The plot bunnies have gone very quiet - maybe they've all headed off on annual leave for Christmas - then I was trapped in an epically, epically, EPICALLY boring, complete WOFTAM of a meeting, and, well, this...
Title: The Hunt Before Christmas (or, Yule Be Sorry)
Summary: Santa has a job to do. Crowley is sulking, and out for some yuletide revenge. Sam is very unhappy about the physics of the situation, and Dean, well, he'd just like another drink, please.
Rating: T (because words. And Dean. With a drink.)
Blame: One day, I will figure out how to back-track where plot bunnies come from, and I WILL find the wretched individuals who keep breeding them and sending them...
Gripe: FFN undid all my paragraphing, and I had to go through the ENTIRE THING doing single line breaks. CURSE YOU FFN! *shakes fist*
The Hunt Before Christmas
(With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore)
'Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house
Not a creature was stirring. The elves wouldn't rouse,
They'd all hit the booze when the year's work was done -
On Christmas Eve, finally, they could have fun.
The toys were all made, all wrapped and all packed,
All tallied, accounted for, ticked off and sacked,
And loaded into Father Christmas's sleigh
For kiddies to find and unwrap the next day.
Mrs S Claus had retired for the night,
And snuggled in bed by the bedside lamp light,
Enjoying some cookies, a hot mug of cocoa,
And reading the sealed section in her new Cosmo.
'What Do Women Want From Their Menfolk In Bed?'
She laughed to herself as she read what it said,
For this was her one night, each year, from year's starting
When she could sleep sound with no snoring or farting.
And meanwhile, St Nick, having donned his red suit,
And pulled on his hat, and then each big black boot
Had headed out back to the stable to get
His reindeer in harness, then off they could set,
To fly round the world, leaving gifts on the way,
So those who'd been nice would wake up Christmas Day,
And open their eyes to their presents, and cheer,
"Oh hey, we've got stuff! Looks like Santa was here!"
For those who'd been naughty, he'd not leave a thing,
No box wrapped and tied up with sparkly string,
They'd have to make do with the gifts from their family,
Like horrible sweaters from mad Great Aunt Amelie,
And second hand socks sent by old Uncle Todd -
So cheap, so nasty, and usually odd.
(But the naughty don't care very much, as a rule.
They think being nice all year makes you a fool.
It might get you presents at Christmas, they've found,
But naughtiness means having fun ALL YEAR ROUND.)
His heart full of cheer and his thoughts on the flight,
St Nick didn't notice that all was not right.
The reindeer were quiet, not raring to go,
So eager to fly with the sleigh that they'd tow.
But as old St Nick made his way through the door,
Suddenly he was thrown back on the floor!
A snide British voice spoke to him with a sneer,
"I really don't think we need Christmas this year."
Kris Kringle sat up, and he shook his sore head.
"Who the hell do you think that you are, pal?" he said.
"I'm Sinterklaas, Pere Noel, Santa, St Nick,
Delivering gifts is my job, you dumb prick!
Get out of my stable! Get out of my way!
I have to get going before Christmas Day!"
The smug limey waved a pale hand, and he grinned
As Santa flew back through the air, and was pinned
To a wall by some force of demonic design.
"They're lovely names, darling – now I'll give you mine,
"My name, well, it's Crowley, and I'm King of Hell,
And we don't get Christmas, not down where I dwell,
Which just isn't fair, though we really have tried,
But the mistletoe shrivels, the trees all get fried,
The tinsel just melts, and the wreaths just turn black,
And you never come visiting US with your sack!
So this year I thought, well, I'll stop that fat man –
If we can't have Christmas, then, nobody can!"
"Of COURSE there's no Christmas for you!" St Nick spat,
"Because you're a demon! And don't call me fat!
I'm jolly, I'm cuddly, I've substance to spare!
Beloved of all – AND I've got all my hair!"
Then Crowley's hand flew to his hairline. He pouted.
"Hey! Don't you make fun of my hairline!" he shouted.
"Or what, balding dwarf? Huh?" St Nicholas asked.
"Right, that's it!" yelled Crowley, "I'm frying your arse!"
He lifted a hand with intention most foul,
But suddenly flinched, and then let out a howl.
Billowing steam rose in hissing white streams,
And Crowley let out some quite ear-splitting screams.
He jumped up and down in a strange little dance,
'Til Santa Claus asked "Are there ants in your pants?"
"It's far worse than ants!" cried the Hell-King in fear,
"It means that the bloody Winchesters are here!"
"Hi Crowley!" beamed Dean, as he hefted the jug
That held holy water, and looked very smug.
"I've got enough here to give you such a soaking
You'll see in the New Year and you'll still be smoking..."
"Technically, Dean, he'll be steaming," said Sam.
Dean made a face. "Well, I don't give a damn,
So Crowley, leave now, or I'll give you a soak,
And then make you drink it, and hope that you choke."
