decorations and kitsch surrounding them.
"Oh c'mon Sammy, you're gonna take away this nice little Norman Rockwell thing we've got going here? Don't you want to go a-wassailin' and get all apple-cheeked from the cold? Drink eggnog? Wake up at 6 in the morning to open presents?"
"Yeah, those boxes are empty Dean."
"What?! You mean I'm not getting my Red Rider B.B. Gun?"
"Sorry kiddo, you'll shoot your eeeeye-yi-yi!" and Sam gasps as Dean moves his hand down underneath his pants and squeezes Sam through his boxers.
"Nice try Sammy, I found it!" Dean winks. "Merry Christmas to me."
The Long Winters - Christmas With You Is The Best
Title: Christmas With You Is The Best
Characters/Pairings: Sam/Dean
Rating: R (for language mostly)
Word Count: 1,343
Notes: nomelon requested: Sam/Dean with Bah Humbug!Dean and Childlike Excitement!Sam on Christmas Eve.
Summary: How Sam Winchester saved Dean from a life wrought with humbug and grinchery.
It's subtle at first. Whenever the Christmas music comes up on the radio, Dean switches stations.
He avoids talking about the holiday, having the requisite discussion with Sam about what he wants, where they should go, should they dare impose themselves on Bobby or Ellen; and if so, what kind of liquor to buy.
Sam buys a carton of eggnog on December 14th, and Dean pours it all down the drain when he's not looking.
Sam sends out e-cards to his Stanford pals, and the few hand-written Christmas cards he can put together on whim. Dean watches him and leaves the motel room, drives for three days straight to their P.O. Box in Allentown, Pennsylvania, and tears up every holiday card in there. He presents Sam with the scraps when he finally returns, and then drinks a six-pack of beer and falls asleep.
It really hits the fan when they're in the Eden Prairie Mall in Minnesota, and Sam catches Dean snatching a candy cane from a kid and breaking it in two. The kid runs off crying and Dean shouts out after him. "Yeah? Well the Easter Bunny isn't real either! Crybaby!"
"Dean!" Sam yells, grabbing him by the arm and hauling him off to the side. "What the hell has gotten into you? He's just a kid, and it's Christmas!"
"Bah... humbug."
"What?"
"I said... humbug?" Dean grabs his head, "Sam, what's wrong with me? What the fuck? I said humbug! And I meant it!"
***
Of course there's a curse, there's always a curse. Dean tends to piss off the types of people who use curses. It's all very much expected, like Sam's ability to find said curses, and their cures.
"It's a mood altering thing, has a lot to do with the weather and the amount of sunlight and the effects of tree lights... And you're not paying attention."
"Nope. Busy trying to think of a way to set fire to that tree," Dean says pointing at the TV showing the Radio City tree-lighting.
"Luckily, there's a cure. You're probably not going to like it though."
"Maybe some plastics, yeah, set the detonator by the ice-rink."
Sam flips off the TV. "Look, I've got to go get some, things. Try not to terrorize all the Whos in Whoville while I'm out."
"I hate roast beast..."
***
When Dean wakes up, he realizes two things. First, that he fell asleep on the couch, and secondly, the room seems to have exploded in tinsel. It's coated wall-to-wall with chintzy decorations, garlands of paper chains and snowflakes. A tiny, but respectable tree stands in the corner, glistening with shiny glass balls and twinkling lights, and a cutesy little angel on the top. The smell of aerosol-canned snow lingers in the air.
Dean gets up, walks to the bathroom, and vomits.
***
Sam. It's all Sam's doing. Sam is wearing a fucking holiday hoodie, and a Santa hat. He's humming as he continues to decorate the room when Dean emerges from the bathroom feeling empty and weak.
"Morning Dean! It's Christmas Eve! I made hot cocoa with candy canes stirred in just like you-"
"What. The. Fuck?!" Dean growls.
Sam gets quiet. "It's the only cure Dean, you've got to find your Christmas spirit."
"I died last night and this is my hell, right? Stuck in a fucking Hallmark card with my brother; who is apparently drinking hot chocolate cut with crack cocaine."
