Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural in any way, shape or form

Author's Note: This was supposed to be a Christmas one shot but it grew...and grew...and eventually grew to the point where I got afraid of it and hid. Of course, as we all know, the plot bunnies don't respond well to being hidden from, and before I knew it I was working on this again, nearly a month after Christmas. It's exciting stuff - my first story longer than two parts in nearly a year. Excitement?

Warnings: Language. Lots of language. But this story is revolving around several hunters, so what do you expect?

I'll be home for Christmas,
You can count on me.
Please have snow and mistletoe
and presents under the tree.

Families. They come in all shapes and sizes. Nuclear. Blended. Small. Large. Extended. Dysfunctional.

No matter what you called them, Sam was sure of one thing. The Hunters – all of them – were as much of a family as his father and Dean were.

And families pass down stories, stories that weave their way through the mouths of the young and the old. The summer at the lake; the Thanksgiving in Nantucket; the freak snowstorm at Easter time.

For the family of Hunters, however, the stories were different. The night Bobby and Daniel met each other, nearly killed each other, and then ended up hunting together. When Bobby and Daniel were trying to exorcise a spirit in Jim's church and were subsequently caught by Jim, who ended up hunting with them. The rainy night John showed up with an infant not even a year old and a little boy who didn't know what to believe anymore. The spring that Caleb showed up in Jim's confessional taking a dare from a few of his punk friends and ended up under the man's wing. The night that John came in with his seven year old son, proud as punch, after Dean made his first kill. That same night when Jim and Bobby just shook their heads, and asked themselves what the man was thinking.

But of the stories, there is one that resembles a typical family story – the Christmas where the Impala spun of the road into a tree and slowly the bond between the boys, the men, the Hunters…began to dissolve. This is the story that is only told when the men are sitting in the parlor of Jim's house, drunk as anything, with mouths that fly.

And suddenly, time begins to melt away. The couches, which are tattered and faded with age, now seem to return to their former glory where their age numbers only a few years or so. The floors do not have red carpets on them; on the contrary they are bare, and imbedded with deep scratches from the retriever pup, Gibson's, long nails. A coffee table appears in the middle of the room that Jim had disposed off two years back. Snow spread out, glistening over the wide fields that surrounded the home.

And a nine year old Sam Winchester kneels at the front window. His face, still chubby with baby fat, is glum, perched on his fists as he stares outside. He thumps his foot against the floor as he gazes outside, waiting for the Impala to pull up into the driveway, and his father, his brother, and his Caleb to get out and join them inside.

No such luck.

A small fire that Jim had lit an hour or so ago was starting to burn out, and the pastor sighed as his old, wrinkling hands crumpled up some more newspaper to throw in there. He winced a little bit as he read the headline – TWO FOUND DEAD, KILLER ON THE LOOSE – that had prompted John, Dean, and Caleb to pile into the Impala and take off. At sixteen, Caleb was just a few years older than Dean, and he never failed to notice how much Dean looked up to the young man, which scared him a bit. After all, Caleb had already been around the block and back when he was Dean's age, having smoked everything that he could and drunk himself into a stupor more than once, not to mention the girls…

"Jim, when are Dad and Dean going to be home?" Sam asked.

"I don't know, Sam."

"Can I call them?"

Jim sighed, running his hand down his neck. Sam has certainly inherited his stubbornness directly from John Winchester's genes. "Sam, didn't you just ask that a few minutes ago?"

He turned full, facing his entire body towards the pastor. "Please?" he begged, lacing his fingers together. "Please, please, please?"

Jim sighed, and jerked his thumb towards the kitchen where the sole phone was. "Fine," he said, "but not for too long, they're probably busy."

Sam's face lit up with glee as he scrambled up and raced for the kitchen phone line. Upon seeing the boy, Gibson perked his head up from where he had been relaxing by the fire and raced into the kitchen with such speed that he had trouble stopping himself and skidded right into the bottom of the sink. Jim winced as he heard the dog's nails marking up the floor and the clunk of his body hitting the opposite wall.

