Title: Go Tell It On the Mountain
Summary: Two Christmas Eves, eighteen years apart in time.
Spoilers: Let's say all the way through Season 2.
Rating/Warning: PG, Gen. Some angst, some fluff.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never will be mine. I'm just playing with Eric Kripke's toys.
Author's Note: So, the events of Thursday kind of threw a monkey wrench into the second half of this story, but we can pretend it's all between the scenes of what we saw, right? Right. :) Also, the first time I've written Adult!Winchesters, so please be gentle! Feedback is my crack.
December 24, 1989
The sound of little feet pounding across carpeted flooring greeted an exhausted John Winchester before he could even knock on Jim Murphy's front door. "He's back! He's back, he's back, he's back!" The tiny voice grew louder until John could tell that the child was just on the other side of the door. "I told you he'd make it, I told you so!"
"Sam, take it down a notch." The second voice belonged to the pastor, who was trying his hardest to be stern. However, the amusement in his tone undermined any amount of reprimanding he had been hoping to accomplish.
Sam practically took the door off its hinges as he whipped it open, his eyes sparkling. In a rare display of affection, he dashed over the threshold and wrapped his arms around his father's waist. "Dad! You're back! Dean said you wouldn't be back in time, but I knew you would!"
Surprised, John gave his six-year-old as large a smile as he could muster and rested his hand on the top of Sam's head. Sam grinned up at him, his shaggy brown hair hanging in his eyes. "Hi, Sammy."
Faint red stains framed the corners of Sam's mouth. John reached down and tried to wipe the stubborn stains away with his thumbs. Sam screwed up his face, wrenched away from his father's reach, and instead took John's hand, tugging him into the house.
The screen door banged shut behind John, who exchanged an amused eye roll with Jim. After a moment he pulled his hand from his son's, rubbing the tips of his fingers together. "What have you been eating that's sticky?"
"Candy canes!" Sam answered brightly. "I've had three already today. Pastor Jim has the best candy canes ever!"
Sure enough, John's fingers smelled vaguely of peppermint. That explained the tacky stains on Sam's cheeks. And the hyperactivity. Giving any six-year-old multiple servings of flavored sugar was just begging for trouble.
"I guess candy canes can get messy. Watch this!" Sam held his two index fingers up in the air and pressed them together into a point. A second later he pulled them apart and giggled. "It's like having glue on my fingers!"
"That's an indication that it's time for you to go wash your hands, kiddo," Jim said, ruffling Sam's hair. Sam pouted but ran from the living room without argument to rinse his hands at the kitchen sink.
Once they were alone, John tiredly gave the pastor a proper greeting. After pleasantries had been exchanged, John took a seat on the overstuffed sofa. "Are you nuts, giving him sugar? On Christmas Eve? He's going to be off the wall from now until bedtime."
Jim just shrugged. "Kids are allowed to be off the wall on Christmas Eve."
It was then that Dean walked into the living room and shyly greeted his father as he plopped down in the easy chair. John was suddenly wide awake; Dean was only timid around him when someone had done something that John wasn't going to like.
Before John could ask his oldest what was going on, Sam ran back into the living room, drying his hands on his pants. "Are you done with work, Dad?"
"No, Sammy, I'm not," he said apologetically. "I just need a break. Going to crash for a couple of hours and then get back out there."
Sam melodramatically dropped to his knees at his father's feet. "Dad, you have to come tonight! I'm the shepherd boy!"
Though John had no idea what Sam was talking about, he reached down and again patted his head in an attempt to placate him. "I can't go anywhere tonight, Sam."
"But you have to!" Sam was whining now. He kneeled up and rested his hands on his father's knees. His eyebrows furrowed as he dropped his chin to his hands and pouted. "I'm the shepherd boy!"
At John's confused frown, Sam rolled his eyes and began waving his arms like a spastic conductor leading his orchestra. "You know, 'Said the shepherd boy to the mighty king.' I'm the shepherd boy and I go tell the mighty king about the baby in the cold!"
Frustrated, John flicked his eyes to Dean. Though John was usually quite good at deciphering Sam Speak, he was tired and Dean was better at it. "Sam's singing 'Do You Hear What I Hear?' with three other kids at the service tonight," Dean answered rather uncomfortably.
Oblivious to both his brother's discomfort and his father's surprise, Sam pushed himself to his feet and jumped up and down excitedly. "And 'Do You Hear What I Hear?' is special because we get to sing it all by ourselves! I even have a costume, Dad! And a clook!"
"Crook," Dean corrected.
"Crook. You know, one of those cane things. And Dean has a part, too. He's Joseph! He used to be the innkeeper, but Joseph can't talk so he's Joseph now. Isn't that cool?"
Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Dean put a hand to his forehead while staring down at the floor and silently willing his brother to shut up.
Sam again turned the puppy-dog eyes on his father. "See, Dad? You have to come!"
John ran his eyes over one son then the other before turning an angry glare on the pastor. "You have one of my sons in the nativity and the other singing a solo at Christmas Eve service?"
