Secret Satan Fic Exchange - For Vexed_Wench
TITLE: To: Bobby, From: Santa’s Little Idjits
SUMMARY:
AUTHOR: stella_lost
Artist: licklesoxy
RECIPIENT: vexed_wench
CHARACTERS: Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None. Set during season 2
LENGTH: ~5150
A/N: A very Happy Holiday season to vexed_wench! I hope that your wishes are fulfilled and your dreams come true . . . and Santa brings you everything on your list! Peace to you and yours and for the whole world! <3!
To: Bobby,
From: Santa’s Little Idjits
December 15th . . .
Toot. Toot. Toot.
“I’ll Jingle Bell you, Watts . . .”
Bobby Singer was still muttering under his breath as he let the once-white curtain fall back into place across the window of the door. Through the sheerness, he could just make out the back of the mail carrier’s van as it pulled away from the mailbox next to the salvage yard’s gate. Larry Watts, the mail carrier, extended a hand from the cab; his black mitten giving a jaunty wave before the van rounded the bend in the road. Bobby scowled and reached for his coat.
~~*~*~*~~
Stomping the dust from his boots, Bobby left the wind outside as he shoved the door shut behind him. He tossed the holiday fliers for the local big box stores on the small side table just inside the door. The rest of the envelopes he leafed through as he made his way to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.
“Electric bill. Propane bill. Singer Salvage, return to sender . . . figures. Boulder Artesian Salt Company?”
Tossing the rest of the mail on the table, Bobby crossed to the sink and pulled a paring knife from the dish drainer. As with the rest of the knives in his house, this one slit through the paper as if it were, well, paper. He cocked an eyebrow at the ornate script on the square piece of cardstock that he pulled out.
“This gift cheque entitles the holder to Fifty Dollars in goods and merchandise from the Boulder Artesian Salt Company.” He read it again before his eyes strayed to the line that held his name in swirling calligraphy. “What the hell?”
Bobby looked in the envelope again and nabbed out a glossy folded sheet that listed the various types of salt available, ranging from pink Himalayan mineral salt to what looked like the fancy frou-frou salt that his Karen had liked to use in her bath. Being a simple man with simple needs, Bobby usually ordered his salt in bulk quantities from the local co-op. He had never used fancy salt before. It wasn’t as if demons cared that they were being held back by “Hiwa Kai Black Hawaiian Sea Salt? Seriously?”
A phone rang in the other room and from the ringer; Bobby guessed that some hunter had gotten himself in a bind somewhere. He tossed the gift certificate down on top of the rest of the mail, grabbed his coffee and headed to the office. Time to go to work.
December 16th . . .
Bobby stood on the porch listening to the poor schmuck on the other end of the phone diagnosing what had to be wrong with his car. He let the guy ramble a bit before he interrupted. “What year did you say your Nova was again?”
Toot. Toot. Too-toot. Toot.
He groaned as he saw the wreath affixed to the front of the mail van and then had to apologize to Mr. Chad Davis when he got huffy at Bobby’s seemingly lack of professionalism. If you only knew, you twit. Bobby thought as the man got back to his car problems. He could tell him that he blew a head gasket, which was the curse of the newer Chevy Nova’s, but he doubted that Mr. Davis would listen to him.
A final honk from beyond the gate had him watching the tail lights pull away down the road. Bobby could make out the top edge of a cardboard box leaning against the post that held his mailbox.
“Now what? . . . No, no, no, not you Mr. Davis. I just . . . Like I said, I’m pretty sure that it’s the head gasket, just like your mechanic said, but if you want to come on out and look through the yard, I might have an engine that would work . . . What’s that? . . . Well, that’s up to you, but yeah, I think that it may happen again even with a rebuilt engine. It’s the curse of the foreign American car . . . No, I . . . Well, you think on it and let me know.”
Bobby was making his way towards the gate as he spoke. He could see that the box was long and wide, but was actually fairly shallow.
He mumbled a “so long” and thumbed the ‘end’ button as he stooped to peer at the package. He could see that it was addressed to him, but he hadn’t ordered anything lately, so to say that he was more than a bit perplexed, would be an understatement.
“Well, might as well get to the bottom of this.” Bobby slipped the phone into his pocket, hefted the weighty box into his arms, and headed back to the house, completely forgetting the rest of the mail behind in the mailbox.
~~*~*~*~~
“Dean Winchester.” Bobby grumbled as he stared at the contents of the package. “Only a moron would think this was an appropriate and funny gift.”
He lifted the heavy rubberized lead x-ray apron from the box and held it up at arm’s length. The words ‘Kill ‘em and Grill ‘em’ had been added across the bib in dull black electrical tape. His hip caught the box and sent it to the floor, causing a bit of a clatter as a set of barbeque tongs and a long handled double-pronged fork hit the linoleum.
“Yep. Gotta to be those damned Winchesters.”
December 19th . . .
Bobby picked up the As Seen on TV socket wrench that lay in two pieces in front of him. It had broken the minute he finally got the industrial plastic packaging cut open.
“Cheap ass piece of junk.” Bobby told the black cat that spun laxly around his legs beneath the table. It merowed up at him, which he took to be its agreement.
It had taken some getting used to, having several kittens around the house, but when Sam admitted that neither he nor Dean had it in them to just leave them behind in Minnesota after their worrisome day of trying to counter a never-placed spell to change the kittens back to the witches they thought them to be, Bobby relented and said that they could stay at the salvage yard. At least he didn’t have any field mice to try and trap this winter. Sure, they weren’t as good of companion as Rumsfeld had been, but they also didn’t eat as much, so there were pluses to be considered.
Bobby leaned back in his seat at the table and he looked at the array of unusual gifts that he had collected on the table. He was no dummy and after the arrival of another random gift yesterday, that being a dreamcatcher that looked like it had been crafted by a four-year-old on a sugar high; seeing how the webbing was sporadically knotted and the leather cording around the edge was lumpy and messily done, he was guessing something was up. And now the wrench, he had proof that someone was messing with him.
Besides the dreamcatcher and the wrench, there was the gift certificate for the salt and also the dead looking wreath that was actually filled with dried herbs, like sage and thyme and a stuffed unicorn that looked like it had been mended at one time or another.