"Caleb, I swear to God if you hurt this car, you are dead. You hear me, boy, fucking dead."

Caleb clucked his tongue and glanced at John in the rearview mirror. The elder hunter was stretched across the back seat, hands pressed against his maimed leg. "And here I was thinking you cared all these years, Johnny."

"Caleb, I'm serious, drive slower."

"John, I've seen you take this car to ninety miles an hour."

"Yeah, I don't care how fast I drive it, you don't get to go any faster than fifty. Fifty, Caleb, fifty! This isn't fifty! Dean," he said, his son turning around, "tell me how fast he's driving."

Dean glanced over at the speedometer, which was hovering between seventy and eighty. He was torn for but a moment between loyalty to his father and loyalty to his fellow hunter, but one quick grin from Caleb and he knew that screwing with his father was far more amusing than loyalty. "He's gong forty-five, Dad."

John fumed. "He is not going forty-five, damn it!"

Dean twisted back around to face his father again. "Dad, would I ever lie to you?" He attempted the innocent, sweet face that Sammy could always pull of better.

John moved one hand from his leg and draped it over his chest before mumbling, "Turn around in that seat now."

"Aw, come on, what's eating you, 'Chester? Fact that I'm driving your precious car?"

"You know I hate it when you call me that," John said. Suddenly his chunky cell phone began to buzz. He began to try and find it deep within his coat pockets.

"What would you rather me call you, Win'?"

"Better than 'Lose.' Now shut your trap," he barked as he pressed SEND. "Hello?"

"Daddy? Where are you?"

"Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me. Where are you guys?"

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "We'll be home soon, Samuel."

"But when, Dad?"

Dean, who could clearly hear the entire conversation thanks to Sam talking so damn loud, was already beginning to feel his father bristle, and wanted to avoid his little brother getting yelled at on Christmas. He was already sour that he was getting left behind, and being hammered on by his Dad didn't exactly make for the perfect holiday. Plus, they were halfway out to Oakland when they realized that all of Sam's presents were in the trunk of the Impala, so Jim couldn't even keep him occupied with a few Christmas presents.

He snapped around and reached his hand out. "Let me talk to him." John relinquished the phone without much of a struggle, and Dean pressed it up to his ear. "Hey Kiddo, it's Dean."

"Dean? Where are you?"

"We're still a few hours away, Kiddo, but we'll be there before you know it."

"Are you going to be home before Christmas is over?"

"Yeah, we should be home before then, Kiddo."

"Tell him to be good or Santa Claus won't give him no fucking presents," Caleb send, jerking his thumb towards the trunk where the dismally wrapped packages were bouncing around thanks to Caleb's driving.

Dean pulled the phone away from his mouth for a minute. "He never believed in Santa, too damn brilliant to believe in that load of –"

"Are you talking about me?"

Dean brought the phone back to his mouth. "Now why would I do that, Kiddo?"

"You and Caleb were talking about me, weren't you?"

Dean scoffed. "No, you weren't. Jeez, a little self-centered, you aren't the only thing we talk about. Anyway, with Caleb's driving we should be home in three hours or so."

He could hear Sam's sharp intake of breath. "Caleb's driving the Impala?"

"Yeah," Dean laughed along with Caleb. In the backseat John made a noise that reminded Caleb of an angry bull getting ready to charge. "Caleb's driving. Dad busted up his leg a little bit."

"Is he okay?"

"He's a 'Chester, he'll be fine!" Caleb shouted loud enough for Sam to hear on the other line.

"Shut up, Caleb, and get off that phone, Dean!" John snapped. His leg and head were killing him, all he wanted was to get back to Jim's and lounge on the couch with a few Advil and shots of whiskey in him and watch Sam open his presents.

"Okay, I've got to go, we'll be home soon, Kiddo."

"Promise?"

Dean laughed. "Would I ever lie to you?" All of the sudden, the Impala began to skid backward and off towards the side of the road…