Baby, It's Cold Outside – for razzie
By firechild
Rated PG13/T
Warning: Contains family discipline. You've been warned.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters.
A/N: Okay, new plan. This is more AU than some, folks. Because I thought that Razzie might like it, I put John and the boys in a house with Kate (as housemates-John and Kate are not sleeping together) and young Adam. As such, attitudes about a lot of things are different in this sandbox.
"Hey, you," John said as he came into the kitchen after shedding his coat.
"Hey yourself. Boots," Kate said, not even glancing up at him as she washed a couple of pounds of red potatoes—a sure sign that he had some hash brown casserole to look forward to.
John rolled his eyes but gamely went back to the entryway and doffed his boots, noticing Kate's fur-lined Wellingtons and Dean's combat boots and Adam's smaller basketball shoes, which were soaked through. The hunter shook his head and padded back into the kitchen.
"I see our little escape artist got out." John went to the fridge and, grimacing because Kate wouldn't keep beer in stock, settled for a Dr Pepper.
"Yep. For all of four minutes—he went over to Casey's house to meet Yesenia."
John closed his eyes in exasperation. "Want me to talk to him?"
Kate snorted. "No, that's okay, I took care of it. A week tacked on to his grounding. Oh, and I wouldn't offer him a chair if I were you."
John's eyebrows went up at that. He could actually envision his housemate marching their son home from his nearest buddy's house, and come to think of it, he didn't actually see Kate's wooden spatula hanging on its usual hook. He snorted softly to himself. Kid was lucky. If John had been home instead of driving back from a bogus hunt in Casper, Casey and Yesenia and anyone else who happened to be home would've gotten an eyeful as Adam got swat-marched back to his house arrest, and that was before the real punishment started. "Heard from Sam today?"
"Mm-hmm," Kate murmured as she disassembled some onions also destined for her famous 'red hot hasherole.' He could see the bowl of sweet bell and hot poblano peppers she'd be chopping in a bit.
"Cool." John had been a little surprised not to see his second-born's massive hiking boots in the entryway. "When's he coming home?"
He was halfway through a frosted molasses cookie when she replied, "He's not."
"Excuse me?"
Kate sighed a bit. "He's not coming home. He left me a message around lunchtime, saying that he's sending gifts with Harvey and that he hopes we all have a great holiday. Said something about an extra-credit project, so I'm guessing he's staying in the dorm."
John was moving before she finished. "The heck he is!" He was back in his coat and boots in less than thirty seconds, not really caring if he tracked something over the floors. He took the stairs three at a time, strode to his room, and threw together a fresh go-bag. While he was packing, Dean stopped by his doorway.
"Hey, how'd the hunt go?" The firstborn had wanted to go, but with John on the hunt and Sam at school, someone had to be on call for Bobby.
"It was crap. Guy was just trying to get on 'Ghost Hunters.'" John moved fluidly, his anger driving out his weariness.
"Dude. That inhales. Where ya going now? I thought Kate had dibs on us for the holiday."
"She does. On *all* of us."
"So what's the bag for?"
"Well, see, I have to take a little trip out for a pick-up in Boulder—seems Sammy decided that he's not coming home for Christmas."
"Works for me."
John looked up and to the side at his oldest. "Dean Chance Winchester. Wanna run that by me again?"
Dean took up a defensive stance, arms folded over his chest. "Well, it's not like it's any great loss. I mean, look what happened last time he was here. We got through Thanksgiving just fine without him; Christmas might be nice and peaceful for a change."
John straightened, fighting the urge to advance on his son. He didn't have time for it right now, but when he got home… "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do remember the last time. I also remember spending my favorite holiday hoping that he'd call. Just like I remember that Kate's downstairs, planning a feast for all of us, with my favorite casserole and your favorite pie and Adam's favorite stuffing and Sammy's favorite cider. Just like I remember how much he and I missed you every holiday when you were on a hunt, and how much I missed him when he left for college. Just like I remember that we're a family. I've done Christmas when I've been short a kid. I'm not doing that again." He really didn't care how much trouble Sam might've caused over fall break; he was disappointed that Dean hadn't forgiven his brother after all these weeks, especially since Dean hadn't exactly been entirely angelic that weekend, either. It had been a mess, yes, a loud, nerve-wracking mess, but it was long over, Sammy was going to be home for Christmas, and Dean was just going to have to deal with it.