“Is that all? Am I missing anything?” Bobby asked the cat as he scanned the gifts again. “No, I think . . . wait, do you think . . . no, of course, you don’t, I just . . .” He stood and headed for the office only to return with a mostly empty bottle of Early Times whiskey, a dirty pint glass with the image of Mt. Rushmore on it with the words ‘America ROCKS!” printed below, and a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like the Devil’s Tower over in Wyoming. These had been the first of the string of odd gifts to arrive, but he had written it off as thinking that they were from some hunter as thanks for pulling them out of a jam or something along those lines, not as a Christmas gift. He plunked the lot down amongst the other random gifts on the table.
Nope. Not a dummy or a fool at all. It was a hunter, or rather a pair of hunters and he was onto their game. Bobby snatched the phone from the counter and proceeded to dial.
~~*~*~*~~
“Sam, where you guys been? I’ve been callin’ all day.” Bobby was stabbing with his fork at the chicken and cheesy rice casserole on his plate. He wasn’t lying when he said that, he had been calling those two all day and here it was seven hours later when one of the two idjits finally found it in them to answer the damned phone.
“Bobby! Hey, man. You’re gonna have to speak up, okay?”
He held the phone away from his ear a bit as Sam proceeded to shout through it. The background noise sounded raucous. A woman shrieked with laughter as a series of groans filled the air behind Sam’s own chuckles.
“Hell, boy, where you two at?” Bobby raised his voice as his hand with his fork full of food paused in mid-air. “Where’s Dean?”
“Dean’s busy at the moment, tryin’ not to look like a fool at the pool table. Whatcha’ need, Bobby?” Sam laughed again. Bobby could hear the looseness of his tongue due no doubt to a few after hunt beers.
“I just . . . well, I haven’t heard from you guys in a while and I was hopin’ you boys were okay.” Man, I wouldn’t even buy that lame excuse, Bobby mentally chastised himself for lack of a better cover story for calling.
“Yeah? We’re doin’ fine and dandy. Just got done with a job down here in Georgia, a nasty little redcap wreckin’ havoc. Dean says we’re probably gonna work our way across to Louisiana. We’re trying to stay where it’s warmer, you know. Dean’s been throwin’ a fit about the cold this year.”
“Ain’t he a little young to be bitchin’ about his ‘aches and pains’,” Bobby scoffed. He could hear Dean crowing loudly about something in the background.
“I think it’s more like he wants to see some girls not all bundled up in layers and layers of clothing. It will make his work in that field of his expertise a little easier, if you know what I mean.” The music dimmed in the background then, as if Sam had stepped outside, yet he had still to moderate his voice, so his next comment was still a shout in Bobby’s ear. “What’s up?”
“I can hear ya just fine, Sam,” complained Bobby, still somewhat embarrassed for placing the call in the first place. “No need to shout.”
“Sorry, Bobby, I just stepped out. But seriously, What’s up? Do we need to head up there?” Sam’s voice had sobered instantly, making Bobby wonder if he had just been putting on a show for the locals earlier.
“No.” Bobby was quick to reassure. “I just . . . look, I’ve been getting’ these packages . . . in the mail and I wanted to tell you two to knock it off. I know money is tight, so you boys don’t need to be sending me anything.”
“Packages?” He could hear the confusion in Sam’s voice. “What kind of packages?”
“Just, well, like Christmas gifts of a sort. Now Sam, I’m not tryin’ to say I’m ungrateful, because I’m not . . . ungrateful, that is. It’s just that -“ He pushed the rest of his meal away and stood up. Crossing to the window, Bobby stared out into the inky darkness. “I really don’t need any of this, you know?”
“Bobby, we haven’t been sending anything. You know that Dean doesn’t exactlydo Christmas, right? What kind of gifts are they? Are they dangerous? Do we need to come up there?” Sam asked again.
There was a loud bang somewhere behind Sam and Bobby heard a rush of voices over the phone.
“What’s going on?” He asked.
“It’s nothing, just a bunch of locals filled with holiday cheer, seriously, Bobby, what kind of packages? Anything dangerous? Are you getting them through the mail? Have you checked the cancellation stamps?”
“I . . . yeah, it’s through the mail and no, I don’t think anything is really wrong with them, except for maybe in taste as in whomever is sending them has a predilection for the odd.” Bobby glanced at the hodge-podge collection of gifts and cocked a half-smile. It was true; nothing was truly terrible, just offbeat. “I was just goin’ to tell you two thanks and to knock-“
Another loud shout filled the line followed by a groan from Sam. Bobby could hear Dean’s voice in the mix, growling out a string of expletives and the words ‘c’mon.’
“Damn! Looks like we got to hit the road, Bobby.”
“Yeah, just be careful boys.” Bobby was glad that he already had a method to get money when he had taken up hunting and didn’t have to rely on hustling. He heard Dean again, telling Sam to get his ass in the car and then to say ‘hey’ to him.
“Dean says ‘hey’ and we need to be rollin’.”
“Yeah, I get it, boy, just . . . if I don’t talk to you guys soon, you two have a Merry Christmas, all right?”
“Yeah, you too, Bobby.” The engine of the Impala roared to life, which strangely made Bobby feel just a touch lonely in his own nearly silent home. There was a rushed ‘bye’ and the phone went silent in his hand. Sighing, Bobby sat at the table again and contemplated the pile of gifts.
“Well, a thanks to whoever’s sendin’ these. Where’s that whiskey?”
December 23rd . . .
Sam had been lying, Bobby decided as he stared at the current unwrapped package sitting on the desk in front of him. He expected something like that from Dean, but Sam? Sam was honest almost to a fault, or at least he always had been up until he left for that fancy school of his.
The morning after he had spoken to the boy down in Georgia another gift had arrived, one of those rubberized singing trophy fishes that they used show during nearly every commercial break on TV years ago. A ‘Billy Bass’ or ‘Tommy Trout’ or some other similarly distressing cutesy name, he couldn’t remember and since there was no packaging, he couldn’t be sure.
