This is a response to doylescordy's prompt on LJ's hoodie_time third hurt/comfort comment-fic meme: Gen. After Dean breaks his leg, the boys are forced to take a break from hunting, and it just happens to be over Christmas.
Dean grunted as he stretched precariously toward the weapons bag sitting just out of reach on the floor, the TV remote temporarily forgotten on the bed beside him. Surely there was something in that bag he could use! Something long and thin. Something he could use to shove down this sonuvabitch cast on his leg and finally FRIGGIN SCRATCH THAT ITCH. But the weapons bag remained stubbornly just beyond the reach of his fingers. Damn.
He next turned his attention to the nightstand beside his bed. Opening and removing each drawer, he inspected the contents before emptying everything onto the floor, his fingers searching along every surface both inside and out. Unfortunately, he couldn't find anything he could feasibly remove before Sammy returned with the food and turned all jail warden on his ass. Speaking of which, where the hell was Sammy, anyway? How long does it take to grab take-out?
This itch was eating away at the last shreds of his sanity. Damn that tree-hugging, save-the-whales, hippy freak and her friggin baby-blue Prius. He'd only been doing his job! Sure, this time his job meant standing in the icy road in the middle of the night to draw out the spirit of Andrew O'Hara, who... well, that doesn't really matter. The point is, he'd been mowed down by a sissy Prius. How humiliating is that! Sammy's never going to let him live this down. That is, if he ever got back with the food.
With a sigh, a grumble, and a colorful expletive or two, he resigned himself to just feeling under the cast as far as he could and scratching any skin he could reach until it tingled and burned under his fingernails. Satisfied for the moment, he snatch up the TV remote and pointed it at the antique television set on the dresser across from the foot of his bed.
Click.
Hey, we're all misfits, too. Maybe we could stay here for a while.
Well, you'll have to get permission from King Moonraiser.
Who's he?
He rules here. Every night, he searches the entire earth. When he finds a misfit toy, one that no little girl or boy loves, he brings it here to live on his island till someone wants it.*
Another grunt, this time something between amusement and disgust.
Click.
It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes, or bags.
Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn't before.
Maybe Christmas doesn't come from a store. Maybe Christmas...
He thought
...means a little bit more.*
"You've got to be kidding me."
Click.
All my life I've wondered something, and now's my chance to find out. I'm going to find the answer to a question that's puzzled the world for centuries. Does Santa Claus sleep with his whiskers outside or in?
Always sleep with them out. Cold air makes them grow.*
"Come on!"
Click.
What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary.
I'll take it. Then what?
Well, then you can swallow it, and it'll all dissolve, see... and the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes and the ends of your hair... am I talking too much?*
"Aw, hell no."
Click.
A Merry Christmas to you, uncle!
Bah! Humbug... What reason have you to be merry? You're poor enough.
What reason have you to be so dismal? You're rich enough.
BAH! Humbug!*
Well, at least this one had ghosts. There really wasn't a whole lot to choose from this time of year. He sat back and allowed his mind to contemplate all the ways he could rid the world of these particular Christmas pests.
Just as he started imagining the roasting of the Ghost of Christmas Past, the lock on the door jiggled and Sam strolled in balancing an impressive collection of bags and drinks, bringing with him a blast of icy air and the savory scent of Chinese take-out. He closed the door quickly with his foot and set everything on the table, rubbing his hands to warm them.
"Dude, where the hell have you been?"
"What? I told you, I was getting the food."
"And you had to go all the way to China to get it?"
"Noooo... I had some things to take care of."
"Well, that's specific."
Sigh. "Look, the food's getting cold. Do you want to eat or not?"
"Fine."
"Alright... Dude, what happened to your nightstand?"
"What?"
"Deeeaan? What did you do?"
"Nothing! I didn't do anything!... It itches, okay? I was just trying to find something to scratch it with."
"Dean, that's dangerous! You could really hurt yourself that way."
"I know, I know. Look, can we just eat? Okay? Please? I'm starving over here."
Sigh. "Fine."
After shedding his coat and hanging it on the back of a chair, Sam brought bags, drinks, and chair over to Dean's bed and presented a veritable feast before his brother.
"What's the occasion?"
"What? Nothing? Just, you know, dinner. I thought you were hungry."
"Uh-huh."
He decided to let it slide and turned his full attention to the meal instead. Mmmm. It really was very good. Almost good enough to make him forget that damn... crap, now he was thinking about the itch again. He slipped his fingers under the lip of the cast, stretching them to their limit.
"Stop that!"
"It itches!"
Another sigh. Sam rose. His long legs cut the short distance back to the table. He paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Dean just watched him, waiting. When Sam turned back a moment later, he held a familiar-looking white box in his hand.
"Is that...?"
Sam stepped back to Dean's side and presented him with the package, his eyes alight with emotion and a sad smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
"There was a bakery down the street from the Chinese place. I had to wait for the next batch to finish baking, so this is about as fresh as they come. I thought you'd like to celebrate. After all, you didn't think you'd ever see another Christmas again."
Dean's eyes remained fixed on the white bakery box in his hand. When he did speak, his voice was choked. "Sammy..."
"Just open it."
Opening the boxtop brought an almost painfully delicious aroma of cinnamon, butter, and apples. Dean spared Sam a brief delighted glance before shoving his plastic fork into the center of the golden crust. The first bite was every bit as good as it smelled.
Soon, Sam's plastic fork battled Dean's for territorial rights to the best parts of the pie. By the time A Christmas Carol gave way to Tim Allen's The Santa Claus, only the slightly dilapidated bakery box, two plastic forks, and a few bits of goo-covered crust remained. As the boys watched the movie in silence, Sam occasionally batting Dean's fingers away from his cast, a smirk began to spread over Dean's face. Finally, he snorted.
"Seriously, they don't really expect people to buy this, do they? I mean, they're just kids. Kids with pointy ears glued to their heads. There's no way anyone can believe that's what elves look like."
"Of course that's what everyone believes, Dean. The entire world thinks that this show is the true story of Santa Claus and elves are completely real."
"Hey Sammy."
"Yeah, Dean."
"Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Bro."
*TV Quotes from:
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
Miracle on 34th Street
It's a Wonderful Life
A Christmas Carol