Thanksgiving
Two days ago Dean told Sam that, while he appreciated the idea of holiday about eating as much as you possibly could, he would much rather be grateful while ganking a ghost than he would sitting around yet another Biggerson's Thanksgiving. So two days ago they spent an entire day driving to North Dakota, Dean tapping ridiculous rhythms on the steering wheel while Sam studied printouts of articles detailing the mysterious deaths. By lunchtime, he was sure it was a ghost, and an hour of free wifi with a side of salad later, he was reporting the ghost of one Randall Harland, as Dean plowed his way through a slice of apple pie. By midnight they'd made it to the town, trekked out to the grave in the pouring rain, and Sam was digging through the mud while Dean kept both watch and a running commentary on the irony of Black Friday being the day after Thanksgiving, punctuated by the report of the shotgun as Dean blasted the ghost full of rock salt. Within minutes of Sam breaking into the casket, Dean was flung into the headstone marking the grave Sam was standing in, and Sam had just long enough to wonder what kind of ghost didn't know to throw a person away from their bones before he heard the sickening crunch of Dean colliding with the grave marker and saw a decidedly female ghost standing over him. Sam lunged for Dean's dropped gun, fired, reloaded and clambered out of the hole, running to his brother's side. It took under a minute for Sam to ascertain that this was hospital-level bad and call-for-back-up-level trouble and begin the painful process of hauling an injured, desperately wheezing Dean toward the car, brandishing the shotgun as he went.
One day ago, Dean was released from the hospital, lung reinflated, four ribs still broken, and an extra hole in his side from where the chest tube used to be. Sam began apologizing as soon as Dean was settled into the passenger seat, because even though it wasn't entirely his fault that they had a husband-wife duo of ghosts to deal with, his research should have shown it. Dean pointed out that he hadn't known either, but Sam had given up expecting Dean to do any significant amount of research several years ago. He apologized again and Dean said that the painkillers made him nauseated enough without Sam's overwrought emotional bullshit. Sam laughed in spite of himself and they drove four hours to Bobby's house, Metallica playing the whole time because Sam still felt guilty.
Two days after Dean's denial of Thanksgiving and one day after the reinflation of his collapsed lung, Dean informed Sam that he wanted to have Thanksgiving. "I'm hurt, Sammy. I need pie," he explained, as though he hadn't had pie before the debacle of a hunt, as though Sam had not bought him pie yesterday because Metallica wasn't doing enough to assuage his guilt.
"We'll go out," Bobby attempted, but Dean shook his head. Sam almost laughed at Bobby for thinking Dean would be so easily placated.
"Real Thanksgiving," Dean insisted. Two days ago, Sam was ready and willing to call up the old "small pox-infested blankets" argument and forgo Thanksgiving, but damned if both Metallica and pie still didn't make them square, because Sam found himself agreeing, promising to go the store and buy whatever Dean wanted first thing in the morning.
Three days after what should have been a simple salt and burn proved that they were both way too run down, Sam awoke on the floor next to Bobby's couch, which he had given to Dean because he was hurting, to the sounds of someone shuffling about in the kitchen. Groggily, Sam dragged himself from the couch, assuming Bobby went to the store for Dean and that Dean must be sitting at the table pawing through the bags of food. But when he arrived in the kitchen, it was Dean wrestling a turkey into the oven, Bobby nowhere in sight.
"What the hell?" Sam asked, shaking his head to make sure he was actually awake. "Dean!"
Dean glanced over his shoulder and grinned. "Morning, Sammy!" He chuckled as though something about this scenario was at all amusing. Which it wasn't, at all, from where Sam was standing.
"What are you doing?" Sam said, more as an admonishment than a question, but Dean pretended otherwise.
"Making dinner, what's it look like?" Dean had moved to chop vegetables, still not pausing for even a moment.
"You just got out of the hospital, Dean! You're supposed to be resting!"
"I'm fine," Dean scoffed, tossing what Sam had identified as sweet potatoes, trying to hide a wince at the reach. "Besides, someone has to cook all of this."
No, they really don't, Sam thought, sourly. A few days ago they had both agreed there was no need to celebrate this holiday at all, and the only reason they were doing otherwise now was at Dean's insistence. If he were anyone else, Sam would have thought a medical emergency had made Dean realize how precious life is, made him want to seize the day and show his gratitude. But Dean had had enough close calls and even direct encounters with death, without ever veering into the grateful-to-be-alive mindset, so Sam wasn't betting on that. Maybe it was just as simple as Dean wanting pie. Maybe the doctors had missed a concussion. Maybe Dean had even weirder reactions to Vicodin than Sam had thought. Sam would probably never know.
"I could cook," Sam offered. Dean turned to look at him, eyebrows raised.
"Uh, Sam? No offense, but I like my food edible," he said.
"I'm not that bad!" Sam argued.