It didn’t work, the fish. It just made a series of weird clicks when he pushed the red button or waved his hand in front of the sensor after he put in the batteries that came with it, but he hung it in the office anyway because it was funny looking. Besides, when those two idijits finally showed their faces around here, it was going to be easy to catch the truth in their expressions when they saw it. Sam, and by circumstances, Dean, may have lied to him over the phone, but they wouldn’t be able to do so to his face, he was sure of it.
One of the lithe black cats jumped on the desk and promptly knocked over the pen cup before it started to rub against the brown box that sat there.
“Shoo, you varmint. Shoo.” Bobby gave the cat a gentle shove which it took as a form of attention and started to rub against his hand. “Dammit, Cat, go find one of your new toys and leave me alone.” He lifted the cat and sat it on the floor at his feet; an act that was just exercise for him as the cat merely jumped on the desk again and stared at him balefully.
“Fine. You can stay there, but no nip later.”
The gift that came after the broke down fish had been a box filled with cat toys, an enormous container of catnip, and a laser pointer. That night the whole house seemed to shake as the multitude of cats thundered around higher than kites as they chased after feathered mice and sparkly, jingling balls. Bobby grinned even now as he thought about the knots those damned cats had tried to twist themselves into, just to get that one simple little red dot.
The cat hunkered down and eyed him as he set about opening his present. If he counted correctly, this was the twelfth, which should be the last one if those morons were following the tradition of the song and that had to be what they were up to.
“And thank all that is holy, they didn’t send me layin’ geese or leapin’ lords.”
This one wasn’t as heavy as his new barbeque apron or even yesterday’s offering of wax. Well, not just a big block of wax, which Bobby reasoned would come in handy, but also a beat up sauce pan, a spool of wicking, and a large plastic bag marked twenty-five cents from a Goodwill store filled with some of the worst candle molds he had ever seen. There was a toadstool, a frog, a heart, a unicorn, a double heart, a shamrock, and something that he guessed to be a dog, but it looked more like a cow with thick legs.
Pulling a knife from his pocket, Bobby slit open the tape on the box and lifted the flaps, sending packing peanuts everywhere. A shaft of light from the desk lamp above glinted and played against the dark glass inside. He reached in and pulled out a large snowglobe with a smooth tiered white base. The static caused several of the little Styrofoam nuggets to cling to the glass and his hand, which he set about brushing away.
“Now this seems more in line with the holiday.” He told the cat matter-of-factly.
Once it was clear of debris, Bobby shook the globe and held it up to the light, inadvertently setting a series of events into play and proving to himself once again, that he still had his hunter instincts.
When he held the snowglobe up to see the glittery snow falling on whatever scene was inside, Bobby realized that he couldn’t see anything but inky darkness. It was then that the stupid singing fish went off, with a booming electronically charged voice spewing not some happy little ditty, but Latin.
Bobby thumped the globe onto the desk and grabbed both the flask of holy water from the top drawer and the broken wrench that he had never gotten around to throwing away. Swinging with all his might, he slammed the wrench through the glass and the black swirling smoke of a demon rose out of the wreckage. His voice chimed in with the chanting of the fish’s as he shook the holy water over the entirety of the desk. The demon dried and vanished as they are prone to do when vanquished and Bobby sat down heavily in his chair.
“Those assholes!” He ran a hand over his face and looked to where the cat had been sitting, as if he could get a confirmation for his troubles, but it had skedaddled sometime during the melee. Gusting out a heavy breath, Bobby shook his head at the mess in front of him and then looked up at the now-silent fish. Standing, he crossed over and pulled it down. Waving a hand in front of the sensor, he wasn’t too surprised when nothing happened. It wasn’t until he removed the back that he found the altered EMF meter wedged into the housing. “Genius, but still assholes.”
December 24th . . .
He was eating sandwich of leftover meatloaf and Jimmy Stewart was busy getting smacked upside the head by Mr. Gower when Bobby heard the growl of the Impala’s engine pulling up outside the house.
“Louisiania, huh?” He asked the cat that was sitting next to his leg with a pathetic look upon its face. As if he would fall for that ploy. It hadn’t worked with Rumy, well, not that often, and those begging eyes weren’t going to work for Cat 1, Cat 2, or any of the other ones.
“Wait until I get my hands on those two.”
Much to the cat’s dismay, Bobby carried his plate with him to the door when he heard the thudding of boots on the porch. He was ready to rip into the Winchester boys when he wrenched the door open, but the sight of Sam holding a case of long necks in his arms and Dean holding up a handle of whiskey was a good way for them to make amends. It was a start at least.
“Boys.”
“Merry Christmas, Bobby.” Sam said cheerfully.
“Thought you two didn’t do Christmas.” Bobby had still to step back and let them in, though he knew he was going to have to pretty soon as his big toe was catching a draft through the hole in his sock. Besides the snow flurry that had started late in the morning was starting to gather in both quantity and quality; the ground was buried in the annoying fluffy white crap, which meant that he was probably going get a call for a tow sometime in the evening.
“We don’t, just lookin’ for a place to put all these libations down.” Dean laughed, “any room in the inn?”
“Oh, har-har. Well, c’mon, I ain’t heatin’ up the entire yard. You can put the beer in the fridge. There’s some meatloaf and fried potatoes on the stove if you two are hungry.” Bobby shifted back so that they could enter. He heard Dean talking sweet to one of the cats as their retreating backs headed down the hall to the kitchen. “And Dean? Bring me back a glass of whatever’s in that bottle.”
~~*~*~*~~
“You’re right; it has to be a hunter,” said Dean thoughtfully, as he took a swig from his beer. “If there hadn’t been an EMF or a demon involved, I would have guessed someone was just messing with you based on what knowledge they have of what you buy or collect, but a demon? Yeah, that clearly makes it a hunter.”
Bobby had just gotten done relaying the past twelve days of gifts for the pair and had even brought out most of them to show the Winchesters. The snowglobe and wrench were in the trash, but he still had everything else. Neither Dean nor Sam’s face gave them away though, much to Bobby’s consternation. Maybe he was wrong in blaming them.
“Man, this fish is pretty cool, Bobby.” Sam said as he inspected the back of the item; his long fingers poking at the wires. “I can’t believe it worked.”
“Why wouldn’t it work, Sammy?” If there had been any doubt still in Bobby’s mind that these two buffoons weren’t behind this, it had been settled right then and there when he saw the indignant look that Dean threw at his brother. Well, that clears that up, Bobby thought.