He took his bag and, with a stern "Behave, or I'll tan you like new leather" to both of his remaining sons, and a peck on the cheek for Kate, hopped into the truck and set out for Boulder.
The storm took John, and the forecasters, by surprise; it was a fast builder, and the drive to UC took longer than it should have, putting him there after midnight. The campus looked dead, understandably, and at first he thought that the dorm was shut down, which meant that Sammy was going to be in even more trouble after his father hunted him down; fortunately for Sam, though, the front entrance was open. The place was eerily quiet without all the college kids running around, and by the time he reached Sam's door, by way of the stairs because the elevator buttons wouldn't even light up, John was sad, cold, and a little creeped out. He didn't even bother knocking, he just started to pick the lock only to discover that the door wasn't actually locked. His jaw tightening, John ventured into the small room.
Terry, the roommate, had evidently packed in a mad dash, because half of his stuff was gone and the other half looked like the victim of a mafia tossing. Sam's half of the room was relatively clean, and John saw by the light of a forgotten flashlight that the bed boasted a large lump. John shook his head, found Sam's go-bag, discovered that it lacked only warm pajamas, and tried to find some. He came to the conclusion that one of Sam's Christmas presents this year was going to be an afternoon shopping for warm clothing. Wouldn't that be fun.
John was surprised that he wasn't getting any warmer; he went to wake his son and discovered that the boy's eyes were scrunched shut and that he was shivering, despite being wrapped in his sleeping bag comforter. The hunter said Sam's name, and the shivering didn't subside, but the boy opened his eyes and looked up and back at his father, clearly awake and clearly exhausted. He'd heard John come in, but hadn't known it was John; he'd figured it was Terry, returned for something he might've forgotten. The fact that Sam hadn't even checked on who was moving around behind his back all but boiled John's blood, but even in the yellow light from the Garaty, he could see that Sam was pale and had deep bags under his eyes, and the worry drowned out the anger for the moment, partnering with impatience. "Come on, up and at 'em, stretch."
"Where are we g-going? Wh-why are y-y-you here?"
John could feel cold seeping into his bones, and he could swear that the temperature had dropped just in the few minutes he'd been here. "We're going home, kid. You know, that wacky place where you can stuff your face without swiping an ID card, and it doesn't cost a week's rent to do laundry? You heard me, Sammy. Up. Now. And grab your coat. I've got your bag."
Sam turned and sat up but didn't actually obey. "B-but… why?"
John blinked at him. "Why what?" He glanced around for a thermostat. "And why's it so cold in here? You could store meat in this room."
Sam blinked, nonplussed. "They turned off the heat a couple of weeks ago. Why are you here?"
"What, are you deaf now? I said, I'm taking you home. And what do you mean, they shut off the heat? They can't do that, not in the middle of winter, with students still in the dorm."
"I'm the only one. They can't keep everything on for one guy. Why would you want to take me home?"
Losing body heat along with patience, John reached down and hauled his wrapped-up child to his feet. "Uh, because Christmas is the day after tomorrow, maybe? Well, technically, the day after today, since it's after midnight now. You were supposed to be home days ago; sheesh, Sammy, surely whatever project you've got going on can be done at home. Or, you know, can wait. It's not like you really need the boost in your grades. Now, come on, my toes are starting to go numb here." He glanced down and realized that he could see his son's socks peeking out from under the sleeping bag. "I'm hoping you still have toes."
Sam gently pulled out of his father's grip. "I don't think so."
John raised a brow. "You don't think you have toes?"
Sam shook his head, biting his lip. "I'm just gonna stay here. I appreciate you coming, and all, but you didn't need to. You can go have a nice Christmas with your family for once; you don't need to worry about me messing it up."
John gaped. "What?"
Sam sighed sadly. "You remember what happened the last time. I ended up wishing I hadn't gone home. Heck, everyone ended up wishing I hadn't. And Adam said that Thanksgiving was really great, that everything went perfectly and everyone was happy, and I wasn't there, so…" He shrugged. "Doesn't take a math major to figure out the problem—me. It's always me. It's always been me. So I'm not gonna do that to you all again. I'm just gonna stay here, and study, and be… not a problem."
