I wrote this story last year as Christmas pressent to my wonderful beta, Red Hardy, and this year she has graciously said I could share it with all you.
Merry Christmas!
Rock Salt and Gift Wrap
Christmas Eve -
John Winchester knew something was up the moment he opened the door to the small motel room he and his boys were staying in and didn't have to step over salt.
Frowning, he glanced down and saw that nothing was left of the thick salt line he had lain down in front of the door. It was meant to protect his young sons from evil – keeping the darkness outside the door while John had done some last minute errands.
Immediately his gaze searched out his sons, relieved to see them tucked down in their shared bed; their cherubic faces aglow in the twinkling lights of the small Christmas tree set up in between the beds; Charlie Brown would have been proud.
The hunter didn't feel the pressing urgency that pre-warned him of danger, and nothing seemed amiss. Sammy was curled up against his brother, one hand fisted in his brother's pajamas, and Dean snored lightly in a deceptively deep sleep; at the first sign of trouble, John knew his firstborn would be alert and lethal. Even at nine years of age.
"Odd," he murmured, quietly closing the door and setting a bag of wrapped gifts on the floor at the foot of the bed closest to the door – the bed he slept in. There weren't many gifts again this year but enough to bring smiles to his boys come morning.
Sam had wanted a book. Oliver Twist to be exact. An odd request for a five year old, as far as John was concerned but Jim had insisted it was a very good thing. So, still in awe that his five-year-old wanted that book, the man had bought one for him. And then had it wrapped in blue paper with a red bow. Red was Sammy's favorite color. Today.
Dean had wanted a knife. Now that request made much more sense in the former Marine turned demon hunter's mind. It was much more practical. But than again so was Dean; even more so after the horrible shtriga incident in Fitchburg mere months earlier…
John shivered at the memory. That had been close.
Still, his dreamer and his warrior… The man counted himself lucky to be blessed with such children. Mary would be proud.
Dean's gift was wrapped in bright gold paper and an ivory colored satin bow. The kid loved shiny things.
'At least he's stopped eating them,' the man mused thinking back to his older boy's toddler days when Dean was infamous for what he might put in his mouth. Money. Jewelry. Tin foil… It really amazed him sometimes that Dean survived infancy.
There were also new socks and underwear ('practical' John), a coloring book for Sam ('planning ahead' John. After all there was nothing worse than a bored kindergartener on a road trip), a compass for Dean ('teacher' John) and silly puddy for both boys (Daddy).
It wasn't much but once again the hunter counted himself lucky – his children didn't ask for much. And he already knew that gifts from Joshua White, Caleb Black and Father Jim Murphy – his closest friend and ally – covered transformers, chocolate, and personalized small vials of holy water…
John shook his head. He had weird friends. Hell he had a weird life.
Taking off his coat, the man draped it over the back of a chair and then sighed heavily; this time of year was always the most difficult, perhaps even harder than the anniversary of his wife's death because Mary loved Christmas.
She loved everything about it. The smell of evergreen and spice that hung heavily in the air, the sound of festive music song off-key by fat men in stockings, the colorful decorations that adorned the days in glitter and twinkled brightness through the nights, and the taste of cookies fresh from the oven, made from Grandma's secret recipe... She loved everything.
And because of that, John could not even hear the words 'Merry Christmas' without feeling grief pressing on his very soul. People told him it would get easier with time –
They lied.
It still hurt him physically when he thought about those first three Christmas's they had shared with Dean. She had spoiled both her men rotten… And it ached to know that she had never got a chance to do so with Sammy; the babe's first noel spent in the fresh grief of his mother's death.
The demon had taken her from them, but John was hell-bent if he'd let that monster take her Christmas too – so he did what he could to foster the tradition; which included motel room Christmas trees decorated with popcorn garlands and plastic, meagerly filled stockings, black nylon borrowed from John, and carefully planned out presents, a mixture of practicality and whimsy. And most importantly the feeling of it all – Mary's feeling.
And because of that, his boys loved Christmas too.
Moving towards the small motel bed to check on his sleeping troops, John was surprised to see a set of dark eyes watching him very closely and he smiled, the action betraying any true chastisement in his words. "Sammy. You're supposed to be sleeping."
"I'm sorry," the shining sincerity of the whispered words made John's gut clench. Sammy reminded John so much of Mary at times. Not physically – that was Dean's place – but in mannerism. He was his mother's son.