“I didn’t say that it wouldn’t work. I just said that I was surprised that it did.” Sam argued back.
“No. you said that you couldn’t believe that it worked, like I . . . whoever made it, had no idea what they were doing.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, you ass.”
Bobby leaned back in his chair and watched the boys squabble like the brothers they were. He remembered a Christmas long ago, when John had shown up with them and while they were always well behaved in public, they had a tendency to bicker over the little stuff here at the house. It was like they were comfortable enough to feel like they were at home. Bobby covered his smile by taking a small gulp from his glass of whiskey.
“Well then, how did you mean it? I know I don’t have your fancy schoolin’, Sammy, but I do know how to do some things.” Huffed Dean.
“I know that, Dean. I was just surprised that it worked with the sensor like it did. And the name is Sam.”
Bobby swallowed a chuckle and scratched at the ears of the cat that had jumped up on the arm of his chair.
“What are you grinnin’ for?” Dean asked finally, while Sam sat scowling as he plucked at the stitches on the bottom of the stuffed unicorn.
“Nothin’. Just thinking of the first time your daddy brought you guys here for Christmas. You had to be about eight, which means Sam was what? Four? And you were both so worried that Santa wasn’t gonna find ya.” The brothers’ shot a quick look at one another. Bobby hoped that the look said ‘sorry’, but more than likely it meant more along the lines of ‘I’ll kick your butt later.’ He let them think for a few quick seconds before he lowered his voice and said. “Thanks for comin’, boys. I figured it was just gonna be me and the cats this year, but . . . well, I guess I didn’t realize just how much I missed those Christmas when you were both still young, so, yeah . . . thanks.”
“Bobby.” Sam’s voice sounded somewhat choked.
“Aw Geez, Bobby.” Dean spoke at nearly the same time as his brother. His eyes flicked over and Bobby saw the younger man give a slight nod. “We, ah . . . well, Hell, you already figured out that it was us that sent you those things . . .”
Bobby hummed and gave a nod at Dean to go on.
“You see, we got to talkin’, me and Sam, and well, we’ve had a rough year as you well know. Anyway, back in what, Sam? Early November?” Dean glanced at his brother for confirmation. “We had one of those cases that made me think about when we were boys and how we always spent those long nights in the motel, talkin’ about how it was for other folks, you know, with all their traditions and shit and well -”
“What Dean’s trying to say, poorly I might add, is that well, Bobby, we never really had a home, not one that you could actually call a home . . . except for here.” Sam interrupted. “On that night, we passed the time sharing a bottle, talking about the old days and how you made Santa show up even when we didn’t even get to go see him at the mall and there was no way that he could have known what we wanted . . .”
“So we got to thinkin’ about how we wanted you to have a nice Christmas, like you gave us back then.” Dean finished.
“A demon in a snowglobe?” Bobby scoffed.
Dean grinned sheepishly, “well, we . . . uh, I kind of ran out of ideas.”
“And Sam, couldn’t you have come up with something better?” Bobby turned to the younger Winchester.
“I, uh, I won the unicorn in the claw machine and put the hex bag in it.”
“O-kay.” Bobby hadn’t found the hex bag, but it made sense, given the uneven stitching. “Well, it all turned out okay and you’ve made amends what with supplyin’ the beverages for the evening, so I just wanted to say thanks for makin’ this holiday memorable, at least.”
“Actually, we’re not done.” Sam said his face creasing into a genuine smile.
“Yeah? What now, you got a vampire hid out in the car? Some magical elixir you bought off someone in a back alley?” Bobby laughed, a deep raspy rumble.
“Not exactly.” Dean smile sobered slightly as he stood to cross the room to his jacket. When he turned back there was a small box wrapped in garish paper. Dean extended his hand and once Bobby took the present he reclaimed his seat on the sofa. “That’s from the both of us.”
Bobby looked for dishonesty in either of their faces, but only found earnestness and fondness, which made him just about as nervous as if he had found them to be lying. He ripped the paper next to the tape and pulled it off. Inside was a smallish black hinged box. He looked up again and joked, “I’m not marryin’ either of you.”
“I like my dates a little less furry” Dean grinned back at him just as Sam chimed in “ . . . and blonde.”
Bobby chuckled and popped open the box. The light shone brightly on the clear crystal face of the silver pocket watch. His lips parted in shock and his fingers fumbled to pull the watch from its satiny bed. He looked up at Dean and then Sam. “Boys, this is too nice for an old bastard like me.”
“And yet it’s not enough.” Sam replied. “You’ve always been there for us, Bobby. Even when you and Dad were on the outs, we knew that if we had to run, we could come here and you’d give us whatever help we needed.”
“And now that Dad’s gone . . . well, Bobby, we realized that we don’t only have each other, but we also got you and I know that we drive you crazy occasionally, but we really do appreciate you for all the support you’ve given us this year.”
It was as sincere as Bobby had ever seen Dean, well, when he wasn’t under distress from one of the creatures that they hunted. He looked at the watch in his weathered and worn hand and wiped his other hand over his face. He was humbled by the gift to be sure, but he was at a loss as to how to express himself at that moment, so he mumbled a quiet ‘thank you.’
Luckily, Dean, ever the one to run from sentiment, saved him from embarrassing himself by being a stammering fool. “So, I saw this pie out there in the kitchen. Is that for tomorrow or can we hit that tonight?”
“Dean!” Sam admonished him, but Bobby just laughed.
“Sure, boy, we can cut into that. It’s peach, if that’s okay? Karen’s recipe. I make it every Christmas.”
“Sounds good to me.” Dean rose from his seat and offered his hand to Bobby, who shook it heartily, before he let the younger man pull him up. Sam stepped over to shake his hand as well.
“Merry Christmas, Bobby.”
“You too, Sam.” Bobby, watch still clasped in his hand led the way to the kitchen. He cleared his throat and asked, “which one of you idjits made that dreamcatcher? I think one of these here cats could have done better weavin’.”
Sam laughed and Dean groaned.
It’s gonna be a good day tomorrow, Bobby thought as he heard the boys start tussling in the hall behind him.
. . . the end . . .
