I started this at, um, Christmas. Merry Christmas in May?
Trail of Lights
"Modern day shepherds, you think?"
Sam caught the eye of the older woman to his right and smiled at her comment. They'd both been distracted by a group of men on riding mowers stopped on the edge of the Nativity scene. The men and their vehicles were sitting motionless in the crisp night air, engines silent, riders not speaking. Whether they realized it or not, the small huddle of men in rough-out boots and gimme caps was causing no small amount of discussion among the revelers.
"Dude." Dean's voice behind him was a little awed. "Get a load of that Baby Jesus."
Sam turned from his study of the cluster of John Deere tractors to look at the Holy Family itself.
The larger-than-life figures of Mary and Joseph were overshadowed by the enormous Child at the front of the stable. The manger had been tilted forward so that the viewers could get a good look at the Babe who appeared to be waving His chubby arms happily. It looked disconcertingly as if the Baby Jesus might be catapulted into the milling crowd.
Sam grunted softly. "They grow 'em big here in Texas, I guess."
Dean snorted his reply, cutting Sam a smirk before he wandered on to the next display.
They'd been in Austin for just under a week investigating reports of a ghost at a local historic hotel. The apparition, which had never been violent before, had suddenly taken a spiteful turn, pushing young guests down the stairs. The ghost – the daughter of a long dead state senator – had previously limited its activities to bouncing a ball and giggling on the long staircase leading from the lobby to the mezzanine.
But about a month before, there had started to be accidents in the hotel – several children taking tumbles down the stairs, all reporting tearfully that someone had pushed them although no one had been near. Fortunately no deaths had occurred as yet, and the management had been sticking doggedly to its story that there was no supernatural cause for the children's spills. Just kids being kids. Dean and Sam had been drawn to Austin by the news stories.
It had been an easy enough case to deal with. If the official story was "No ghosts here! Move along!" the staff had had a different take on the situation.
The child had been buried in the State Cemetery with her mother and father. A late night disinterment and salt-and-burn had taken care of the lonely little trouble-maker. It had taken longer than Dean had planned simply because Sam, geek extraordinaire, had insisted on stopping at the graves of different Texas dignitaries.
"Dude, look! Stephen F. Austin – buried right here!" And a little while later. "Man. Ann Richards. Ooo, John Connally!"
Dean had forgotten that spending Sam's 8th grade year in San Antonio had turned his younger brother into a Texas history freak. Whether it was the indoctrination class itself or something in the water or a combination of the two, Sam had never been the same. Dean had lost track of how many weekends he'd spent at the Alamo that year.
Rolling his eyes, Dean had finally snapped.
"Look, Sam Houston. I'd rather avoid getting popped desecrating graves here in the Lone Star State—especially this particular patch of sacred ground. Can we save the history lesson for tomorrow?"
That had gotten his little brother moving. It had also reminded Sam to ask if they could visit the Capitol in the morning.
They'd finished with the little girl and driven back to the trailer they'd rented for the last couple of days. They'd splurged on Tex-Mex at a restaurant just down the street from the trailer park, washing enchiladas down with beer and margaritas.
As they'd come out of the building, Sam had watched the trickle of people headed west toward the large city park a couple of blocks away. They'd been able to see the display of lights (and its accompanying crowds) from the bathroom window of the ancient Airstream trailer they'd been living in and had both been interested in checking it out.
Raising an eyebrow at his brother, Sam shoved his hands in his pockets and jerked his head to the right. Shrugging his acceptance of Sam's suggestion, Dean mimicked his brother's stance and slouched after him.
There had been two constants in the Winchesters' Christmases as the boys were growing up – presents on Christmas morning and driving through the streets of whatever town they'd landed in, looking at Christmas lights. In his head, Sam had a list of cities and their holiday decorations ranked according to number of lights and inventiveness of arrangement. His dad and Dean had their own lists, Sam knew, and the three of them had spent hours through the years bickering over placement in their top three.
When they'd been young – really young – Christmas Eve had been consistent, as well. Wherever they were, John would find a church with an evening service, bundle the boys into whatever their "Sunday best" consisted of at the time, and sit quietly in the back of the church with his sons. Those were rare moments of true peace in Sam's life—the dimly lit church, candles flickering, his father's arm around him, the sound of John's deep, whispered voice above him singing the ancient carols. Even now, Sam could feel the calm seep into his soul when he remembered those services.
