Family Night
by kellyofsmeg
Summary: Not every Christmas memory for Sam and Dean is best left forgotten. Inspired by his current girlfriend, Dean wants to have a Family Night and Dean has big plans. But first he has to convince Sam and John to even be in the same room as each other. A Christmas!fic, pre-series. Warning: Pro-John.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
John Winchester was examining a fraudulently acquired coroner's report when he heard a knock on the door of his cramped, makeshift office. He glanced up distractedly, realizing that when he'd gone for a coffee refill he'd accidentally left his door open. Whenever they stayed somewhere with more than one room, an open door had always been an unspoken, yet mutually understood signal that he wasn't at a critical stage in his work and it was okay for his sons to interrupt him, as John tended to have a one-track mind and didn't bode well with distractions. Right now, John had intended for that door to be closed.
Dean was leaning in the doorway, the one who had rapped his knuckles on the open door to get his father's attention. "Hey, Dad?" Dean greeted, gauging how "in the zone" his father was, taking note of how John's eyes had barely flicked up to acknowledge his presence before looking back down at his papers. Dean inquired with his hand on the doorknob, "Is this a bad time?"
John tore his eyes away from the report and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his hand over his unshaven face. He'd forgotten his own open-door policy, and he wasn't going to punish Dean for his mistake. Besides, he didn't have an actual confirmed case he was working yet; he was still in the investigation stage to determine if the string of murders in the Capitol were of a supernatural origin or not. He decided that he could spare a minute. "No, son, it's fine—what's on your mind?"
Dean hesitated before speaking, trying to gauge how long he had the floor by the rate at which his father was subconsciously tapping his pencil on his desk. Speaking quickly, Dean said, "Dad, you remember Lizzie, right?"
John rubbed his eyes as he strained his memory to match a somewhat-familiar name to a face of one of the many girls who had paraded through Dean's life."Is she that girl you met at school—the cheerleader?"
"No, that was Haley," said Dean.
"She's not the one who laughed like Fran Drescher, was she?" said John, sincerely hoping that Dean had moved on from that particular infatuation.
"No, that was Cece. Lizzy's the blonde I met on Tuesday when I went to pick up Sammy at the library the other day."
"Okay," said John, who found he was always one step behind in keeping up with Dean's rapidly changing love interests—and those were just the ones Dean told him about. "Lizzie. Right. Got it. What about her?"
"I went out with her last night—I borrowed the car, remember?"
"Yeah, I remember," said John slowly. He could tell Dean was building up to something, and he thought he had a pretty good idea what it was. He knew the routine: Friday night without a hunt planned, Dean talking about some girl—could only be one thing. "Fine, you can use the car again. Just be back by midnight. I need you to suit up and go back to the morgue with me first thing tomorrow morning. They just got another body in. Could offer some more clues to what we're dealing with and if it's even worth our time. Here," John took the car keys from his pocket, weighing them in his hand. "Be careful. With the car, I mean. And, well, you know." He tossed the keys in a high arch to Dean.
Dean caught the keys easily. John smiled to himself. He'd gradually been allowing Dean to take his car out on his own more when he didn't need it, evaluating how well Dean took care of her. So far he'd been impressed, and little did Dean know that John had been in the market for a new truck—he had his eye on a 1986 step-side GMC Sierra Grande at a dealership near Pastor Jim's place in Blue Earth. He planned on signing the papers as soon as he secured the funds to buy the truck and pay with cash—hopefully by mid-January. Dean's eighteenth birthday was the twenty-fourth of January, and John fully intended to hand over the keys to the Impala to his eldest son. It was the best right-of-passage present he could think of; it had sentimental value, was dependable, and would give his oldest son a measure of well-earned freedom.
Dean stared down at the keys in his hand. "Thanks, Dad. But that actually wasn't what I was gonna ask you," said Dean, setting the keys down on John's desk and rubbing the back of his neck uncomfortably.