Jim just gave a nonchalant shrug before answering John's glare with a sly grin. "Our original Joseph came down with strep throat yesterday, and Sam's better than any of the boys in the children's choir. I'm just pooling my resources."
The joke was not appreciated. "Jim--"
Before John could even begin his argument, the pastor simply held up his hand. "Dean, why don't you and Sam go get some more candy canes to put on the tree? There's another whole box in the closet upstairs."
Dean hesitated a second, darting his eyes between the pastor and his father. Wordlessly, he took his little brother's still slightly sticky hand and tugged him out of the room. Just past the doorway, Sam whispered something to Dean that John couldn't hear, but Dean just squeezed his hand and hushed him.
Once the boys disappeared up the stairs, John tried once more to argue with Jim and again found himself cut off before he could even get one word out. "Don't you even start with me, John. All those boys want is a little Christmas. They need a little Christmas."
Indignation flashed into John's eyes. "Don't you dare imply that I am not giving my boys a Christmas. They have never once gone empty-handed on Christmas. I am doing the best that I can."
Jim instantly softened. "I know you are, John. But those boys are still little kids who don't always understand why they can't do or have the same things as all the other kids. They're different, they know it, and the holidays make them more keenly aware of how different they are. I'm just ... trying to let them do something normal."
John just sighed and tiredly ran his hand over his face.
"For what it's worth, Dean makes a great Joseph and Sam really is better than any of the boys in the children's choir."
Finally, John cracked a half-smile. "I wouldn't expect any less from them."
The two men sat in silence for a long moment, then Jim took a seat in the easy chair where Dean had originally been sitting. "You're not coming to the service, are you?"
"This monster's not going to take a couple of nights off for the holiday."
"No, he's not, but you can take a half-hour out of the hunt to--"
John had finally had enough. No one was going to tell him how to run his hunt or what was best for his boys. "Look, if I want to spend Christmas Day with my kids, I need to destroy that bastard tonight." He sighed heavily, indicating that, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. "So. Are you going to let me get some sleep or what?"
Jim stared John down a minute longer before standing up from the chair, shaking his head slightly in disapproval. "What are you going to tell Sam? All that kid's been talking about all day is you being home for the service, and you are not leaving that conversation for me."
The sound of little feet stomping back up the staircase told both men that the impending argument over who was going to tell Sam was moot. John sighed again, rolling his eyes as he stood from the sofa and climbed the stairs. "Sammy," he called after his son.
He found both his sons in Jim's guest room, which was their bedroom when they stayed with the pastor. Sam was lying on his bed, curled up in a little ball and sniffling back tears. Dean was sitting behind him, attempting to comfort him. John said his son's name again.
Sam sat up so suddenly that he almost banged heads with Dean. "Dad, you have to come tonight! It's special!"
"You know how important my work is, Sam. We've talked about this."
"But this is important, too!" Sam cried. "We practiced and practiced and we have costumes and everything!"
"Sam, you're too old to be arguing with me over this. I said I can't come, and that's final."
Sam blinked quickly and tore his eyes from his father's before his tears could fall.
Dean rested a hand on his brother's shoulder and met his father's eyes. "We want you there tonight, Dad," he said softly, "but we understand if you can't make it."
John's heart did a small flip-flop in his chest. It was only on occasions like this that he questioned what he was doing with his life and his boys' lives. "I wish I could make it, too, boys, but--"
"Your job comes first," Sam whispered. He took a deep breath and set his shoulders, trying now to put on a brave, mature face. "It's okay."
John smiled and ran his fingers through Sam's hair. "That's my boy."
Sam allowed a smile as well, but John could tell that it was hollow. One day, Sammy, you'll understand why the job has to come first, he thought as he cupped his son's cheek in his hand.
December 24, 2007
Sam Winchester rested the tip of his shovel on the ground and tipped his head back to gaze into the night sky. A light snow was starting to fall; a dusting to an inch of accumulation had been predicted by morning. "All of you dreaming of a white Christmas will get your wish!" one of the local forecasters had exuberantly declared on the six o'clock news.
As fragile flakes caught in his eyelashes, Sam shut his eyes and deeply inhaled the cold air through his nose. His moment of dreamy escape came to a quick end when a handful of dirt pelted his chest. "Hey, Geek Boy," Dean shouted from the three-foot hole he was standing in. "Do I have to do all the work myself?"
"Sorry," Sam said, shaking himself out of his reverie. With a soft sigh, he jumped down into the rectangular hole with Dean. As he thrust the shovel down into the softened soil, he thought about what he was doing, what he was really doing, and frowned. "Have we ever had a normal Christmas Eve?"
Dean threw a shovelful of dirt out of the hole then paused to catch his breath. "Do we ever have a normal anything?"
Sam considered that for a moment, then nodded. Dean had a point. He glanced around at the headstones surrounding him and shook his head slightly. "But still, digging a grave on Christmas Eve? Seems kind of ... sacrilegious, doesn't it?"