~~*~*~*~~
SUMMARY:
AUTHOR: stella_lost
Artist: licklesoxy
RECIPIENT: vexed_wench
CHARACTERS: Bobby Singer, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None. Set during season 2
LENGTH: ~5150
A/N: A very Happy Holiday season to vexed_wench! I hope that your wishes are fulfilled and your dreams come true . . . and Santa brings you everything on your list! Peace to you and yours and for the whole world! <3!
To: Bobby,
From: Santa’s Little Idjits
December 15th . . .
Toot. Toot. Toot.
“I’ll Jingle Bell you, Watts . . .”
Bobby Singer was still muttering under his breath as he let the once-white curtain fall back into place across the window of the door. Through the sheerness, he could just make out the back of the mail carrier’s van as it pulled away from the mailbox next to the salvage yard’s gate. Larry Watts, the mail carrier, extended a hand from the cab; his black mitten giving a jaunty wave before the van rounded the bend in the road. Bobby scowled and reached for his coat.
~~*~*~*~~
Stomping the dust from his boots, Bobby left the wind outside as he shoved the door shut behind him. He tossed the holiday fliers for the local big box stores on the small side table just inside the door. The rest of the envelopes he leafed through as he made his way to the kitchen for another cup of coffee.
“Electric bill. Propane bill. Singer Salvage, return to sender . . . figures. Boulder Artesian Salt Company?”
Tossing the rest of the mail on the table, Bobby crossed to the sink and pulled a paring knife from the dish drainer. As with the rest of the knives in his house, this one slit through the paper as if it were, well, paper. He cocked an eyebrow at the ornate script on the square piece of cardstock that he pulled out.
“This gift cheque entitles the holder to Fifty Dollars in goods and merchandise from the Boulder Artesian Salt Company.” He read it again before his eyes strayed to the line that held his name in swirling calligraphy. “What the hell?”
Bobby looked in the envelope again and nabbed out a glossy folded sheet that listed the various types of salt available, ranging from pink Himalayan mineral salt to what looked like the fancy frou-frou salt that his Karen had liked to use in her bath. Being a simple man with simple needs, Bobby usually ordered his salt in bulk quantities from the local co-op. He had never used fancy salt before. It wasn’t as if demons cared that they were being held back by “Hiwa Kai Black Hawaiian Sea Salt? Seriously?”
A phone rang in the other room and from the ringer; Bobby guessed that some hunter had gotten himself in a bind somewhere. He tossed the gift certificate down on top of the rest of the mail, grabbed his coffee and headed to the office. Time to go to work.
December 16th . . .
Bobby stood on the porch listening to the poor schmuck on the other end of the phone diagnosing what had to be wrong with his car. He let the guy ramble a bit before he interrupted. “What year did you say your Nova was again?”
Toot. Toot. Too-toot. Toot.
He groaned as he saw the wreath affixed to the front of the mail van and then had to apologize to Mr. Chad Davis when he got huffy at Bobby’s seemingly lack of professionalism. If you only knew, you twit. Bobby thought as the man got back to his car problems. He could tell him that he blew a head gasket, which was the curse of the newer Chevy Nova’s, but he doubted that Mr. Davis would listen to him.
A final honk from beyond the gate had him watching the tail lights pull away down the road. Bobby could make out the top edge of a cardboard box leaning against the post that held his mailbox.
“Now what? . . . No, no, no, not you Mr. Davis. I just . . . Like I said, I’m pretty sure that it’s the head gasket, just like your mechanic said, but if you want to come on out and look through the yard, I might have an engine that would work . . . What’s that? . . . Well, that’s up to you, but yeah, I think that it may happen again even with a rebuilt engine. It’s the curse of the foreign American car . . . No, I . . . Well, you think on it and let me know.”
Bobby was making his way towards the gate as he spoke. He could see that the box was long and wide, but was actually fairly shallow.
He mumbled a “so long” and thumbed the ‘end’ button as he stooped to peer at the package. He could see that it was addressed to him, but he hadn’t ordered anything lately, so to say that he was more than a bit perplexed, would be an understatement.
“Well, might as well get to the bottom of this.” Bobby slipped the phone into his pocket, hefted the weighty box into his arms, and headed back to the house, completely forgetting the rest of the mail behind in the mailbox.
~~*~*~*~~
“Dean Winchester.” Bobby grumbled as he stared at the contents of the package. “Only a moron would think this was an appropriate and funny gift.”
He lifted the heavy rubberized lead x-ray apron from the box and held it up at arm’s length. The words ‘Kill ‘em and Grill ‘em’ had been added across the bib in dull black electrical tape. His hip caught the box and sent it to the floor, causing a bit of a clatter as a set of barbeque tongs and a long handled double-pronged fork hit the linoleum.
“Yep. Gotta to be those damned Winchesters.”
December 19th . . .
Bobby picked up the As Seen on TV socket wrench that lay in two pieces in front of him. It had broken the minute he finally got the industrial plastic packaging cut open.
“Cheap ass piece of junk.” Bobby told the black cat that spun laxly around his legs beneath the table. It merowed up at him, which he took to be its agreement.
It had taken some getting used to, having several kittens around the house, but when Sam admitted that neither he nor Dean had it in them to just leave them behind in Minnesota after their worrisome day of trying to counter a never-placed spell to change the kittens back to the witches they thought them to be, Bobby relented and said that they could stay at the salvage yard. At least he didn’t have any field mice to try and trap this winter. Sure, they weren’t as good of companion as Rumsfeld had been, but they also didn’t eat as much, so there were pluses to be considered.
Bobby leaned back in his seat at the table and he looked at the array of unusual gifts that he had collected on the table. He was no dummy and after the arrival of another random gift yesterday, that being a dreamcatcher that looked like it had been crafted by a four-year-old on a sugar high; seeing how the webbing was sporadically knotted and the leather cording around the edge was lumpy and messily done, he was guessing something was up. And now the wrench, he had proof that someone was messing with him.
Besides the dreamcatcher and the wrench, there was the gift certificate for the salt and also the dead looking wreath that was actually filled with dried herbs, like sage and thyme and a stuffed unicorn that looked like it had been mended at one time or another.