John leaned forward, crossing his arms on the desk and scrutinizing his seventeen-year-old son, noticing his general air of unease, the way he was averting his eyes and mussing the bristling hair on the back of his head. He actually looked nervous, which wasn't at all like Dean, and made him wonder what the hell could be getting him so worked up. Dean wasn't always the easiest person to figure out, especially since he had inherited his father's infuriating habit of internalizing everything. Right now, John made an educated guess that his kid was having some girl trouble. But instead of jumping to further conclusions, he elected to save time and let Dean tell him himself.
"Something wrong, kiddo?" John asked with forced casualness. "Not in trouble, are you?"
Trouble was a broad term John held for any and all of the extra-curricular activities Dean could possibly be engaged in. Dean was almost eighteen, almost a man—and John allowed him freedoms as he earned them. He could tell from the moment Dean had hit puberty that he would likely be susceptible to the major pitfalls of adolescence; already possessing a bad-boy mentality and a more-than-healthy dose of curiosity for all there was for his body to experience. In Dean's early teens, John had been upfront and lectured his son to death about the dangers of excessive drinking, drug use, smoking, unprotected sex, and had made a few idle threats, trusting his son not to go off the deep end and steering him back on the right path when necessary. While he was absolute on his orders when it came to hunting and basic survival, John didn't try to micromanage Dean's personal life and was willing to turn a blind eye to most of what he considered normal teenage curiosity as long as it didn't get in the way of their job, draw the attention of the authorities, or result in self-destructive behaviors.
"No, it's nothing like that, Dad," said Dean. "It's just...I went out with Lizzie last night. We caught a B-movie at the drive-in, got some greasy burgers and fries—it was pretty much as romantic as it gets. Then she invited me back to her place. I thought we were maybe gonna..." Dean jerked his head to the side twice, having the good grace to at least look awkward when he remembered he was talking to his father. "...you know."
"Am I gonna want to hear the rest of this story, Dean?" John asked warily, none-too-eager to hear the details of his son's sexual exploits.
"Don't worry, Dad," Dean smirked. "It has a happy ending."
"That's what I was afraid of," said John heavily. "Continue. But censor everything, please."
Dean launched back into his story with vigor. "So we we get to Lizzie's house—and it was like this two-story mini mansion, and her parents were there and she had like, half a dozen brothers and sisters running around. And having a girl's parents around is always a red flag. I tried to bail, but they practically forced me to stay. It was weird. They were just breaking out the rope and shackles when I agreed to stick around. Relax, Dad—it's a figure of speech," Dean said, as John sat up straighter in his chair. "Plus there was homemade pie and these awesome milkshakes, so how could I refuse? And we played these cheesy board games...and I know it sounds lame, but once I got into it, it was actually kinda fun," said Dean, still looking perturbed that it was possible to have a good time with a girl without removing any articles of clothing. "A good, G-rated time was had by all."
"I did wonder why you were back home so early last night..." John mused. Feeling grateful that he didn't have to blot out any graphic mental images from his head, he asked, "Was there something else to it?"
"Yeah," said Dean. He looked like he was working up the courage to say something else. "It's just...I was wondering if we could try something like that. Just the three of us—a sort of...family night."
Dean said this in a rush, and instantly his face colored with embarrassment, the words sounding unbelievably corny to his own ears. "Just for a couple of hours." He anxiously watched for his Dad's reaction, already regretting asking.
Having listened to Dean's pitch, John sat back, considering his first-born like he was a five-hundred piece jigsaw puzzle where none of the pieces seemed to fit together. He'd been wondering where Dean was going with his story, and somehow hadn't been able to arrive at this outcome. "You want us to have a family night?" he repeated, stalling for time to mask his surprise at Dean's proposition.
"Yeah, I know it sounds a bit too Osmond family for our tastes, but I dunno...I thought it might be fun," Dean shrugged. "Should be good for morale."
John clicked his tongue, knowing exactly what Dean was referring to: the tumultuous relationship between him and Sam. "Dean, I—" John was surprised when Dean dared to interrupt him.
"It's just that you, me and Sammy never spend any time together anymore unless we're on a hunt or stuck in the car going off to another hunt—we're all so busy doing our own things all the time. You're always working on a case, Sammy's always geeking out with his books, I'm always..." Dean stopped there, afraid of incriminating himself; it was one thing for his Dad to suspect the sort of activities he engaged in—it was another thing to confess them. "And then you and Sammy are always trying to tear each other a new one. We never just hang out as a family. I just thought it sounded, I dunno...wholesome."