When the boys had gotten older, and John had felt more comfortable leaving them on their own, those Christmas Eves became harder to come by. Although they didn't stop completely until Sam was in high school.
Sam had been nine the first time they'd missed a Christmas Eve service. John had planned on a midnight Mass at the Catholic church down the street, but at 7, he'd left their small apartment, telling Dean to lock up behind him and be ready to go when he got back.
The boys had dutifully dressed and sat on the couch, watching television as they'd waited. Sam had fallen asleep in spite of his excitement at the prospect of staying up past midnight and been wakened by his brother hours later. Too bleary to remember it was Christmas Eve, Sam had stumbled to his bed and been almost asleep again before it hit him.
"What about church?" he asked sleepily as Dean pulled off his sneakers and jerked the covers up over him. "Is Dad home?"
He couldn't see Dean's face in the dim light of their bedroom, but he heard the silence before Dean responded.
"Yeah, Dad's home."
Dean backed over to his own bed a couple of feet from Sam's. He sat down and untied the laces on his shoes.
Sam lay still in his bed, not sure what was wrong, but sensing that something was off.
"Is he hurt?" he asked softly, not wanting to sound afraid.
"Nah. He's fine. Just. Not up for church tonight."
Dean pulled back the comforter on his bed and slipped underneath. He curled on his side, facing his brother. "Go to sleep, Sammy."
Sam had wakened to the smell of bacon frying and coffee. He'd jumped on Dean, shaking the older boy awake before he'd pelted out of their room toward the kitchen.
"Dad!"
John had turned from the stove, his dark, damp hair making his face look ghost-like in its pallor.
"Sammy!" He'd swept his youngest son into a tight embrace. "Merry Christmas, tiger."
Sam had returned the hug almost violently in his excitement. "We missed church last night," he'd said as he wrinkled his nose slightly. Dad had smelled funny.
John had let him go and run a slightly unsteady hand over his son's tousled hair. "I know we did, buddy. Sorry about that." His father had turned back to the stove. "You ready for some breakfast?"
"Yeah!"
Sam had thrown himself into a chair, reaching for the small wrapped gift by his fork.
"Not yet, kiddo," his dad had said not turning around. Sam had grimaced at being caught and grabbed his glass of orange juice instead.
Dean entered the kitchen more slowly, eyes on his father.
"Merry Christmas, Dean!" Sam caroled.
Dean's gaze had flicked to Sam—a brief smile—before he'd looked at Dad again.
John had been concentrating on the bacon and had been slow to turn, to meet his older son's gaze.
"Hey, dude," he'd said softly. "Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas," Dean had returned quietly. Sam had wondered why Dean wasn't as excited about Christmas as he was.
"Dean, look!" Sam said excitedly, pointing at the small package next to Dean's plate. Dean smiled at his little brother again.
"Come here, bud." John's gravelly voice had turned both boys' heads his way.
Dean had gone to their father and stood in front of him, head down. Gently, John had reached out and cupped his palm under his son's chin, raising the boy's face to meet his own. He'd spoken quietly, things Sam couldn't hear, finally pulling Dean into a tight hug, pressing his face against the top of his son's head.
Dean's arms had come up swiftly, wrapping desperately around John's waist. Sam had seen his father's eyes close, a flash of pain moving across his features before he'd ducked his head down to whisper something in Dean's ear. Sam had watched Dean's head nod jerkily before John pressed a lingering kiss against the boy's cheek.
John had held on a little longer before he moved away, taking Dean's face in both of his hands for a moment before he'd released him completely.
"Let's open some presents," he'd said.
The next few of years had been "normal" again, but the Christmas Sam had been fourteen Dad had gotten sloppy drunk and Sam had been old enough to figure out what was going on—other evidence during the course of the year painting the picture clearly for him by the time his father staggered home Christmas Eve.
And a new Winchester Christmas tradition had been born – Christmas morning with John nursing a hangover, Sam seething, and Dean mediating.
Good times.
Sam wondered now if that night had been the beginning of the end of his relationship with his father.
As Sam joined the throng of pedestrians along the side of the road, he felt Dean bump shoulders with him as they matched stride. Sam looked over and smiled at the look on Dean's face.
"This looks promising," Dean said.