“Is that all? Am I missing anything?” Bobby asked the cat as he scanned the gifts again. “No, I think . . . wait, do you think . . . no, of course, you don’t, I just . . .” He stood and headed for the office only to return with a mostly empty bottle of Early Times whiskey, a dirty pint glass with the image of Mt. Rushmore on it with the words ‘America ROCKS!” printed below, and a set of salt and pepper shakers shaped like the Devil’s Tower over in Wyoming. These had been the first of the string of odd gifts to arrive, but he had written it off as thinking that they were from some hunter as thanks for pulling them out of a jam or something along those lines, not as a Christmas gift. He plunked the lot down amongst the other random gifts on the table.
Nope. Not a dummy or a fool at all. It was a hunter, or rather a pair of hunters and he was onto their game. Bobby snatched the phone from the counter and proceeded to dial.
~~*~*~*~~
“Sam, where you guys been? I’ve been callin’ all day.” Bobby was stabbing with his fork at the chicken and cheesy rice casserole on his plate. He wasn’t lying when he said that, he had been calling those two all day and here it was seven hours later when one of the two idjits finally found it in them to answer the damned phone.
“Bobby! Hey, man. You’re gonna have to speak up, okay?”
He held the phone away from his ear a bit as Sam proceeded to shout through it. The background noise sounded raucous. A woman shrieked with laughter as a series of groans filled the air behind Sam’s own chuckles.
“Hell, boy, where you two at?” Bobby raised his voice as his hand with his fork full of food paused in mid-air. “Where’s Dean?”
“Dean’s busy at the moment, tryin’ not to look like a fool at the pool table. Whatcha’ need, Bobby?” Sam laughed again. Bobby could hear the looseness of his tongue due no doubt to a few after hunt beers.
“I just . . . well, I haven’t heard from you guys in a while and I was hopin’ you boys were okay.” Man, I wouldn’t even buy that lame excuse, Bobby mentally chastised himself for lack of a better cover story for calling.
“Yeah? We’re doin’ fine and dandy. Just got done with a job down here in Georgia, a nasty little redcap wreckin’ havoc. Dean says we’re probably gonna work our way across to Louisiana. We’re trying to stay where it’s warmer, you know. Dean’s been throwin’ a fit about the cold this year.”
“Ain’t he a little young to be bitchin’ about his ‘aches and pains’,” Bobby scoffed. He could hear Dean crowing loudly about something in the background.
“I think it’s more like he wants to see some girls not all bundled up in layers and layers of clothing. It will make his work in that field of his expertise a little easier, if you know what I mean.” The music dimmed in the background then, as if Sam had stepped outside, yet he had still to moderate his voice, so his next comment was still a shout in Bobby’s ear. “What’s up?”
“I can hear ya just fine, Sam,” complained Bobby, still somewhat embarrassed for placing the call in the first place. “No need to shout.”
“Sorry, Bobby, I just stepped out. But seriously, What’s up? Do we need to head up there?” Sam’s voice had sobered instantly, making Bobby wonder if he had just been putting on a show for the locals earlier.
“No.” Bobby was quick to reassure. “I just . . . look, I’ve been getting’ these packages . . . in the mail and I wanted to tell you two to knock it off. I know money is tight, so you boys don’t need to be sending me anything.”
“Packages?” He could hear the confusion in Sam’s voice. “What kind of packages?”
“Just, well, like Christmas gifts of a sort. Now Sam, I’m not tryin’ to say I’m ungrateful, because I’m not . . . ungrateful, that is. It’s just that -“ He pushed the rest of his meal away and stood up. Crossing to the window, Bobby stared out into the inky darkness. “I really don’t need any of this, you know?”
“Bobby, we haven’t been sending anything. You know that Dean doesn’t exactlydo Christmas, right? What kind of gifts are they? Are they dangerous? Do we need to come up there?” Sam asked again.
There was a loud bang somewhere behind Sam and Bobby heard a rush of voices over the phone.
“What’s going on?” He asked.
“It’s nothing, just a bunch of locals filled with holiday cheer, seriously, Bobby, what kind of packages? Anything dangerous? Are you getting them through the mail? Have you checked the cancellation stamps?”
“I . . . yeah, it’s through the mail and no, I don’t think anything is really wrong with them, except for maybe in taste as in whomever is sending them has a predilection for the odd.” Bobby glanced at the hodge-podge collection of gifts and cocked a half-smile. It was true; nothing was truly terrible, just offbeat. “I was just goin’ to tell you two thanks and to knock-“
Another loud shout filled the line followed by a groan from Sam. Bobby could hear Dean’s voice in the mix, growling out a string of expletives and the words ‘c’mon.’
“Damn! Looks like we got to hit the road, Bobby.”
“Yeah, just be careful boys.” Bobby was glad that he already had a method to get money when he had taken up hunting and didn’t have to rely on hustling. He heard Dean again, telling Sam to get his ass in the car and then to say ‘hey’ to him.
“Dean says ‘hey’ and we need to be rollin’.”
“Yeah, I get it, boy, just . . . if I don’t talk to you guys soon, you two have a Merry Christmas, all right?”
“Yeah, you too, Bobby.” The engine of the Impala roared to life, which strangely made Bobby feel just a touch lonely in his own nearly silent home. There was a rushed ‘bye’ and the phone went silent in his hand. Sighing, Bobby sat at the table again and contemplated the pile of gifts.
“Well, a thanks to whoever’s sendin’ these. Where’s that whiskey?”
December 23rd . . .
Sam had been lying, Bobby decided as he stared at the current unwrapped package sitting on the desk in front of him. He expected something like that from Dean, but Sam? Sam was honest almost to a fault, or at least he always had been up until he left for that fancy school of his.
The morning after he had spoken to the boy down in Georgia another gift had arrived, one of those rubberized singing trophy fishes that they used show during nearly every commercial break on TV years ago. A ‘Billy Bass’ or ‘Tommy Trout’ or some other similarly distressing cutesy name, he couldn’t remember and since there was no packaging, he couldn’t be sure.
It didn’t work, the fish. It just made a series of weird clicks when he pushed the red button or waved his hand in front of the sensor after he put in the batteries that came with it, but he hung it in the office anyway because it was funny looking. Besides, when those two idijits finally showed their faces around here, it was going to be easy to catch the truth in their expressions when they saw it. Sam, and by circumstances, Dean, may have lied to him over the phone, but they wouldn’t be able to do so to his face, he was sure of it.