"It's not a bad idea, Dean," said John unfeigned, deciding not to inquire about what it was Dean was always up to. "You're right. We should do more as a family...just not tonight, okay, pal? I've got to finish reading these reports before tomorrow."
Dean smiled too widely, talked too quickly. "Sure. Okay. No problem, Dad," and almost ran into the floor lamp as he hastily retreated from the room.
John stared at the spot where Dean had been standing, finding himself feeling rather disappointed that Dean had backed down so easily. Had it been Sam that had proposed the idea, they both would have argued about it until his blood pressure was through the roof and Sam looked ready to start throwing punches. He was used to Dean taking his word as gospel and Sam challenging everything he said. John could have stated that grass was green and Sam would argue with him about it, coming up with circumstances where it would be brown or yellow, or that it would look different to someone who was color-blind, and turn it into a philosophical debate for good measure. For once, John found himself wishing Dean would take a page out of his brother's book and fight for himself; his idea hadn't been half-bad.
John closed the folder on the coroner's report and called, "Dean?"
Dean reappeared in the doorway a moment later, standing at attention. "Yes, Sir?"
John appraised his eldest son before speaking. There was no flicker of hope in Dean's eyes that he might have decided to change his mind, just Dean's usual dutiful mask. He was a soldier awaiting instructions from his Commander, ready to carry out any order he was issued to the letter. John knew Dean had done everything he'd ever asked him to, without question or complaint. He never asked for anything in return. Dean had always been altruistic to the point of being self-sacrificing; taking care of everyone else with no regard for himself. John recognized that there had been no ulterior motives to Dean's proposal. As usual, he was just trying to hold their fragile, broken family together. Without Dean, they'd fall apart. John knew the very least he could do to pay Dean back for being a model son all these years was to go with his idea.
"Dean, about what you said earlier, that family night thing—"
"I'm sorry, Dad," said Dean immediately, his cheeks coloring. "Just forget about it. It was a stupid idea."
"No it wasn't," said John firmly. "I think we should do it."
"What—really?" said Dean, wondering if he'd heard right. "But I thought you had work to do for the case—"
"I do," said John. "But it'll still be here waiting for me when we're done."
"Are you sure?" said Dean, hardly daring to believe his Dad had even reconsidered his idea, much less deciding to grant it clearance; usually he made a ruling on a petition and that was the end of it. Unless Sam was the petitioner, in which case he'd argue endlessly and try to overrule the decision for days.
"Yeah, I am," said John, steepling his fingers together. "On two conditions."
Dean's smile froze on his face. "Sure. What are they?"
"One: you've got to convince Sammy to go for this, too," said John. "I've been Public Enemy Number One with him ever since I broke the news that we're moving to Minnesota after New Year's. Case or no case, whatever we're dealing with now should be wrapped up by then. The rent will be coming due and..." John trailed off. He didn't need to burden Dean with their financial difficulties—that was his problem. "I know how much Sammy likes it here...you'll be lucky to get him to agree to even be in the same room as me right now."
"I think I can persuade him," said Dean, positive he could use guilt and mild brotherly torture techniques to cajole Sam into participating. "In fact, consider it done. What's the second thing?"
"I'm taking a back seat on this one," said John, putting up his hands. "You're totally in charge of making it happen, dude."
"Yes, Sir!" said Dean, his smile returning in full force.
"Go on, get your brother," said John, nodding towards the door. "It'll do his eyes good to get away from that computer screen for awhile."
Dean forgot the concept of dignity as he bounded from the office. He really gets those heels up, John noted as he shook his head bemusement, wondering what the hell he'd just signed up for and hoping, for Dean's sake, that his plan of playing Happy Families wouldn't backfire on him, vowing to do whatever he could to help the night go smoothly.
...
Thirteen-year-old Sam Winchester was hunched over the keyboard of his Macintosh Performa, a gift from his father for his eleventh birthday. In his lap was an open and well-read copy of Great Expectations. Sam's eyes were focused on the text, his fingers clicking rapidly over the keyboard as he transcribed a passage. He jumped violently and dropped his book when he heard the bedroom door burst open, hearing Dean's familiar shuffle behind him.
