Ghosts of Christmas Past
Christmas dinners, for as long as he could remember, consisted of microwave mystery meat, cold cranberry sauce and packaged stuffing he always managed to screw up but never stopped trying to get right. After all, holidays were about tradition, and the crap he consumed for Christmas dinner was a tradition in its own right.
Every year since his mother's death, Christmas had been dark and lonely. No roaring fires, no cookies and milk left out for Santa. Dean's belief in Santa died when his mother did, as did his ties to all things relating to or resembling a happy childhood. Christmas was Dad nursing any number of drinks; as long as they were alcoholic and mind-numbing he never seemed to care. Christmas was Sam dutifully setting the coffee table with paper plates, watching some rerun or other of shows preaching love, warmth and happy families; all things lacking in their young lives.
That is, until this year. This December 24th, Dad was missing. Sam was wallowing; guilt-ridden and pained. And Dean? Dean was debating trying his luck at finding a warm, willing woman to fill his cold, empty bed. He was working on his second case of beer, no closer to drunken oblivion than he was when he started to drink some three hours before.
He was watching the flickering images on the old television that rested atop a dusty chair, surrounded by old video tapes. Happy, jolly figures laughing and dancing, eating and joking. Smiling. Beautiful figures, one in particular drawing his eyes to the screen as though by magnetic force. A sweet face features his memory never erased, eyes sparkling with joy and lips curved into the softest of smiles. Staring at the screen, a single tear slipped from the corner of his eye and trickled forlornly down his cheek.
God how he missed her.
Sometimes he envied Sam for not having these memories. His little brother wasn't plagued by the same dreams of 'could have been' or the same depth to the aching loss of their mother. But he pitied Sam for those very same things, too. He'd been too young to remember the comfort of her arms, the butterfly kisses on skinned knees, the scent of freshly baked cookies, and the soft floral wave of perfume that followed in her wake.
Dean wondered how his father must have felt all these years. Dean had only been a child, after all, had only shared a few short years - memorable years, but too few - while John Winchester had known his wife longer, shared more and suffered far greater than his sons.
Though, Dean thought wryly, Sam seemed to be catching up to Dad in the suffering department.
He returned to the present with the whirr and click of the VCR announcing that the last tape had come to an end. Dean got up and pulled the next home video from the pile, accidentally knocking the shaky tower of tapes to the floor. It saddened him to think that the videos were some of very few things that survived the fire, and yet his father could never bring himself to watch them. But Dean supposed that his father would rather immerse himself in hunting for the thing that killed his wife rather than drown in the despair of the loss. Righting them once again, he noticed the faded label running up the spine of the case he held in hand.
"Christmas '82"
Dean decided to forego his original choice; a family holiday to Sea World just a few months after Sammy was born. It was the last time they'd enjoyed a family vacation together and he vaguely remembered Dad being overindulgent against Mom's protests that he'd get sick - and he had.
He sighed, put the tape aside and slid the Christmas recording into the machine. Settling back on the ratty couch, he pressed play and watched with wide eyes as his father's laughing face came into focus.
"Stop moving, Mary! I think I've got it."
"Oh, John, you men and your toys! What was wrong with the old one?"
"Quality, sweetheart. I want perfect pictures of my beautiful wife and handsome son. Smile at the camera, Dean!"
The image of a round-faced two year old - almost three, he amended - glared at the camera, mouth smudged with chocolate and face set in a petulant scowl.
"Wanna pops, Daddy! Pops and pwetties!"
He laughed at his younger self, watching as he pointed to the other family members and friends gathered there, sparklers in hand, on the lawn outside the house.
"Down! Pumme down, Mommy. Wan' go DOWN."
Dean saw his mother smile affectionately and lower his wriggling form to the grass. He ran off to join the other children.
"Hey, Mike, man the camera, will ya? I want me a little lovin'!"
"John!" Dean heard his mother squeal in protest and as she flushed scarlet. The handheld camera wobbled, the picture showing patches of grass and a stone path before righting itself. What came next made Dean's heart ache.
His father pulled his mother close and held her against his chest; arms wrapped around her waist while she giggled softly and waved the camera away. The couple looked so happy, so deeply in love and content, that Dean felt tears prickle behind his eyes. Blinking rapidly to dispel the moisture, he continued to observe the scene, thankful that his father had thought to preserve the memories on film.
The scene changed but still held his parents in focus, though further away and apart from the general crowd of revelers. Dean increased the volume and leaned forward slightly.
"You know, Mary, you went and broke tradition tonight," John Winchester spoke quietly to his wife, a gentle smile on his face and a look of light reproach in his eyes.
"What? How?"
"We always exchange one present after dinner. You got yours," he said, raising her hand and skimming her knuckles with his lips, moonlight glinting off the shiny gold ring encrusted with tiny green and red stones. "But I didn't get mine."
Dean stared, fascinated by the breathtaking smile that lit his mother's face, a strange glow in her eyes.
