Since I am a self-proclaimed dork, I decided to write a mini Christmas fic. This one is, for once, actually in drafts! Some of the other chapters have already been started on, so I might try (keyword is try) to update weekly. Anyways;
This story is told from an OC's POV, but Sam and Dean are still the main characters (the OC is really just an obvious excuse to write about someone else's thoughts on the Winchesters). Furthermore, let me just say that "Tom" isn't inspired by or meant to be Jared's son - this character just kind of... turned out to be a Tom.
It's set, what, about 30/40 odd years from the current season? In other words, Sam and Dean are a set of grumpy old men and, I'll admit, a tad inspired by two elderly sisters who live nearby. I mow their lawn every summer and I adore them (and their bickering) wholeheartedly.
Warnings: Supernatural stuff, swearing, and bickering Winchesters.
The Winchesters' driveway is completely buried under the snow.
There aren't any car tracks from the closed garage, or any foot prints leading to or from the house, which means they've barricaded themselves inside their house all day. Not that Tom's judging them; if he was a senior citizen he'd never go outside in this weather either, preferring to admire the winter wonderland from the cozy warmth of inside.
He leans against his shovel, putting his sleight weight of a thirteen year old body against it, and contemplates whether or not he should go knock on their door. He rakes an eye over their house, over the snow-covered garden that both Winchesters fervently fight to keep alive, over the apple trees that Tom himself has attempted to steal from every once in awhile (sadly, the shorter Winchester is alarmingly watchful of his apples), and the shed that they've tried to keep hens in once or twice (it's had mixed results, since the hens always manage to escape).
Honestly, it's his history with the apples that make him hesitate.
With a mental shrug he hoists the shovel over his shoulder and pushes his way towards the door, carefully clearing his throat before knocking.
The man that answers the door is more than just tall; he manages to make Tom feel as though he's ten years younger than he actually is, and Tom's quite sure he has the same effect on grown-ups too. This is one of the Winchester brothers, Sam, but he can never remember who the younger one is and who the older one is. This one's hair is long-ish, silver locks curling at the nape of his neck and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses perches on his head.
"Hi there, Tom," he greets with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling and the lines in his forehead softening. "What can I do for you?"
"Hello, sir," Tom starts politely, jutting out his chin and subtly trying to straighten out every bone and stretch every muscle as much as possible, "I was just, um, I was wondering if you wanted your driveway shoveled or..?"
"Who is it, Sammy?" another voice bellows, effectively cutting off any chance of answering, and the warm smile slides right off Sam's face to be replaced by an exasperated roll of his eyes.
"It's Tom," he hollers back, "Ellie's kid."
"Well what does he want?"
"He's offering to shovel our driveway."
"Say what now?" the voice grumbles, followed by a few thumps and curses before the other Winchester brother appears in the doorway, lightly shoving at Sam in order to get to tower over Tom. His hair is another head of silver, albeit shorter than his brother's (Tom mourns the chance to figure out who's older by looking at their gray hair), and although he's still tall, he appears to be short next to Sam. Tom's smart enough to keep his mouth shut about that particular fact. Both of them are wearing flannel, which is to be suspected since Tom never sees them wearing anything else except for on the hottest days of the summer.
"Yeah, thanks, squirt – we don't need any help shoveling," the brother, Dean, sniffs, "We're not that old yet, we can still lift a damn shovel –"
"Except for the fact that your knees give out nine times out of ten," Sam points out mildly.
"Sam, I swear to god…"
"Furthermore, I thought you were going to die five separate times hauling down our Christmas decorations, I'd rather not let you try to shovel any snow."
"Sam."
"I'm just saying, man – if it's not your knees, it's your back –"
"Oh, buddy, you do not want to bitch about my back, mister Constant Back Pains since his late thirties."
Sam immediately turns smug. "Well, all the more reason for not shoveling our own driveway since, admittedly, we're getting quite wobbly in our old age."
Dean mutters a few choice words under his breath that Tom's sure his mother would tan his hide for, while Sam immediately sends Tom another warm, grandfatherly smile.