"You have never in your life cooked something without setting it on fire," Dean pointed out. It wasn't as though Dean was some gourmet chef. Sure, he had cooked all their meals growing up, but how hard was it to make macaroni out of a box? Although Sam had not actually managed to do even that all that successfully.
"What about Bobby? Bobby can cook," Sam said, redirecting to avoid concession.
"Bobby can cook cornbread. Only cornbread," Dean said shortly. "And he left early this morning to take care of that hunt we left."
"You're…really okay?" Sam asked, hesitantly. It felt like giving in, somehow, like he was saying a good dinner was more important than his brother's health. But that wasn't it. It was just that he didn't know what it was Dean was trying to get out of this, and he was afraid to take it away from him.
"Peachy, Sam. Why don't you go watch the parade or whatever?" Dean asked, directing his attention once again to the food.
Sam scowled at his back and pondered, but finally decided to trust that Dean wouldn't lie to him about his health, not about something as important as his lung over something as trivial as Thanksgiving dinner. And then, telling himself he was an idiot for that, he still left Dean humming Led Zeppelin and made his way to the TV, settling in with a book and the parade.
Bobby stomped in a little after lunchtime, reeking of smoke and still muttering curses. At the sight of Sam sprawled out on the couch, he frowned. "Where's your brother?"
"Cooking," Sam replied, barely glancing up from his book.
"I figured you would just get something prepared, seeing as neither of us can cook," Bobby said, propping his gun by the door and dropping his bag beside it.
"What?" Sam dropped the book, something not quite computing. "I thought you went to the store."
Bobby shook his head. "The car was gone when I left this morning; I figured you must have gone, since the couch was empty."
"I slept on the floor," Sam said faintly, already scowling at the idea of Dean sneaking out, wandering around a store injured, hauling all of those groceries inside when the doctors had said no heavy lifting…
He was in the kitchen in an instant, ready to confront his brother, but found himself instead rushing to his brother's side where Dean leaned heavily against the counter, hand pressed to his ribs, face white.
"Damn it, Dean," Sam cursed, carefully steering his brother to the table, depositing him in a chair. He knelt in front of Dean, watching as Dean tried to breathe through the pain; eyes closed tightly, whole body trembling. "Have you had meds today?"
Dean shook his head. "Don't like…how they feel…" he breathed as deeply as his broken ribs would allow, wincing with each inhale.
Sam cringed. Too late he remembered the doctor talking about the potential side effects, the anxiety Vicodin occasionally caused. Remembered Dean always avoiding this particular pain killer, insisting it was because they should save them. Remembering the handful of times Dean had been given Vicodin, the way his eyes were wide and nervous, the way his fingers tapped out impossibly complex rhythms, the way he clenched his teeth.
"Bobby, do you have any painkillers? Anything other than Vicodin?" Sam called, forcing his voice to remain level as he squeezed Dean's shoulder reassuringly, as he tried to remember when he had given Dean the Vicodin, how long Dean must have been working through this pain. Sam glanced over his shoulder only to find Bobby right there, his face as tense and concerned as Sam's own.
"Got a couple of percos left," Bobby offered, already moving to the cabinet to retrieve them. He returned a moment later with a couple of pills and a glass of water, which Dean took readily.
"Thanks, Bobby," he mumbled, already breathing easier.
"Overdid it, huh, kid?" Bobby asked. "What were you thinkin'?"
"Just wanted to have Thanksgiving," Dean said, then added, almost inaudibly, "like a normal family."
Sam's heart sank, remembering all the times he had thrown those words at Dean, wondering if in his medication-fueled anxiety, Dean had wanted to have Thanksgiving because he was afraid Sam would leave him for something "normal."
"Some stupid dinner isn't worth you being in this kind of pain, Dean," Sam said, emphatically. You are more important than anything any normal family has today.
"Doesn't matter now anyway," Dean muttered. "You won't let me finish now, will you?"
"You're right about that," Bobby said, casting a glance around the kitchen. "Shame to let all this go to waste though. 'Specially since you were willing to maybe collapse your lung again for it an' all."
"It won't go to waste," Sam said, suddenly seizing on an idea.
"What?" Dean asked, brows knitting together in confusion.
"You can't cook, but if you sit there and don't try to move at all, me and Bobby will do whatever you say. We'll be your sous chefs." Sam knew Dean occasionally watched the Food Network at night when he thought Sam was asleep, though Dean would probably burn all his cassette tapes rather than admit that fact.
A slow grin spread across Dean's face. "Only if you'll wear an apron, Sammy."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Deal."
Under Dean's careful tutelage, Bobby made cornbread and turned it into cornbread dressing. Sam did not set anything on fire, except briefly, a corner of his apron. Vegetables were cooked, potatoes were mashed, the turkey was basted and enough food to feed a dozen people was heaped upon Bobby's kitchen table.
Three days after Sam almost lost his brother to a ghost's tantrum, they sat down to a Thanksgiving dinner just like any other family. And for the first time in either of their lives, normal felt just right.