Shaking his head at the needless apology, John leaned over his sleeping firstborn and scooped the younger child up, pausing when Dean stirred. "Shhh… it's okay," he murmured quietly, "I've got Sammy."
Hearing his father's reassurance, Dean grumbled something unintelligible and then settled down again.
His five-year olds arms wrapped snuggly around his neck, John moved towards his own bed and sat the child down on the edge, pulling the covering up and around the slight form so the boy wouldn't get cold.
"Now, partner," the man started, keeping his voice low, "you want to tell my why you're still awake on Christmas Eve? You know Santa can't come until you're sleeping."
The little boy shrugged, his gaze dropping to the blanket that he fidgeted between his fingers as John crouched in front of him. "I dunno."
"Sammy…" John's voice held a warning note. "You know how Daddy feels about that answer." He hated the 'I dunno' response, his logic insisting that the child had to know why he did something, even something as trivial as being awake way past bedtime.
Instead of answering him, Sam looked directly into his father's face, his eyes solemn as he posed his own question. "Daddy, is there really a Santa Claus?"
John was stunned, totally unprepared for that question. Even Dean, at nine, had not asked yet, though the hunter knew the shrewd pre-teen wasn't naive. He suspected the boy had an ulterior motive for never asking – most probably that he was afraid if he said he knew there was no Santa, then the gifts might just stop coming if the façade was no longer needed.
"Daddy?" Sam pressed quietly, anxiety starting to press out the seriousness on his young face. He was obviously worried about how John was going to respond to his question.
The man stalled; his mind racing through the possibilities of this conversation. "Why are you asking that, Sammy?"
"It just doesn't make sense."
Damn sometimes the kid was just too smart for his own good…
"I mean," the child continued. "How can one person bring toys to all the boys and girls in the whole wide world, in one night? Where does he get the list? How can he see us? And if he does watch us, how does he know when not to look? 'Cause I don't want him to see me when I pee!" Sam rushed on, picking up speed and becoming more animated with each word. Lord only knew how Dean was sleeping through this… "And I've seen reindeer on the nature channel and they don't fly – so how can Santa's? And why don't the army pick the North Pole up on radar? And -"
"Whoa. Whoa. Easy there, buddy," John held up his hands attempting to placate the wound up child, all the while trying to hide his amusement. The little boy had apparently given this a lot of thought. "Where is all this coming from, Sammy?"
"I've just been thinking," the five-year-old stated, once again his face a mask of seriousness. "That's all."
"Ah," John gave an understanding wink. "I see. You started contemplating the big things in life, huh?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, con'emplaten." He quirked his head to the side. "So is he real, Daddy?"
The man prayed for divine intervention. 'C'mon, Mary,' he silently pleaded, 'help me out here.' Unable to put the child off any longer, he shrugged dismissively, "I guess that really depends on your definition of Santa, Sammy."
Inquisitive eyes locked on to his and John continued, "Some people want Santa to be a real person. They want to believe that there is someone who can defy gravity, time and logic and provide something beyond their family's regular means …" Children… he paused and waited to see if his little boy was keeping up. The child slowly nodded and he continued. "Some people don't want Santa to be real. They don't believe in anything that they can't explain. For them everything is about a price… commercialized to the teeth." Adults…
John sat on the bed next to the child and looped an arm around his small shoulders, drawing him in close. "And then there are people like me…"
"Like you?" Sam followed his father's every movement with his eyes.
"Yeah. Like me." Mary's John… the man smiled gently.
"What do you believe?" it was asked in almost awed way.
"I believe Santa Claus isn't any one man… but something in all men. He is the spirit of good will and giving – he is that little bit of extra goodness that is in the heart of everyone at this time of year." John was surprised to feel his eyes start to burn. "And he reminds us that there is more joy in giving then in receiving." He glanced down at the child. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Sam's face took on a thoughtful look. "I think so…" he started slowly and then paused. "What does con'emplaten, mean?"
John couldn't help but chuckle as he reached his hand up to ruffle his son's dark hair. Sometimes he forgot his five year old was only five – even if he did want Oliver Twist for Christmas!
Seeing the child yawn, the man shook his head, "Why don't I explain it to you in the morning?"
"Okay," Sam was very agreeable but as his father picked him up to move him back to his own bed, he added. "I guess we can put the salt back down then."
The hunter peered into his son's face. "The salt?" Comprehension made him raise an eyebrow. "Sammy? Did you brush up the salt line?"