John gaped some more. Could Sammy have overheard…? No. No, he wasn't going to go there. John had been putting off this conversation for a very long time; he was not having it standing here, in the dark, in the meat locker known as the honors dorm. Nope, not happening.
He gripped his child's elbow again, this time under the cover. "Here's how this is gonna go, Sammy. You're gonna shut your mouth and shove all that crap you just spouted where it will never be heard again. You're gonna get your coat and shoes, and you're gonna lock this room and come with me now. You're gonna leave behind anything that won't fit in your duffel because it's way too cold and wet to be putting stuff in the bed of the truck. We're gonna go home, you're gonna enjoy a real Christmas with everyone there, and I'm gonna think about not busting your butt over all this nonsense. And bring the sleeping bag—the heater in the truck works, but only when it wants to."
And he wouldn't take any more flack; he marched his boy downstairs and out to the truck. It took about ten minutes for him to suss out that Sam had been without heat for nearly three weeks, without power for almost two, and too cold to sleep for several days. John sighed, thinking that he might need to have a long talk with the housing administrator, and ordered Sam to sleep. He repeated the order every half hour, to no avail, even threatening to pull over and give Sam something to think about; and he would have done it, too, if not for the whiteout conditions. The storm had gotten worse, and it was slow going even in John's trusty workhorse truck. Sam insisted on staying awake in case John needed a break from driving, but he was smart enough to keep quiet and not distract his father. John had driven all over the country in all sorts of weather, and he had a sense for navigation.
Even then, though, the cold and the strain and the numbing slowness spurred John to take a detour eventually. It was after dawn, and they were more than halfway home, when the storm let up enough for them to spot signs off of the highway for businesses that still had power, and one of them was an independent little trucktel that promised clean rooms, HBO, free local calls, and breakfast. John pulled in, blinking his dry eyes to keep them focused, and left Sam in the truck while he checked in, found their room, and turned on the heater. The place was actually clean, dated but not seedy, and the shower had some pressure to it. John went out to the truck and got Sam and their bags, and sent his son in to the first hot shower Sam had had in ten days while the older hunter called home.
When Sam emerged fifteen minutes later, the trusty little heater was humming, and John was standing at the foot of the bed. Sam started toward his bag for some clothes, but his father stopped him, gripping Sam's wrist. John sat down on the end of the bed and maneuvered his very tired son around to his right and over his knee, pushing up the motel towel and setting his child's bottom on 'rapid thaw.' Sam was surprised, but not really up to fighting, as John swatted and explained that when he gave an order, he still expected Sam to obey, regardless of the boy's noble notions. It wasn't a long or particularly hard spanking—sufficient to have the vulnerable, shivering boy in tears and kind of sore, but nothing remarkable. John stood Sam up when he was done, kissed his forehead, directed him into some of John's sweats, and helped him into bed, where Sam curled up on his side on top of a towel that John had warmed with the room heater. The hunter took his own hot shower and then crawled into bed behind Sam, slipping the sleeping boy into his arms and falling asleep only when Sam had stopped shivering.
They woke to a familiar rumble, but each simply thought that he'd been dreaming until they both heard the sound of someone trying to pick their lock. John waved Sam into the bathroom and went for his pistol, but put it down when the door opened and he saw his oldest standing there. John ordered him inside and peeked out the window—sure enough, there was the Impala, fresh snow melting on her hood. Dean had overheard Kate talking to John that morning about where they'd stopped, and he'd taken advantage of her distraction to hit the road. He meant to rescue them, though from what, he couldn't say.
Eyes narrowed, John ordered Sam to bundle up and go eat something, to actually sit down and order and eat a hot meal not consisting entirely of sugar, at the diner next door, and to bring back sacked meals for his father and brother. Sam didn't say a word, didn't even look at his brother as he left; Dean watched him go with ill-concealed concern, then turned back to his father… and gulped. Inwardly, John smiled, just a little vindictively—he liked knowing that he still had the 'touch,' so to speak. Oh, and Dean was about to be touched.
The hunter didn't really care who heard him yelling at his son for sneaking away from worrywart Kate, for taking an unprepared Impala through a blizzard and along dangerous roads, and for picking the lock on a door that he knew separated him from at least one armed individual. He also didn't care who heard Dean's protests, and then curses, and then cries, as John pulled the 22-year-old over his knee and bared his backside and put the paddle he'd packed (right under Dean's nose, even) to good use. He was pretty sure that the snow drifts would dampen any noise, anyway.
