Sniff.
Another row of chocolate chip cookies, tidy and orderly, each one the perfect size courtesy of the tiny ice cream scoop he found in the baking aisle of Walmart.
Sniff.
The ham is ready for the oven, the sweet potatoes are done, neat rows of marshmallows lined along the top. The fresh Brussels sprouts have been sliced in half, ready to be sautéed with pancetta and shallots. He's made fresh bread for rolls, the dough rising in a covered bowl on a shelf. There's apple, pumpkin, and pecan pie ready for serving, and heavy cream that he intends to make into whipped cream later.
Sniff.
He's not sure what set him off this time, although it's been happening off and on throughout the day, and he's not even sure why he's bothering to make this meal, other than the fact that he poured through Martha Stewart Living and Food Network Magazine for two months prior, picking the perfect recipes. He even braved Pinterest for a good recipe for honey-glazed carrots.
Sniff.
So he's not sure what did it this time, whether it's the oatmeal raisin walnut cookies he promised Sammy, lined up in perfect little rows on baking racks on the table, or the chocolate chip cookies he promised Kevin, but Dean's standing at the kitchen island, his vision blurred, laying out the globs of cookie dough on parchment paper, moving them into the oven when a batch is finished.
Sniff.
He can't stop crying.
Sniff.
He's so lonely, he's not even sure what to call it anymore. Dean would say he's depressed, but it's beyond that now. It's a deep, painful ache in the very core of him.
Sniff.
Charlie is gone. Probably tearing up Oz with Dorothy, and if he had anyone left to pray to, he'd pray that she's safe. That they're both safe.
Sniff.
Benny's gone. Sacrificed himself for Sam. Another life lost because he was dumb enough to befriend a Winchester.
Sniff.
Kevin…well he doesn't really even want to think about that. Even as he's making the kid's cookies. He thinks about the Xbox One sitting in the closet. The one he'd played six poker games to win. The one he'd stood in line for almost eight hours to buy. Because Kevin was special. Kevin was still a kid, and still deserved to occasionally lay around and blast aliens like a kid his age should do.
Sniff.
Cas is who the fuck knows where. Apparently Angel-ed up again, but he still can't fly. Maybe if he could, he would have flown to the bunker. Maybe Dean wouldn't be alone. He's got a present for Cas too. A stylish, nicely cut black trenchcoat, a serious step up from Jimmy's old tan one. It wasn't cheap, he'd bought it at Brooks Brothers on a surreptitious trip to Kansas City, to play poker, and pool, and any other game he could play at the Casino up there to make money and give his little family a real Christmas.
Sniff.
And Sammy…
Sniff.
Tears were rolling faster down his cheeks now, his hands shaking as he slid the last tray of cookies into the oven.
Sniff.
Sammy. God, talk about guilt. It threated to drown him. There was a stack of presents waiting under his bed. A new Macbook, a set of three ancient volumes on Demonology he'd stumbled across in a used bookstore, and an ugly-as-fucking-sin Christmas sweater with a crazy-eyed moose on it. He'd picked it up for the simple fact that it was so incredibly ugly that he knew Sam would laugh, and wear the damn thing anyway.
Sniff.
Dean leaned against the tile wall of the kitchen, sobbing now, (like he hadn't pretty much spent most of the night before sobbing until he finally passed out), and slid down the wall to land on his ass, pulling his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them and burying his face in his arms.
He cried for a long time, forgot about the last batch of cookies and then cried some more when he pulled the tray of burnt hockey pucks out of the oven. Then, as he scraped the mess into the trash, he devolved into hysterical laughter, although the tears didn't dry.
Dean put the ham in the oven, set the timer for an hour, then finished cleaning up. After, he pulled all the other dishes from the fridge and put them in the oven beside the ham.
Feeling fairly calm, he cleaned the rest of the kitchen. When the timer went off, he pulled everything out, lining the dishes up neatly on the island.
The sight of the food made him sad all over again.
Dean sighed and flopped into a chair.
All that food, perfect crispy ham, sweet potatoes with toasted marshmallows on top, the Brussels sprouts and carrots, and the fluffy rolls…it looked like something out of a magazine.
And there was no one to share it with. The bunker was completely emp…not completely empty.
He ran down to the garage and grabbed a can of red spray paint, and on the back, grabbed the bottle of Glenlivet he had stashed in his room and dropped a Frank Sinatra Christmas album on the turntable. Dean used the spray paint quickly, hand long practiced at making that particular symbol. Surveying his work, he placed a chair in the center of the symbol.
Ten minutes later, he had a very wary Crowley blinking at him from across the table.
"What's this?" the demon growled.
"Christmas dinner. You're alone. I'm alone. I have scotch and decent food. Might as well be alone together, right?"
"And the devil's trap?"
Dean looked down at the red symbol on the floor, painted half under the table so Crowley could eat comfortably, although he'd left the leg irons on. "I'm lonely, not stupid."
Crowley shrugged, then grinned. "Is that Glenlivet, boy?"
"Only the best for the former King of Hell…well the best I could afford at any rate."
"Huh. Well, then, pour me a tumbler and slice the ham. Let's eat."