"Sorry, Tom; Dean's just a bit cranky. He likes to pretend that we're still young and in shape to be out there both chasing adventures and shoveling snow, instead of being the cranky old men we've become. We'd be very happy if you'd be so kind to help us out; Dean's going to get that poor car stuck in the snow any day now. You can come in later if you want to; do you want coffee, tea, hot chocolate..?"
"Chocolate sounds great," Tom says quickly, giving the man a beaming smile before racing towards the driveway, his shovel ready to be put to use. He figures Sam doesn't have to know that Mrs. Rogers next-door has already fed him an almost obscene amount of home baked cookies. Hey, who's he to turn down a perfectly good offer of free snacks?
It's freezing cold outside, and he's sure that he'd be frozen solid if he stands still for too long. He's already shoveled three driveways today, and he digs into this one in frenzy, eager to get his blood pumping and avoid freezing to death. The layer of snow lies heavy over the ground, and by the time he's finished he's sweating and his gloves feel soaked. The chill is rapidly seeping into his skin, and his fingers feel stiff and thick and like they don't really belong to him at all.
He sweeps a critical eye over the driveway before deciding it's good enough – the Winchesters' car is ancient, and he'd rather not have them stuck on their own yard. Ignoring his numbing fingers, he quickly clears the path up to the house; old people appreciate someone taking initiative and doing some extra work (as well as making sure said old people don't slip and die).
He skips up the steps and raps cold knuckles against the door, making sure to stomp his feet and get rid of as much snow as possible. He hears a muffled shout of "Come in!" and gladly follows that particular command. He hesitates briefly before stuffing his wet gloves in between a radiator and the wall, allowing himself a short moment of letting his hands rest against the heavenly warmth.
"Leave your shoes on the mat," Dean's voice hollers, and Tom quickly backtracks to leave his undeniably dripping shoes on the little welcoming mat by the door.
He can hear the elderly brothers bickering softly, and he follows their voices into the kitchen.
He's been in this house once or twice before, he thinks, several years ago. He's not entirely sure why he's been here, but he suspects it's got something to do with his sister and her quest to interview the neighbors. The brothers themselves haven't changed much over the years, but are rather a fundamental part of the town; something that has always been there, just like the church and the forests and the lake. The sun goes up in the east, water is wet, and you can always count on the Winchesters to be fighting each other every step of the way.
Sam's standing by the stove, the smell of chocolate oozing around him, and he looks up with a smile as Tom enters the kitchen. "Hey, Tom – you look freezing. Sit down at the table, will you?"
The last part, will you, is lacking its characteristic warmth, a barb aimed at his brother who's also sitting at the table, a box of Christmas decorations spread out over it. Dean rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh before dragging the decorations into a messy pile in front of him.
"Have a seat, kid," he allows long-sufferingly while Sam pours them three mugs of cocoa.
Tom greedily accepts the offered mug and sighs in content as his finger curl around the warm mug.
"Thanks," he hurriedly says before taking a careful sip.
Dean snorts into his own chocolate. "Word of advice, kid; never accept anything else the guy tries to feed you. There's a reason I'm the cook – he might be able to brew a cup of coffee or cocoa, but that's pretty much it."
Sam throws his brother a withering glare as he sinks down in an empty chair. "Screw you, I cook," he mutters petulantly into his mug.
"Yeah," Dean agrees wryly, "eggs. With runny yolks."
"I make them that way on purpose. They're supposed to be runny."
"Supposed to be – kid, do you want your yolks solid or runny?"
Tom starts as he realizes that the question was directed at him, and hurriedly clears his throat. "Um, I – I guess both?" Well, actually he greatly prefers solid, but he'd rather not pick sides. And he doesn't want to offend any old people, his mother taught him better, thank you very much.
Dean, on the other hand, immediately gives Sam a smug look. "Well, that's the least honest answer I've heard since you said there's nothing wrong with your eyesight. Pay up, Sammy."
"Tom's allowed to eat his eggs however he likes them," Sam deflects good-naturedly, and deftly changes the subject before Dean can continue arguing about eggs. "How's school going, Tom? Anything interesting happening?"