One of the lithe black cats jumped on the desk and promptly knocked over the pen cup before it started to rub against the brown box that sat there.
“Shoo, you varmint. Shoo.” Bobby gave the cat a gentle shove which it took as a form of attention and started to rub against his hand. “Dammit, Cat, go find one of your new toys and leave me alone.” He lifted the cat and sat it on the floor at his feet; an act that was just exercise for him as the cat merely jumped on the desk again and stared at him balefully.
“Fine. You can stay there, but no nip later.”
The gift that came after the broke down fish had been a box filled with cat toys, an enormous container of catnip, and a laser pointer. That night the whole house seemed to shake as the multitude of cats thundered around higher than kites as they chased after feathered mice and sparkly, jingling balls. Bobby grinned even now as he thought about the knots those damned cats had tried to twist themselves into, just to get that one simple little red dot.
The cat hunkered down and eyed him as he set about opening his present. If he counted correctly, this was the twelfth, which should be the last one if those morons were following the tradition of the song and that had to be what they were up to.
“And thank all that is holy, they didn’t send me layin’ geese or leapin’ lords.”
This one wasn’t as heavy as his new barbeque apron or even yesterday’s offering of wax. Well, not just a big block of wax, which Bobby reasoned would come in handy, but also a beat up sauce pan, a spool of wicking, and a large plastic bag marked twenty-five cents from a Goodwill store filled with some of the worst candle molds he had ever seen. There was a toadstool, a frog, a heart, a unicorn, a double heart, a shamrock, and something that he guessed to be a dog, but it looked more like a cow with thick legs.
Pulling a knife from his pocket, Bobby slit open the tape on the box and lifted the flaps, sending packing peanuts everywhere. A shaft of light from the desk lamp above glinted and played against the dark glass inside. He reached in and pulled out a large snowglobe with a smooth tiered white base. The static caused several of the little Styrofoam nuggets to cling to the glass and his hand, which he set about brushing away.
“Now this seems more in line with the holiday.” He told the cat matter-of-factly.
Once it was clear of debris, Bobby shook the globe and held it up to the light, inadvertently setting a series of events into play and proving to himself once again, that he still had his hunter instincts.
When he held the snowglobe up to see the glittery snow falling on whatever scene was inside, Bobby realized that he couldn’t see anything but inky darkness. It was then that the stupid singing fish went off, with a booming electronically charged voice spewing not some happy little ditty, but Latin.
Bobby thumped the globe onto the desk and grabbed both the flask of holy water from the top drawer and the broken wrench that he had never gotten around to throwing away. Swinging with all his might, he slammed the wrench through the glass and the black swirling smoke of a demon rose out of the wreckage. His voice chimed in with the chanting of the fish’s as he shook the holy water over the entirety of the desk. The demon dried and vanished as they are prone to do when vanquished and Bobby sat down heavily in his chair.
“Those assholes!” He ran a hand over his face and looked to where the cat had been sitting, as if he could get a confirmation for his troubles, but it had skedaddled sometime during the melee. Gusting out a heavy breath, Bobby shook his head at the mess in front of him and then looked up at the now-silent fish. Standing, he crossed over and pulled it down. Waving a hand in front of the sensor, he wasn’t too surprised when nothing happened. It wasn’t until he removed the back that he found the altered EMF meter wedged into the housing. “Genius, but still assholes.”
December 24th . . .
He was eating sandwich of leftover meatloaf and Jimmy Stewart was busy getting smacked upside the head by Mr. Gower when Bobby heard the growl of the Impala’s engine pulling up outside the house.
“Louisiania, huh?” He asked the cat that was sitting next to his leg with a pathetic look upon its face. As if he would fall for that ploy. It hadn’t worked with Rumy, well, not that often, and those begging eyes weren’t going to work for Cat 1, Cat 2, or any of the other ones.
“Wait until I get my hands on those two.”
Much to the cat’s dismay, Bobby carried his plate with him to the door when he heard the thudding of boots on the porch. He was ready to rip into the Winchester boys when he wrenched the door open, but the sight of Sam holding a case of long necks in his arms and Dean holding up a handle of whiskey was a good way for them to make amends. It was a start at least.
“Boys.”
“Merry Christmas, Bobby.” Sam said cheerfully.
“Thought you two didn’t do Christmas.” Bobby had still to step back and let them in, though he knew he was going to have to pretty soon as his big toe was catching a draft through the hole in his sock. Besides the snow flurry that had started late in the morning was starting to gather in both quantity and quality; the ground was buried in the annoying fluffy white crap, which meant that he was probably going get a call for a tow sometime in the evening.
“We don’t, just lookin’ for a place to put all these libations down.” Dean laughed, “any room in the inn?”
“Oh, har-har. Well, c’mon, I ain’t heatin’ up the entire yard. You can put the beer in the fridge. There’s some meatloaf and fried potatoes on the stove if you two are hungry.” Bobby shifted back so that they could enter. He heard Dean talking sweet to one of the cats as their retreating backs headed down the hall to the kitchen. “And Dean? Bring me back a glass of whatever’s in that bottle.”
~~*~*~*~~
“You’re right; it has to be a hunter,” said Dean thoughtfully, as he took a swig from his beer. “If there hadn’t been an EMF or a demon involved, I would have guessed someone was just messing with you based on what knowledge they have of what you buy or collect, but a demon? Yeah, that clearly makes it a hunter.”
Bobby had just gotten done relaying the past twelve days of gifts for the pair and had even brought out most of them to show the Winchesters. The snowglobe and wrench were in the trash, but he still had everything else. Neither Dean nor Sam’s face gave them away though, much to Bobby’s consternation. Maybe he was wrong in blaming them.
“Man, this fish is pretty cool, Bobby.” Sam said as he inspected the back of the item; his long fingers poking at the wires. “I can’t believe it worked.”
“Why wouldn’t it work, Sammy?” If there had been any doubt still in Bobby’s mind that these two buffoons weren’t behind this, it had been settled right then and there when he saw the indignant look that Dean threw at his brother. Well, that clears that up, Bobby thought.