"Hey, Sammy," Dean greeted. "Kinda jumpy there, kiddo. What'cha looking at on that computer?"
"Not the sort of stuff you use my computer for, Dean," said Sam irritably. Dean leaned over Sam's shoulder to see the monitor, letting out a snort of disappointment when he recognized it was a book report. "Planning on winning a Pulitzer next, squirt?"
"No, just a good grade," Sam bent over to pick up his book, thumbing through the volume to find his place. There was a bite of irritation in his voice as he said, "Ever hear of knocking?"
"Why? This is my room, too," said Dean, grabbing a basketball off the floor and laying down on the rumpled sheets of his bed, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it. "And last time I checked, the rule was 'if the doorknob's not rockin' a sock, there's no need to knock.'"
"That's really more your rule for my benefit, Dean," Sam pointed out. "You knew I was studying."
"It's Christmas vacation, Sammy!" Dean exclaimed, launching the basketball at Sam, who caught it, looking annoyed, as it had caused him to drop his book again. Dean sat up and looked around at all the books spread out on Sam's neatly made bed. "No way did your teacher assign this much homework. What is he, some kind of sadist?"
"No, actually. Ms. Ashmore knows I like to read, so she gave me a list of her favorite books on the last day before break," Sam explained. "She said to pick one to read over break and tell her that I thought about it. I didn't know which one to get, so I checked them all out. I'm writing reviews for them as I go."
"Wait—is this the same Ms. Ashmore that always wears those really tight sweaters?" said Dean slyly. Sam rolled his eyes. "But you probably like her for her other assets, huh? I'm sure you find her very inspiring."
"Shut up, Dean," Sam mumbled, his face going red.
"She's not bad as far as teachers go, Sammy. Not bad at all. But you know we're going to be at a different school after break, right?" Dean said, straining to gather up the books on Sam's bed without leaving his own.
"Yes," said Sam darkly, with a scowl to match. "I know. I was going to see if I could maybe get her address so I let her know what I thought of the books."
"Penpals with a teacher, Sammy," Dean said, teasing and impressed at the same time. "You know, there's a lot you can learn from an older woman."
Sam stared at his brother in disbelief. "You are seriously disturbed, Dean."
"At least I'm not a nerd," Dean retorted.
Sam spun around in his computer chair to fully face Dean. "What was Captain Kirk's first assignment after he graduated from the Starfleet Academy?"
"Navigator on the USS Farragut," Dean answered immediately. "Shut up," he mumbled as Sam folded his arms, grinning triumphantly. "Well, you had to be a nerd to even come up with that question in the first place."
"But I didn't know the answer," Sam snorted. "I'm taking your word for it. Nerd. You and Dad are the Trekkies, not me."
"You're just jealous your fingers aren't coordinated enough to do the Vulcan salute," Dean said, staring at the pile of books. "How many of these have you actually read so far?"
"About half of them," Sam answered, as Dean picked up the books one at a time, examining the covers.
"Dante's Inferno...okay, that one looks like it could actually be cool. Hahaha...Moby Dick. Is that some kind of disease? David Copperfield...you still into that magic stuff, Sammy?" Dean asked, looking up. "It's been awhile since you pulled a coin out from behind my ear."
"...No," Sam said, using his toe to push his magic wand further beneath his desk, grateful when Dean went back to judging book covers.
"Gone With the Wind...chick book," said Dean, unceremoniously casting the novel aside. "My Brother Sam is Dead..." Dean looked questioningly up at Sam, tossing that book aside, too. "Not so crazy about that title..." The book soared through the air and landed in the garbage can, knocking it over in the process. Dean threw up his hands out the sound. "Dude, I wasn't even looking!" he said proudly, as Sam marched past him to retrieve the library book, set the trash can upright and restore its contents.
"It was actually written by two brothers, Dean. It's pretty awesome," said Sam, brushing potato chip crumbs off the book's cover. "It's about the American Revolution, and this family who's still loyal to Great Britain, but Sam rebels against his father and leaves for—"
"Judging from the title, he gets himself killed 'cos he didn't listen to his Dad," said Dean with forced casualness, speaking over his brother. "Yeah, like I said—I don't like it."