Sam had to agree. In the not-too-far-off distance, Sam could see, beyond the knots of families and crowds of teenagers, the glow of a tunnel of lights channeling people into the path that led past the displays of lights.
Sam sidestepped a wagon while Dean dodged a stroller and a toddler, the two brothers parting like the Red Sea around the obstacles before falling back into step on the other side of the small family.
They let the crowd set their pace, strolling behind a gaggle of giggling teenage girls.
The displays were varied in theme – Rudolph, Santa, the Nativity scene and the King of Winter. There were some displays with trees wrapped so tightly they seemed to be made of lights, and one cluster of mechanical trees that blinked in time with the theme from Charlie Brown.
"Heh. Look. South Park." Dean pointed at the rotund cut-outs of the cartoon characters mixed in with the Cat in the Hat and the Road Runner.
Sam shook his head and grinned. "Nice."
They stopped for hot chocolate at Santa's Village before exiting the trail under another canopy of lights. With nowhere else to be, they followed the crowd as it veered to the left, not sure what was next.
Across the road, an enormous Christmas tree of lights rose over 150 feet into the winter sky. Strings of lights ran out from the top of what looked like an enormous lamp post to create a bare circle under the tree where people milled around, chatting and laughing.
As Sam and Dean ambled up, Sam caught sight of a group of teenagers in a cluster. The kids – boys and girls – stood still for a moment before they tilted their heads back and started to spin. Gangly arms spread as they twirled, staggering in larger and larger circles, careening into each other and laughing. The crowd around them smiled indulgently, pulling toddlers out of harms way, some of the adults and children moving to find their own spots under the tree, spinning.
Sam looked at Dean, and couldn't help but grin at the almost child-like glee on his brother's face.
"Dude," Dean grinned. Looking around, Dean found a clear area, and giving Sam a quick glance, leaned his head back and started to turn. Sam laughed and backed away, giving Dean plenty of space.
Sam knew that Dean had deliberately run into him as his brother came out of his spin, tilting dizzily as he tried to find his feet. Sam shoved at him, but steadied him at the same time.
"Jerk," he said, fondly.
Dean grinned maniacally at him.
"Sammy. Man, you gotta try that!"
Sam tried to look disapproving. "Dean. I'm a grown-up."
And then side-stepped awkwardly when a man in at least his 50s floundered past them.
"Don't be afraid, Sammy," Dean said as condescendingly as possible. "I won't let you fall down and get a boo-boo."
Sam rolled his eyes and thought about flipping his brother off.
"Whatever," he said.
But he looked up consideringly. Dean had already moved to the side, arms raised as he started to turn again.
Eyes on the lights at the top of the tree, Sam started to turn in a slow, tight circle. He couldn't help the smile at the feeling of disorientation that began to fuzz his brain and his arms came up of their own accord, trying for balance as he spun.
He could hear Dean laughing somewhere outside the circle Sam was creating, spinning faster and faster, suddenly not caring that he was losing control of his body, his brother's voice shifting around him and Sam started to laugh as well, felt the ground shifting under him, feet unsteady, arms flailing as he tried unsuccessfully to catch himself.
There were gasps and some shouts as he went down, and Sam clung to the ground for a moment, waiting for the world to stop spinning, vaguely aware, around the sound of his own gasped laughter, of people asking if he was OK, Dean's howls and the giggles of the teenagers. Sam didn't care.
Awesome.
He rolled over on his back and stared up at the tree rising above him, the pattern of the lights in a golden spiral, curling from the narrow apex of the cone down to its bottom.
"Sammy. Dude, are you OK?"
Dean was bent over him, grin almost splitting his face.
Sam nodded, but didn't get up, and Dean dropped down next to him, laying back.
"Cool, huh?"
Sam nodded his agreement. They lay there for awhile.
"Wanna go again?" Dean asked, struggling to his feet. He reached down a hand to his brother.
"Yep," said Sam, letting Dean haul him up.
They spun under the tree until Sam was sure he was going to throw up. Dean conceded defeat only after a little girl he'd been twirling with, actually did vomit all over his shoes. They wandered back to their trailer, Dean muttering under his breath about how cold his toes were, holding his shoes, soggy socks tucked inside, at arm's length the whole way home.
They got ready for bed, and Sam was just about to drift off when he heard Dean mumble, "First place?"
Sam smiled sleepily to himself, rolled over onto his stomach.
"No contest," he agreed.
The End.