"Oh, darling," she tinkled merrily, "I thought it best to give you your present in private."
John chuckled and leered playfully, "Oh, really?"
"Nothing like that, you big idiot," she giggled at the implication.
Dean sighed and closed his eyes. Watching his parents like this made him long for the life that had been destroyed by evil all those years ago. The tenderness and love between them was so evident, it shocked him to think evil dared touch such perfection, and more, that it tainted his mother's memory so completely.
He swung his gaze back to the television when his mother shrieked and dashed across the lawn towards a hammock hung between two old trees.
"You'll have to catch me first!"
His father sprinted after her, hot on her heels and tackled her to the ground, rolling them over so she rested over him.
"Careful, John!" she chided gently, rolling off her husband and snuggling into his side.
"What? I didn't hurt you, did I?" he asked with concern, immediately turning and running his hands over his wife to check for damage.
"No, silly," she grinned, batting at his hands. "But you don't want to ruin your present."
Father and son sent equally quizzical looks at the woman who lay on the grass, flushed and happy.
"Merry Christmas ...Daddy."
Dean froze the frame on his father's shocked, yet excited expression and his mother's teary eyes and loving smile. He wished he could remember more of their time spent together as a family. Wished Sam had been able to experience his mother's love in a way he could remember and not just know. Knowing was great, sure, but seeing, feeling? That was believing. Sam just didn't have that same connection, that same belief that made Dean push that little bit harder, do that little bit better, just to make her proud.
The oven timer buzzed and he was reminded of the food he'd been preparing. He got up from the couch and crossed the room to the kitchen. Sam should be back soon, from wherever it was he disappeared to these days. Dean wasn't sure how much more he could take of seeing his little brother, torn and bleeding from the inside. Dark circles were a constant reminder of nearly sleepless nights riddled with nightmares and shouts of "Jessica!" followed by stifled sobs. Sam thought he didn't know, but how could he not? How could he sleep through the night and ignore his little brother's pain? If it were Dean in Sam's position, their father might have told him to, "Suck it up and be a man," but while Dean may have lived and done his best to be that man, Sammy was never quite the little trooper Dean had been, always more open with his feelings and emotions and prone to give in to them. And as the older brother, it was Dean's job to protect him.
God, he hated feeling helpless.
He wished his father was here. Not that John Winchester celebrated Christmas. As far back as Dean could remember his father had shied away from holidays and religious festivals. He used to think it had something to do with demons and spirits and the falsity of legends, lore and religious propaganda. However, after viewing the Christmas tape, Dean began to think perhaps it was something altogether different. That maybe, the loss of his beloved wife and the joy they'd shared together and as a family unit had destroyed whatever fondness he'd once held for the holidays.
Dean set the casserole dish on the table and eyed the gluey mess with distaste.
Every time. Every single time he made stuffing it morphed into something out of a science fiction nightmare. He sighed, grabbing a spoon and emptying the mess into the bin. Tradition dictated; who was he to break tradition?
At that moment, Sammy entered the house, a gust of icy wind announcing his arrival. The door slammed shut and Dean frowned in annoyance as his younger brother brushed snow off his coat and onto the floor and began trailing dirty footprints across the tiles.
"What took you so long?"
"I see Martha Stewart was out for the day," Sam said, eyeing the crusted dish and the recent pile of mush atop the garbage near the door.
"Funny. Next time you can be Suzy Homemaker and I'll play the broody one."
Sam glared at Dean and sat down to pull off his boots.
"Where were you?"
"Out."
What little appetite Dean had, had, vanished. These little verbal battles with Sam were the icing on the effing cake. Dean wanted to crawl back into the cocoon of warmth the memories gave him.
"Yeah, I got that much. Whatever. Food's in the fridge if you want it."
"Wait, you're not eating?"
"Not hungry," he grunted, returning to the couch and falling heavily into the cushions before taking up the remote and resuming the video.
The house was quiet for a while, nothing but shifting images and glorious days of old playing over the screen.
"She was beautiful," came the solemn voice from behind him, rousing him from his nostalgic musings.
"Yeah."
An awkward silence settled between the brothers.
"Dean, about what I said? About Mom..."
Dean closed his eyes and shook his head.
"Doesn't matter."
It did, but it didn't. Dean knew that Sam would never understand what losing their mother was really like. He hadn't known her like Dean had.
"I miss her too, you know."
"I know."
But Dean knew something else; he knew that you can't miss what you never had. Not really. Not as strongly. But then, Sam had lost Jessica, someone he had cherished and experienced the joys of love with. At least Dean's nightmares had faded and his dreams no longer held images of his frightened father framed in a doorway licked with furious tongues of fire. Sam had a ways to go yet before the painful, stinging memories faded to a dull ache.
"Does it ever stop?" Sam asked quietly, jolting Dean from his reverie. Sam's eyes were intent on the screen, watching the woman he'd only heard about and met for brief moments as a spirit, only a shadow of her true self.
Dean swallowed and after a long pause, whispered, "Do we really want them to?"