"I am going to inject you with Christmas spirit Dean, even if it kills me. Drink!" And Sam shoves the cocoa to Dean, splashing him, and he recoils and hisses as his chest gets burned through the thin t-shirt.
"Well, that's a good start," Sam says under his breath, and forces out an embarrassed smile.
***
Sam finally gets a warm, fuzzy holiday sweater on Dean, and drags him out of the room. They drive towards the nearest town, shining with lights and buzzing with holiday shopping. Along the way he makes Dean stop in front of each house to admire the garish decorations and light displays. Dean rolls his eyes and pouts and kicks over snowmen whenever he has a chance. Sam finally gives up and promises no more stops when Dean threatens to write his name in the snow.
They head for the town mall, and Sam buys him cider and cocoa and candy and other kinds of baked goods. But no snowman-shaped cookies, or mince pies seem to be doing the trick. He even gets Dean to sample some plum pudding at a gourmet shop, and not even a smile as the fat and sugar and sweetness goes down. Just grumbling "thanks", and shoving his hands in his pockets, ducking his head.
Sam needs some help.
***
"No. Fuck you. No fucking way!"
"I'll start singing again."
"You wouldn't dare. You know how much I hate-"
"Ohhhh! You better watch out! You better not crrryyyy!" Sam stops when Dean clamps a hand over his mouth and shushes him.
"FINE." Dean huffs and sits on the old guy's lap, gently, so as not to crush him. He's humoring them, after all.
"So... Have you been a good boy this year?" the mall-Santa asks.
"Dean," Sam whispers.
"Dean! Dean, have you been a good boy this year?" he asks again, with a glimmer in his eye.
Dean crosses his arms and speaks through clenched teeth, "Yessir."
"Well, what do you want for Christmas?"
"Right now, I think I'd like to die." Sam smacks his arm and Dean rolls his eyes.
"Tell him!" Sam says, hands on his hips.
"God! Fine! I want a million dollars, a custom-built carburetor for a '67 Impala, a new 12-gauge with ammo, a stainless steel machete with my initials on the hilt, backstage passes to a KISS reunion tour (with Peter Criss), and a night of ilicit passion in a hot tub with Heidi Klum... And Sam can watch... if he agrees to hold the Dixie cup."
The look of sheer amazement on the Santa's face, and horror on Sam's; is enough to motivate Dean to smile while Mrs. Claus takes the picture.
***
The entire day spent at the mall, and Dean's no better then he was that morning. Sam holds the tiny box in his hands, as he watches Dean roll his eyes and shout at the TV screen. "For fuck's sake will you just let fucking Rudolph play the god damn games already!"
Maybe having Dean watch those old Christmas specials on TV wasn't such a good idea.
"There's one, last thing I can try," Sam swallows and stands. He walks to Dean and shuts off the TV, holding something behind his back. Dean stands up to meet his gaze.
"Sam, I can't take it anymore, just get me some bourbon and let me drink myself stupid and cheery."
Sam takes the green sprig of mistletoe out from behind his back and holds it over him and Dean, kissing him chaste, right on the lips.
And what happened then? Well, Sam likes to say, that Dean Winchester's heart grew three sizes that day.
(But really, he just kind of shook off the curse, and kissed his brother breathless under the mistletoe.)
***
Sam pulls the blanket over the both of them as they lie on the couch together, Dean sprawled out on his chest. "So, can we just drop all this now?" Sam asks, gesturing to the mess of decorations and kitsch surrounding them.
"Oh c'mon Sammy, you're gonna take away this nice little Norman Rockwell thing we've got going here? Don't you want to go a-wassailin' and get all apple-cheeked from the cold? Drink eggnog? Wake up at 6 in the morning to open presents?"
"Yeah, those boxes are empty Dean."
"What?! You mean I'm not getting my Red Rider B.B. Gun?"
"Sorry kiddo, you'll shoot your eeeeye-yi-yi!" and Sam gasps as Dean moves his hand down underneath his pants and squeezes Sam through his boxers.
"Nice try Sammy, I found it!" Dean winks. "Merry Christmas to me."
The Long Winters - Christmas With You Is The Best