"It's okay, I guess," Tom says, barely managing to bite back a grimace. "Geography's kinda cool. Mostly I'm just looking forward to the Christmas break."
"Understandable," Dean mumbles at the same time as Sam continues;
"Do you and your folks have any plans for Christmas, then? I haven't had the chance to talk to Ellie during the last week or so, but I think she mentioned something about you lot going on a trip?"
"Not really," Tom says, wishing he was better at small talk. "I mean, we were planning to visit my aunt in Florida, but apparently that plan went to –" wait, maybe he shouldn't swear in front of old people, "…went down the drain. Now we're going to spend Christmas here instead." Crap, maybe he should also refrain from bitching about his hometown to old people who live in said hometown.
"There's nothing wrong with spending Christmas at home," Sam points out, sounding mildly amused, but Dean seems to perk up.
"Hold on; Sammy, we could go on a Christmas vacation. Don't you make that face at me, you know it'd be fun. A road trip for old times' sake – come one, Baby needs it, she hasn't had a chance to properly stretch her wings in forever."
Sam gives the pile of Christmas decorations a doubtful glance. "I don't know, man, you've seemed quite exhilarated about celebrating at home, judging by your passion for those fairy lights."
"I'm getting the road fever. 'Sides, we haven't had any greasy diner food in years. I miss my greasy diner food."
"Listen, every time you so much as look at a greasy hamburger your metabolism kicks the bucket. There's no way I'm spending Christmas locked inside a car eating fast food while you get every gastral illness possible."
Tom busies himself with taking a huge gulp of chocolate, pensively wondering if he ought to leave – his parents greatly prefer to be left to their own devices whenever they argue. Then again, these two communicate solely by bickering, so he supposes the same rules don't apply for them.
"Oh, I'll show you what to kick," Dean says under his breach while giving Sam the evil eye.
Tom throws a look at the clock before chugging the last of his drink and standing up. "Thank you very much for the hot chocolate, it was awesome, but I really got to go before mom starts knocking down doors. It's dinner time, so…"
"Oh for god's sake, boy, hold your horses," Dean snaps and roots around in his pockets. "Here," he says, holding out a ten, "good job with the shoveling – and don't walk around pretending to do it for free, Jesus Christ."
Tom can feel his face split into a wide smile as he accepts the generous award with a thank-you.
"Thanks again for the help," Sam calls after him, "Tell your parents we said hi!"
As soon as he reaches the hall and starts pulling on his jacket, he can hear their voices once again ("Damn it, Dean, we could at least have tried to be a bit more civil with the poor kid here", and "Oh, please, we were fucking civil enough"). He chuckles quietly as he steps outside, making a mental note to ask his mom for some stories about the town's very own set of grumpy old men.
It's started to snow while he was inside, small flakes slowly twirling from the sky and Tom swears silently. With his luck all the driveways will be drowned in snow come tomorrow. Oh well – always a way to make more money; Mrs. Rogers will be well armed with cookies, and perhaps he can catch the Winchesters on a day where they don't try to bite each other's heads off.
He hurries home before it starts snowing in earnest, getting a warm hello from his mom and a heartfelt insult from his sister.
"Did you increase your income?" his mom asks, sounding amused as she putters around in the kitchen.
"Yep," Tom replies, popping the p. "I think the Winchesters did an okay job of subduing their fighting while I was there."
"Well that's a wonder," his mother chuckles as Tom skips towards his room – if he doesn't remove the money from his pockets he'll lose it before bedtime.
He flicks on the light in the stairway, only for it to flicker once, twice, before dying. Tom sighs heavily and flicks the switch multiple times just to prove a point, "Daaad," he calls, "the lights are dead again. I swear we're going through lightbulbs faster than humanly possible."
Oh my.
What could possibly be going on with Tom? Flickering lights have never appeared on the show before, noooope.
So, as stated above, I've got the main plot thought out but I'm open for suggestions regarding mini-plots or filler-plots. 'Tis the season; I'm having an alarming amount of Christmas feelings already.
If you have the time, please drop me a review - all feedback is appreciated feedback!