For a moment he didn't think the child was going to say anything but then Sam nodded his head. "Please don't be mad, Daddy."
"The salt protects you and Dean, Sammy, you know that," John felt the need to remind. Feeling the warmth of his son pressing against his body, he had to ask, "Do you mind telling my why you got rid of it?"
"Well…" Sam chewed his lip for a moment and then just 'fessed up. "I was afraid it would keep Santa out, too!"
John was too stunned for a moment to say anything. "Keep Santa out?" He finally echoed and his son nodded his head earnestly. "Sammy I don't think I understand."
"Well," the little boy tried to explain, "I wasn't sure if Santa was real or not… but if he wasn't real then he might not be able to get in!"
The man crinkled up his face in confusion. Sometimes he just didn't understand his son. Finally he sighed and gave the child a brief squeeze before tucking him back into bed behind his brother. "Don't worry, Sammy, Santa can always get in."
Yawning tiredly as he snuggled in against Dean, Sam murmured, his eyes drifting shut. "'Kay, Daddy. But when he does… please don't shoot him…"
For one second John just stared at his son, once again marveling about where exactly the child came up with this stuff, but then he started to chuckle and turned to look at their little tree, its lights twinkling and blinking color in the room. "Don't shoot Santa? Oh Mary, these boys are truly something else."
His heart warring between missing his wife and relishing the simple purity of his children's hearts, John stayed that way – staring at the Christmas tree – for a long time, his memories crisscrossing time.
Finally, he shook off the melancholy and turned back to the small bag of presents. It was time for 'Santa' to come.
He had just placed the last one – the vial of holy water from Jim – when a quiet voice whispered. "Merry Christmas, Dad."
John started, and glanced up to see Dean watching him from the bed and knew he'd been caught. Instead of making up some dumb ass excuse about Dean having just missed Santa, he smiled warmly at his older son and agreed, "Merry Christmas, Dean."
He wondered how long the child had been awake but didn't ask. Instead he just stood up.
"You know you don't have to do this anymore," the boy whispered, his words twisting something in John's heart.
The man moved towards the bed and crouched down next to his son. "I don't have to do what, Dean?"
"Pretend and everything," the young hunter clarified, "I know there ain't no Santa and Sammy's old enough to understand – gifts cost money. Money we need more for rock salt and stuff."
John couldn't believe what he was hearing. And it hurt. It hurt to see his son, his little boy, offering to give up this one final piece of childhood magic. For rock salt.
"I know," he agreed – after all Dean was right, money was tight and it could be better used on hunting, but… "but I want to do this for you and Sammy… and me." John cleared his throat and continued. "I love you boys, Dean. I love you more than you or Sammy can ever know, and while I couldn't stop that sonnovabitch from taking your Mamma away, I'll be damned if I let him take your Christmas too. This-" he indicated the tree and presents, "is for us. For our family. So, no, I can't not do this anymore, and you don't get to ask me to stop. Do you understand?"
Something shiny on Dean's cheek made John suck in an aching breath. He reached out and gently brushed away his precious warrior's tear. "It's okay, son," he whispered. "I miss her too."
Dean closed his eyes and swallowed hard. John knew he was trying to compose himself and for a few moments neither said anything. And then finally the boy nodded. "Okay, Daddy. I understand."
John nodded, satisfied. A conspiratorial grin crossed his face. "Hey, kiddo, you think there's room enough in that bed for one more?"
The nine year old grinned and then nodded, already shifting away from his brother to make room for John. Sam murmured a soft protest.
Stretching out between his boys, John wrapped an arm around each son and drew them close.
'This,' he decided, 'is what Christmas is about. Them.'
Letting his eyes drift shut, he let out a contented sigh.
He would always miss Mary, but as long as he had his boys, things would be all right. And if they weren't, than John Winchester would make them so…
"Merry Christmas, boys," he whispered and drifted off to sleep.
…
And from her place by the tree, an angel watched over them; her heart bursting with love, pride and longing.
Merry Christmas my beloveds, she whispered and then faded away…
The End
Calling all Dean and Sam girls - UNITE!!! Get Well Soon, Brother Have fun! Send one card to your favorite brother or two-one to Sam and Feel free to spread the word, just please link to this page. Send to the following addresses for Eric Kripke & the writing staff And Kripke's address in United States : And Kripke's address in Canada:Eric Kripke
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