When John felt that Dean had had enough, he covered the dark red bottom and levered his firstborn upright, standing to join him and locking eyes with him. Unlike Sam and (despite his protests) Adam, Dean didn't usually need John to verbalize his paternal affection; he said it with his eyes and his hands, and Dean was fine with that. Dean and Adam shared a penchant for pouting after a spanking, and John squelched that with a gentle warning squeeze to the back of his son's neck.
Sam was back entirely too soon for John's satisfaction, though the hunter did smell tuna salad on the younger boy and decided that he'd fight the food battle when Sammy seemed steadier. The college student handed him a white paper bag that turned out to contain a bacon cheeseburger and a chicken fried steak sandwich. The older Winchesters took five minutes to eat while Sam used the facilities, and then John checked them out. Dean started to kick up a mighty fuss at being bundled into the truck, but John's look was enough to shut him up; the motel owner let John park the Impala in a locking shed and sent the three off with extra doughnuts and coffee.
Dean had washed his face and composed himself before Sam could see him and guess what had happened, but the older boy was having a devil of a time sitting in the middle of the truck's old bench seat; Sam, who was more tender than anything, simply stared out the window. The sleeping bag wound up strung across their laps, a poor compromise. John sighed and buckled down for a long drive.
The going was slow, what should have taken just a couple of hours eating away the afternoon and evening as John picked his way through drifts and over ice and around road closures, grateful that he knew several ways to get home without being restricted to mountain passes that couldn't possibly be open now. It had been years since they had considered the inside of the Impala 'home,' but his boys were still hardy travelers, and they could go all day without taking a pit stop. John only stopped once, and by that time, he was so irritated with Dean's incessant squirming and muttering and asking if he could ride in the bed that when the boy asked if they could go in to the gas station, John snapped out a 'no,' and locked them into the cab of the truck.
He was back in less than fifteen minutes, stretched and emptied and stocked up on coffee and trail mix, and he even had Funyons and taffy for the boys. Dean had obviously taken advantage of his father's absence to curl up on his side and take pressure off of his bottom. Neither boy spoke to John, but something had changed, had… eased, and that was just fine with him.
Even so, they didn't reach home until the wee hours of Christmas morning; the boys were asleep, and John was skating on the edge of it himself, when he pulled into the driveway. He got his sons awake enough to stumble inside the warm house, where Kate met them and spotted them up the stairs. She checked locks and salt lines and then went to her room, and John checked on all three boys before retiring to his.
No one in the house was feeling particularly bright-eyed or bushy-tailed when they finally pulled themselves out of bed late that morning, especially since every male in the house was sporting a sore tail (the springs in the truck seat really needed better cushioning.) Harvey hadn't yet appeared with Sam's share of the gifts, but the family made do with what they had, enjoying lunch despite their discomfort. Sleep seemed to have taken the edge off of Dean's soreness, so he was able to sit at the table with minimal squirming; and Adam had learned (the hard way) not to ask too many questions or to make fun of his brothers' troubles, especially when he had his own fair share, so lunch was quiet. John was surprised, and pleased, to see that Adam, who normally snubbed Sam and allied himself with Dean, was actually being sort of solicitous toward his more academic brother for a change, asking if he needed anything from Adam's part of the table.
After dinner and presents, Kate excused herself and Dean, and John bribed Adam into wheedling Sam outside to build snowpeople so that they wouldn't get an earful as Kate took Dean up to his room and *discussed* his recent choices; she might not be Dean's mother, but she was one of the heads of the household, and she loved Dean and Sam and had every right to teach and correct them, as far as John was concerned. They came back down a while later, Dean sheepish and obviously hurting, and John settled him facedown on one couch while Kate called the other boys inside for a movie and some cocoa.
An hour later, John looked around and smiled to himself—Dean was snoozing on his stomach on one couch, Sam doing the same on the other, and Adam lay facedown on the floor, absorbed in 'Home Alone.' The salt lines were intact, the house was nice and warm, and Kate sat in her chair, knitting fingerless gloves for Dean.
It really was Christmas.