Last Bit of Christmas
By Swellison
Sam watched the television as the football game segued into the half-time show. He glanced sidelong at Dean, imprinting the memory of his brother happily ensconced in something that had nothing to do with hunting—the completely normal activity of watching football. Dean's head turned towards him and he met his brother's startled green eyes. Dean jerked his attention back to the sports recap.
"What?" Sam knew all of Dean's moods; big brother had something on his mind.
"I was—" Dean paused to regroup – "Ah, d'ya think we could go to Bobby's? Not that all this" he waved his arm towards the half-consumed eggnog and foil Merry Christmas banner on the motel's wall "isn't enough. Just thought it'd be nice to—"
"Be home for Christmas," Sam finished, smiling. "That's a great idea. Let's go."
They packed and vacated the motel room in under fifteen minutes, leaving the snow-encrusted streets of Ypsilanti in the Impala's rear view mirror. Dean drove steadily west, passing through brief spurts of local traffic – travelers going to and from family events—and driving through Chicago's always-lively traffic as the fastest route to Sioux Falls.
An hour into Iowa, Sam spoke as they pulled into a fortunately-open gas station. "Can I drive for awhile?" He knew Dean's arms, tightly bandaged from Marge-the- Druid-god's slicing, had to be hurting, although Dean would never admit it. Sam reached over and stroked the wheel above Dean's right hand. "We need to get used to each other," he tacked on softly, throwing Dean his best puppy-dog eyes.
Dean caved; they stocked up on gas and junk food and hit the dark and snowy highway, westbound.
Sam drove as fast as he dared, but they were still at least twenty minutes from Bobby's when he glanced at his watch: one minute to midnight. He met Dean's stoic gaze, defeated. "I'm sorry, Dean, I—"
"S'okay, Sammy."
"I should've let you drive all the wa-" Sam stopped apologizing and smacked the steering wheel. "It's not midnight, it's only eleven o'clock! We're in another time zone!"
Half an hour later, they trudged up to Bobby's door, laden with their gear. Sam knocked, unsurprised to be greeted by the gun-toting, scowling older hunter. "Merry Christmas, Bobby!"
Bobby blinked. "Idjits. C'mon in outta the cold," he stepped back, allowing them access.
Dean strode inside. "Merry Christmas, Bobby!"
Sam stamped his feet on the mat, shaking loose the snow before entering.
"You look half-frozen," Bobby said. "Go and warm up in the study while I rustle up some food."
"No!"
Sam, startled by Dean's protest, turned to face his brother, as did Bobby.
"We brought gifts, Bobby. You need to open 'em while it's still—" Dean's head nudged towards the wall clock, its hands poised at twenty-five minutes to twelve.
"Well, then," Bobby cleared his throat, "Let's do this up right. Take off your coats and follow me."
Sam hastily discarded his jacket, and dug into his duffel to retrieve a flat, wrapped present. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean do likewise. His brother's delving produced a gaily-wrapped box and Sam felt a pang of envy, that Dean's present for Bobby was obviously well-thought out, while his own had been last-minute. He cast off the idea that Dean could well be thinking the same thing as he trailed Dean into Bobby's study. Sam halted in the doorway, surprised to find a blazing fire in the fireplace, flanked by a decorated, lighted tree with two wrapped presents underneath it.
Bobby spoke from his overstuffed chair. "Go ahead and open 'em; they're yours."
Dean dropped his present in Bobby's lap and then scooted under the tree, like a kid on Christmas morning. Watching him, Sam ached for all the normal Christmases Dean had never had, and now never would. Sam tried to bury his thoughts as Dean handed him a long, rectangular box, then grabbed the last, flatter parcel and moved over to the couch. Sam, remembering his manners, gave Bobby his own gift and then settled next to Dean, nudging him. "You first—you're older."
"Bobby's older than me," Dean said truthfully. "You first, Bobby."
"W-e-l-l," Bobby drew out the word. "If you insist…" He opened Sam's present first, the wrapping paper revealing a thin, obviously very old leather-bound book. Bobby read the Latin title, then glanced up at Sam.
"I didn't recognize the title—hope you don't already have it." That wasn't all Sam hoped, but he couldn't say anything else in Dean's hearing. Sam's eyes met Bobby's in perfect understanding. It was a book of spells and rituals, written several centuries ago, when people were more attuned to the havoc wrought by demons. Sam had hardly believed his luck, when he had stumbled upon the ancient volume in a used bookstore last month. They'd been too busy hunting evil and living in each other's pockets for Sam to study the book without Dean squawking about welshing on the deal, so Sam had decided to give it to Bobby.
"This'll make a fine addition to my library. Thank you, Sam." Next, Bobby turned his attention to Dean's gift, quickly unwrapping the paper, exposing a cardboard box. Bobby's ever-present Swiss army knife made quick work of the duct tape sealing the box's lid. He opened it and extracted a car's cigarette lighter, and another gizmo that Sam knew belonged under the hood, somewhere. Then Bobby tipped the box towards them, showing the wide, shiny lens of a detached headlight. Car parts. Huh.
Sam observed as Dean's and Bobby's eyes met in the same glance he'd exchanged with Bobby over the book. He was clearly missing something. He focused on the parts again, and realized that they weren't just any car parts; they were spare parts for a '67 Impala. Dean was passing on to Bobby the tools to take care of his baby. Sam swallowed twice, and then elbowed Dean. "Your turn."
Dean grinned and tore into the wrapping paper, exposing two plaid flannel shirts. "Thanks, Bobby, it's just what I need."
Sam meticulously removed the wrapping paper on his present, revealing a narrow wooden box. He carefully opened it and his jaw dropped. "Wow!" He extracted an oversized steel machete, with a grip that seemed tailor-made for his extra-large hand. "Bobby. I-I don't know what to say."
"Use it in good health, Sam."
"Thank you, Bobby. It's—it's"
"Awesome," Dean supplied, grinning.
Struck by the disparity of the gifts, Sam glanced at Dean, still lightly clutching one flannel shirt. Sam's gaze sharpened, recognizing the brown, tan, black and white pattern. It was the same plaid that Dad had worn for years. No wonder Dean was perfectly happy with his gift; it came with memories attached. His own gift would aid him in his not-so-distant solo hunting days. Sam ignored that unwelcome, unacceptable thought. His eyes flicked over to Bobby who was running his fingers over the cracked leather of the spell book. Sam spent his last bit of Christmas praying for a May miracle.
His somber mood was shattered by Dean's stomach growling, loudly.
"Ah, Bobby, you mentioned dinner?" Dean asked, unabashed.
Bobby laughed, and clambored to his feet, Dean on his heels. Sam trailed his family into the kitchen for a belated Christmas meal.