“I didn’t say that it wouldn’t work. I just said that I was surprised that it did.” Sam argued back.
“No. you said that you couldn’t believe that it worked, like I . . . whoever made it, had no idea what they were doing.”
“I didn’t mean it like that, you ass.”
Bobby leaned back in his chair and watched the boys squabble like the brothers they were. He remembered a Christmas long ago, when John had shown up with them and while they were always well behaved in public, they had a tendency to bicker over the little stuff here at the house. It was like they were comfortable enough to feel like they were at home. Bobby covered his smile by taking a small gulp from his glass of whiskey.
“Well then, how did you mean it? I know I don’t have your fancy schoolin’, Sammy, but I do know how to do some things.” Huffed Dean.
“I know that, Dean. I was just surprised that it worked with the sensor like it did. And the name is Sam.”
Bobby swallowed a chuckle and scratched at the ears of the cat that had jumped up on the arm of his chair.
“What are you grinnin’ for?” Dean asked finally, while Sam sat scowling as he plucked at the stitches on the bottom of the stuffed unicorn.
“Nothin’. Just thinking of the first time your daddy brought you guys here for Christmas. You had to be about eight, which means Sam was what? Four? And you were both so worried that Santa wasn’t gonna find ya.” The brothers’ shot a quick look at one another. Bobby hoped that the look said ‘sorry’, but more than likely it meant more along the lines of ‘I’ll kick your butt later.’ He let them think for a few quick seconds before he lowered his voice and said. “Thanks for comin’, boys. I figured it was just gonna be me and the cats this year, but . . . well, I guess I didn’t realize just how much I missed those Christmas when you were both still young, so, yeah . . . thanks.”
“Bobby.” Sam’s voice sounded somewhat choked.
“Aw Geez, Bobby.” Dean spoke at nearly the same time as his brother. His eyes flicked over and Bobby saw the younger man give a slight nod. “We, ah . . . well, Hell, you already figured out that it was us that sent you those things . . .”
Bobby hummed and gave a nod at Dean to go on.
“You see, we got to talkin’, me and Sam, and well, we’ve had a rough year as you well know. Anyway, back in what, Sam? Early November?” Dean glanced at his brother for confirmation. “We had one of those cases that made me think about when we were boys and how we always spent those long nights in the motel, talkin’ about how it was for other folks, you know, with all their traditions and shit and well -”
“What Dean’s trying to say, poorly I might add, is that well, Bobby, we never really had a home, not one that you could actually call a home . . . except for here.” Sam interrupted. “On that night, we passed the time sharing a bottle, talking about the old days and how you made Santa show up even when we didn’t even get to go see him at the mall and there was no way that he could have known what we wanted . . .”
“So we got to thinkin’ about how we wanted you to have a nice Christmas, like you gave us back then.” Dean finished.
“A demon in a snowglobe?” Bobby scoffed.
Dean grinned sheepishly, “well, we . . . uh, I kind of ran out of ideas.”
“And Sam, couldn’t you have come up with something better?” Bobby turned to the younger Winchester.
“I, uh, I won the unicorn in the claw machine and put the hex bag in it.”
“O-kay.” Bobby hadn’t found the hex bag, but it made sense, given the uneven stitching. “Well, it all turned out okay and you’ve made amends what with supplyin’ the beverages for the evening, so I just wanted to say thanks for makin’ this holiday memorable, at least.”
“Actually, we’re not done.” Sam said his face creasing into a genuine smile.
“Yeah? What now, you got a vampire hid out in the car? Some magical elixir you bought off someone in a back alley?” Bobby laughed, a deep raspy rumble.
“Not exactly.” Dean smile sobered slightly as he stood to cross the room to his jacket. When he turned back there was a small box wrapped in garish paper. Dean extended his hand and once Bobby took the present he reclaimed his seat on the sofa. “That’s from the both of us.”
Bobby looked for dishonesty in either of their faces, but only found earnestness and fondness, which made him just about as nervous as if he had found them to be lying. He ripped the paper next to the tape and pulled it off. Inside was a smallish black hinged box. He looked up again and joked, “I’m not marryin’ either of you.”
“I like my dates a little less furry” Dean grinned back at him just as Sam chimed in “ . . . and blonde.”
Bobby chuckled and popped open the box. The light shone brightly on the clear crystal face of the silver pocket watch. His lips parted in shock and his fingers fumbled to pull the watch from its satiny bed. He looked up at Dean and then Sam. “Boys, this is too nice for an old bastard like me.”
“And yet it’s not enough.” Sam replied. “You’ve always been there for us, Bobby. Even when you and Dad were on the outs, we knew that if we had to run, we could come here and you’d give us whatever help we needed.”
“And now that Dad’s gone . . . well, Bobby, we realized that we don’t only have each other, but we also got you and I know that we drive you crazy occasionally, but we really do appreciate you for all the support you’ve given us this year.”
It was as sincere as Bobby had ever seen Dean, well, when he wasn’t under distress from one of the creatures that they hunted. He looked at the watch in his weathered and worn hand and wiped his other hand over his face. He was humbled by the gift to be sure, but he was at a loss as to how to express himself at that moment, so he mumbled a quiet ‘thank you.’
Luckily, Dean, ever the one to run from sentiment, saved him from embarrassing himself by being a stammering fool. “So, I saw this pie out there in the kitchen. Is that for tomorrow or can we hit that tonight?”
“Dean!” Sam admonished him, but Bobby just laughed.
“Sure, boy, we can cut into that. It’s peach, if that’s okay? Karen’s recipe. I make it every Christmas.”
“Sounds good to me.” Dean rose from his seat and offered his hand to Bobby, who shook it heartily, before he let the younger man pull him up. Sam stepped over to shake his hand as well.
“Merry Christmas, Bobby.”
“You too, Sam.” Bobby, watch still clasped in his hand led the way to the kitchen. He cleared his throat and asked, “which one of you idjits made that dreamcatcher? I think one of these here cats could have done better weavin’.”
Sam laughed and Dean groaned.
It’s gonna be a good day tomorrow, Bobby thought as he heard the boys start tussling in the hall behind him.
. . . the end . . .
~~*~*~*~~