"It's just a book, Dean," said Sam guardedly, dropping the book back in the pile.
"Yeah, whatever," Dean mumbled, picking up another volume. "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest—I love that movie! Beowulf...this one looks freakin' awesome...Nicholas Nickleby...hey, isn't he that guy that's always picking fights with windmills?"
"No, Dean," said Sam, rolling his eyes. "That's Don Quixote."
"Donkey who?" said Dean blankly. "Now you're just making stuff up."
"Didn't you ever have to read any of these books in school, Dean?" Sam asked, exasperated.
"A few of them look kinda familiar," Dean said slowly, holding up The Grapes of Wrath. "If you mean, did I borrow a copy from the kid sitting next to me and skim through it five minutes before the test—then yes."
"You're unbelievable," Sam laughed shortly, shaking his head.
"Hey, it works! I just circle C for every fourth answer and guess on the rest," Dean responded. "Oh, and I watch movies in place of books whenever possible. With any luck, I get a nice, shiny D. I just hope we move before Dad remembers to ask to see my last report card. I don't know where you came from with that massive geek brain of yours."
"Come on, Dean. You're so full of crap," said Sam, brushing off the round-about compliment. "No one gets to their Senior year by guessing on everything, especially with how much we move around. You're smart. Give yourself some credit. "
"Yeah, well," Dean coughed awkwardly. "Believe it or not, I didn't come in here just to annoy you and get a pep talk. Come on. We're going to have a family night."
"A what?" said Sam blankly.
"Family night," Dean repeated. "You, me, and Dad—some quality time together."
Sam's eyes widened comically. "What did I do wrong?"
"What? Nothing—it's not a punishment, Sammy," Dean laughed. When Sam continued to look unconvinced, Dean said, "It was my idea, not Dad's. Come on—forced togetherness! It'll be fun."
"Dad agreed to this?" said Sam skeptically. "I thought he was researching that case tonight?"
"I convinced him to take a break," said Dean, as Sam's eyes further widened in surprise. "I know. Shocking. But he agreed to it as long as you do, so..."
"I dunno, Dean," said Sam slowly. "What would I have to do?"
"Leave your computer, for one thing," said Dean, "Just show up, follow my lead, put that angsty teenage stuff off on the back burner, try to keep the fighting with Dad at a minimum—"
"Yeah, but what would we actually do?"
"You really want me to tell you and ruin the surprise?" Sam crossed his arms stubbornly and Dean relented, "Fine. We're gonna get food, play some games, and try not to kill each other. Happy?"
"Dean, we don't do that kind of stuff," Sam frowned. "It's just not us."
"Would it kill us to try it? You're the one who's always wanting to be 'normal.' And apparently, normal families like to play Parcheesi."
"We don't have any board games, Dean," Sam pointed out.
"Yeah, well—we'll improvise. So are you in? Say you're in."
"If I say 'yes', that means I'll have to be in the same room as Dad," Sam said disdainfully.
"Obviously," said Dean, rolling his eyes. "Thus the whole 'family' part of the deal. C'mon, Sammy—you can't stay mad at him forever. It's not like it was a big shock when he said we're moving again. We solve a hunt, we move. We find another hunt. It's a whole pattern. Do you really just plan on moping in here hoping you'll get your way? 'Cos I'm telling you, man—you can outlive Dad sitting here waiting for him to change his mind about something this big."
"Ah, but if that happens, it would mean we didn't end up moving in a week so I got my way," said Sam, sticking out his tongue.
"You're real smart, you know that, Sammy?" said Dean, catching his little brother in a headlock.
"Let me go!" Sam cried, struggling against Dean's muscled arms.
"Only if you say you'll come," Dean said, tightening his choke hold.
"Boys," said John, appearing in the doorway. He didn't look at all surprised to see his sons tussling. "Are we doing this thing or not? Dean, ease up."
"Okay, Dad," Dean answered, loosening his grip slightly. "I'm almost done convincing him."