"What's sacrilegious is the fact that we're sitting here getting snowed on as we dig a grave on Christmas Eve," Dean grumbled.
"That's not sacrilegious," Sam said with a wide, taunting grin. "It's just unfortunate."
Dean rolled his eyes and "accidentally" misjudged the distance to the top of the hole. He smirked as the shower of soil rained down on Sam's head. "Oops."
Sam cried out in surprise as he shielded his eyes against the falling soil. He threw a clump of dirt at Dean with one hand and brushed his fingers through his hair to dislodge the snow and soil with the other. Dean snickered and as the brothers' eyes met, they both agreed to a silent truce.
They worked quickly and soon the cracking and snapping of old wood giving way sounded from beneath their feet, echoing in the silence of the night. After a couple more hard strikes with the shovel, Dean broke through the ancient casket.
What happened next was a well-rehearsed dance. Sam climbed out of the hole first then grabbed Dean's shovel out of his hand as his brother scrambled out of the grave. After tossing the shovels aside, Sam began sprinkling handfuls of salt down onto the freshly-exhumed bones. Dean doused the body with gasoline then pulled a matchbook out of his pocket. He struck the match and flicked it into the hole, grinning slightly when the gasoline ignited.
Sam watched as the intense heat began reducing the old bones to dust, again shaking his head slightly. "This is like, two hundred kinds of wrong."
"Yeah, well, evil doesn't stop for holidays, Sammy." Dean slapped his hand on his brother's shoulder before picking up his shovel from its resting place on the ground.
While the brothers waited for the fire to burn itself out, Sam once again gazed up into the sky, blinking when the snowflakes landed in his eyes. The snow was coming down heavier now, collecting on the cold surfaces. By the looks of it, there were going to be a couple of inches on the ground by morning.
It was Dean who broke the silence. "Hey, what about that Christmas we spent at Pastor Jim's?"
Sam looked over at his brother with puzzlement on his face. "What about it?"
"That night was pretty normal. We were even in a Christmas pageant! Can't get much more apple-pie than that."
"That wasn't a pageant," Sam argued.
"Dude, I acted out the nativity and you sang a song. It was a full-on pageant." Dean shook his head. "We were so uncool."
Sam chuckled. "We weren't uncool. We were kids."
"We were uncool kids."
"Pastor Jim said you were one of the best Josephs ever and that I was better than any of the boys in the children's choir."
"Sam, you're only proving my point." Dean again shook his head.
Sam smiled, realizing that there was no way to win this argument. After a moment of silence, his smile turned rueful. "But even that Christmas Eve wasn't normal. Dad was out after some God-awful creature and he missed the stupid pageant."
"What are you talking about?" Dean asked, wrinkling his brow at his brother. "He didn't miss the pageant."
"Yes, he did. Don't you remember? We both wanted him there, but the hunt came first."
"I know that's what he said, but he finished the job early. He snuck into the church late, but he was there in time to see us in our geeky little costumes."
Sam just stared at his brother in shock. "He was? Why didn't you ever tell me this?"
Dean just shrugged. "I thought you knew."
"I didn't know."
"Oh," Dean said nonchalantly. "Well, live and learn."
The rest of the wait for the flames to die down was made in silence. Once the fire had burned down to smoldering embers, the brothers began filling in the grave. They worked quickly, both of them eager to get out of the snow and into the warmth of the heated car. When all the dirt had replaced, Sam tamped it down with the bottom of his shovel. With any luck the snow cover would hide the evidence of their desecration of the grave until they could hightail it out of town.
Without a word spoken between them, the brothers turned away from the headstone and began hurriedly walking back to the Impala. Sam tossed the shovels in the trunk as Dean climbed into the driver's seat, started the ignition, and blasted the heat before brushing the snow out of his hair. A moment later Sam settled himself in the passenger's seat, blowing into his hands in a feeble attempt to warm them.
As Dean drove the Impala to the entrance to the cemetery, Sam mulled over what his brother had just told him. He turned his head and looked his brother over for a long moment. Then, he understood. "You knew I didn't know."
Dean took his eyes off the narrow lane in front of him long enough to glance over at Sam. "I knew you didn't know what?"
"About Dad being at the service that night."
Dean let a breath out through his nose and set his jaw. His gaze was trained on the narrow lane ahead of them, a perfect excuse for avoiding eye contact with his brother. "Whatever."
Sam frowned and attempted to force Dean to meet his eyes. It didn't work. "Come on, Dean. What gives?"
Dean swallowed hard a couple of times and when he finally spoke, Sam could tell that he was trying very hard to keep an emotional tremor out of his voice. "I figure that if telling you that Dad was there that night is the last thing I can ever give you for Christmas, at least it's not the worst present in the world."
Sam felt a lump form at the back of this throat almost immediately, and hot tears began pricking in the corners of his eyes. He coughed before he responded, hoping to dislodge the lump and to mask his own emotion. "It's not the worst present at all. It's actually one of the best presents I've ever gotten."