It had been years since Bobby Singer had seen Christmas as anything but a day to get completely wasted in an attempt to drown out memories. Christmas was a time for families, and his had been rent from him by the demons he spent the majority of his life hunting. He hadn't thought this year would be any cheerier, especially since he was now confined to a wheelchair.
But on December 23, Dean and Sam Winchester showed up on his doorstep, fixings for a holiday meal and one confused Angel of the Lord in tow. This put a cramp in his plans to brood and drink alone in his quiet house. With only his Rottweiler, Rumsfeld, for company
Admittedly, watching Dean subject Castiel to a slew of holiday movies was amusing and hearing Sam's rant against the perpetuation of the "Santa Myth" was downright hilarious. He'd actually laughed when Dean handed Castiel one of his long sleeved T-shirts and insisted the angel lose the rumpled dress shirt and tie. The result was a disgruntled angel attempting to maintain his aloof dignity, in a too big shirt that kept trying to swallow his hands and generally made him look like he was playing dress up in his big brothers clothes. Mustering his self respect, he flat out refused to wear the offered Santa Hat.
So, here he was sober on Christmas Eve for the first time in years. Dean even made eggnog. Bobby shook his head, wondering where and when the boy had learned to cook. John hadn't even been able to burn air properly in a kitchen…and maybe that was his answer. Dean had learned to cook out of self preservation. Somehow though, he doubted eggnog had been a recipe from childhood. Probably picked it up off of one of the cooking shows he doesn't like us to know he watches.
It was pretty good though, Bobby reflected as the four of them sat around sipping eggnog and watching Die Hard. He and Dean had lobbed for it's inclusion in the holiday play list, as it was set during the Christmas season. Sam hadn't wanted to watch, but Castiel was indifferent, so the majority had won.
The movie was almost half over when Bobby looked around the room and took note of a few things.
#1. Sam was reading a Demonology tome and making notes.
#2. Dean was mouthing all of Bruce Willis's lines along with the actor.
#3. Castiel had his nose buried in what was probably his sixth cup of eggnog and was listing to the side, slightly unfocused eyes trying to focus on the TV. He was also wearing the reviled Santa Hat from earlier.
As Bobby watched, Castiel slumped a little more, one of his shoulders hitting Dean's side. The young hunter looked down and blinked.
"Cas?" Dean asked, a note of concern in his voice that Bobby was only used to hearing directed at Sam. "You doing okay?"
It took a few attempts for the angel to crane his neck in the proper direction to look up at Dean. When he did, he gave a vaguely sad smile and said, "No. I've rebelled, been cut off from heaven , still am unable to find my father and Lucifer walks the Earth. Also, my hands are blurry, he head feels like it's floating somewhere above my body and I can't seem to sit upright."
All this was said with a slur and, when he was finished, he let his Santa Hat clad head drop onto Dean's shoulder. Bobby stared. Dean stared. Sam stared and asked, "Did you put something in his eggnog?"
Shooting his brother a look, Dean said, "No, it's the same as we all drank. Besides, the guy can drink a gallon of Jack without blinking. A little brandy isn't gonna do this."
Castiel looked down at his now empty cup, clasped loosely in his fingers. "I like eggnog," he informed the room. "What is nog?"
"Not really sure," Dean said and rescued the cup from the angel's tenuous grasp. "Kinda think it might be booze for angels though.
"Hmmm?" Cas made a sleepy noise and seemed to be fading, heavy eyes blinking closed.
It was then that they discovered angels snored.
There was a moment of silence, before Sam expressed what they were all feeling, exhaling a surprise but ponderous, "Huh."
Dean didn't seem to know whether to be freaked out or amused by the current turn of events and so looked to Bobby for some indication of what to do.
With a sigh Bobby wondered how it was possible the Winchesters hadn't died more often than they had…ow, that kind of thinking made his brain hurt. Shaking a finger, he said, "Well, go on. Put him to bed or something."
Watching Sam and Dean manhandle Castiel, who was currently possessed of that floppy, loose limbed state common of the truly drunk or near comatose, was yet another amusing site. The lugged the angel up the stairs to the guest rooms and Bobby reached over to pat Rumsfeld on the head. From overhead, he heard a thump and the muffled sounds of Sam saying something in that pissy tone of his.
"Idjits," Bobby proclaimed fondly to the room, then to his dog said, "How bout that, boy. It's Christmas and we got a drunk angel sleeping it off upstairs."
For the first time in a long time, Bobby Singer found himself looking forward to Christmas day. Say what you would about the Winchester boys, they were never boring!