"Alright, alright—I'm in!" Sam gasped. Dean gave him a noogie for good measure and released him. Sam straightened up, rubbing his neck and scowling at the room at large.
Dean clapped Sam on the back. "You heard him Dad. He's in. Let's get this show on the road! I was thinking we could grab some grub first."
"Good idea," said John, tossing Dean his keys for the second time that night. "Go ahead and get the car warmed up, Dean. We'll be down in a minute."
Dean nodded wordlessly, correctly guessing that John wanted a word with Sam, and was more-than-eager to get out of their way. John stepped aside to allow Dean to slip by, heading down the stairs from their apartment.
John and Sam were now left in a face-off. Sam determinedly looked anywhere but at his father. The seconds dragged on, each waiting for the other to speak. In a sudden burst of nerves, Sam made a break for it, intent on the only exit that wasn't four floors up. Sam was fast, but John was able to easily side-step, blocking the door. Sam's short, wiry, thirteen-year-old frame collided with a six-foot-two wall of solid muscle.
"Hold on, Sam," said John, catching Sam by his shoulders as he stumbled backwards. "I wanna talk to you."
Sam gave his father a defiant glare in response. "About what?"
"Your tone, for one thing," said John. "Look, dude. I know you're pissed at me for making you move again. I get that. But Christmas is in just a few days, and I was really hoping the whole avoiding-me-silent treatment thing would be over by now. How long are you going to punish me for?"
Sam crossed his arms stubbornly in response, setting his jaw and taking a defensive stance—pivoting to close himself off.
"You wanna be like that? Fine," said John through gritted teeth. "Stay mad at me. But we're doing this for Dean. It's important to him, and we owe it to him for putting up with us all the time. Can we at least agree on that?"
Sam nodded mutely. For Dean, he'd do anything—even put up with his Dad's presence. "Fine."
"That means we're not gonna be at each others throats for at least a few hours," John continued. "Think that's manageable?" John shook Sam's shoulder when he failed to respond. "You hear me? I'm not asking a rhetorical question here."
"Yes, Sir," Sam responded resentfully, nose in the air.
"Good," said John curtly. He wanted to read Sam the Riot Act about his attitude, but decided now would be a good time to start practicing show of amicability between him and his youngest son for the benefit of his eldest—who would no doubt see right through it, but would hopefully appreciate their efforts.
"Get your coat," said John gruffly. "It's damn near freezing outside."
Sam retrieved his army-green colored parka from a hook on the wall, shrugging it on as he trailed behind his Dad down the hall and out the door. Sam went ahead while John locked up, going down four flights of stairs and out the front door of the building, stepping out into the frigid December night and bad-temperately kicking a scrunched-up beer can laying near the manager's office.
Dean was sitting in the driver's seat, and Sam could hear Dean blasting the Christmas music station through the sound system from twenty yards away, a strange departure from his usual head-banging classic rock. Sam clambered into the backseat and a few moments later John slid into the passenger's seat. Sam's teeth were already chattering from the brief exposure to the bitter cold, and the heat of the car was a welcome relief.
"What—Metallica never did a cover of 'Jingle Bell Rock?'" Sam shouted.
"I thought you Scrooges could use some holiday cheer," Dean had to yell over the sound of sleigh bells to be heard.
"You're not gonna make us do a sing along, are you?" John asked.
"Only if you're lucky," Dean quipped.
"Let's go," said John, reaching to turn the music down to a tolerable level.
Dean put the car into reverse, pulling out of their designated spot and peeling out of the apartment lot. "You guys cool with Biggerson's?" before Sam or John had time to respond, Dean smirked and said, "Well, tough! I'm in charge."
"And don't make me regret it," said John, casting a glance over his shoulder at Sam, almost certain that he had seen a ghost of a smile on his face before it quickly vanished into his usual scowl.
TBC
...
AN: I started this story months ago, and decided to finally finish it in time for Christmas now that I am done with college and graduated (yay!) There's two more chapters. So I hope that you're enjoying so far and that there were enough pop culture references in this chapter for you ;)
Also, I am going off John Winchester's Journal canon, which states that John gave Dean the Impala for his 18th birthday.