"I hate you two so much," growled Crowley, now thwarted.
"Well everyone hates you," Sam sneered and retorted.
"All humans, all angels, and all demons too,
Even dad Lucifer doesn't like you."
"Now now, boys, it's Christmas," St Nicholas chided,
"He hasn't yet harmed me, this demon misguided,
Just send him on back where he came from, and then
I can get on with my job, once again."
"Oh please let me stab him," Dean pleaded, wide-eyed,
"I promise I'll stop just as soon as he's died."
"No stabbing," frowned Santa, "No. No. None. That's it."
"Please? Pleeeeease?" begged Dean, earnest, "Just one little bit?"
"Get going, King Crowley," St Nick told the demon,
"Just go back to Hell, and you stop with the schemin',
I'll watch out for you now, and if you come back,
I'll have a trap waiting, put you in a sack,
Then load you atop of my trusty old sleigh,
And give you to Sam and Dean for Christmas Day."
"And then I can stab him!" cried Dean in delight,
"I'm going! I'm going!" yelped Crowley in fright,
But I hope that Christmas is lousy for you!
May your egg-nog be found to be full of mouse poo!"
"Oh, fuck off, you douche-bag," said Sam with a sigh.
"You're really not wanted. So, piss off. Goodbye."
Crowley stepped back, and then slimily sneered,
"No Christmas for you!" before he disappeared.
"He's really an asshole," said Dean, "Very nasty,
And now he believes that he's the Christmas Nazi."
"Well, thanks for the help, boys," said Santa with cheer,
"I really was lucky two Hunters were here.
Is that little limey the real King of Hell?"
"He is," Sam explained, "And he's grumpy as well,
We found out his plan to stop Christmas this year,
And that's why we tracked him and followed him here."
"Well, he has been thwarted," St Nicholas smiled,
"And I must be going. The sleigh has been piled,
I must harness up all my reindeer for draft,
With Rudolph's nose up front, to warn off aircraft."
"Well, have a good flight, then," Dean Winchester said,
"We'll head back to Bobby's and head off to bed."
"I'll wish you goodnight, then," old Santa did grin,
"As I pass your chimney, I may drop things in..."
The Winchesters turned to head back to their car
Across the crisp snow, but they didn't get far.
A cry from the stable made them turn around,
And look back to Santa who'd let out the sound.
He called to them "Help me! You have to come quick!
That Crowley did something! My reindeer are sick!"
They quickly ran back to the stable to see
Nine reindeer all staggering, sick as could be.
"That demon! He did this!" St Nicholas moaned.
Dasher and Dancer and Prancer all groaned,
Vixen and Comet and Cupid all sneezed,
Donner and Blizten both gasped and then wheezed.
Rudolph's poor red nose was dripping with ooze,
And then the poor reindeer threw up on Dean's shoes.
Sam laughed out loud as his brother went 'Ewww!"
Then Rudolph threw up and he got Sam's shoes, too.
"Well, Francis," growled Dean, "Don't just stand there, be quick –
Just what do you do when a reindeer is sick?"
"I never did Vet Sci," frowned Sam, "I'm afraid
"I only did pre-law – I won't be much aid."
"I just need your help here," St Nicholas told them,
"I have reindeer medicine – you can just hold them."
He took down a bottle of reindeer elixir.
"We'll start off with Dasher, and this brew will fix her."
The reindeer were dosed until all medicated,
The worst of their symptoms were alleviated,
But it was quite clear they were not at their best.
"They can't work tonight, now, they'll all need to rest,"
Poor Santa Claus sighed, "They cannot pull the sleigh."
"That's terrible!" Sam cried, "There must be a way!"
"I wouldn't know where to start looking," St Nick
Sighed sadly, "For something that might do the trick."
"That little shit Crowley!" Dean's voice was quite shrill,
"I won't let him do this! I'm damned if I will!
He will not stop Christmas! I'll show him! He'll see!
St Nick, bring the harness, and then, follow me..."
He took up a handful of breeching and trace
And stormed back outside with a look on his face.
"I know what we'll do here, I think there's a way –
We'll harness up Baby, and she'll pull your sleigh."
"Dean, are you nuts?" Sam enquired. "It's your car!
And cars do not fly! Well, at least, not too far,
And only off cliffs, or sometimes off hills,
And humps, when your driving is giving me chills."
"Neither do reindeer," observed Santa Claus,
"But seeing this car, well it does give me pause,
No ordin'ry car, it would be fair to say,
There's magic about her to start, anyway."
They backed to the sleigh, they harnessed the car,
"Hang on, now," frowned Sam, "We won't get too far,
The reindeer have Rudolph to use his red nose,
To warn other aircraft wherever he goes.
It just isn't safe to go flying at night
If we don't have a warning, we don't have a light."
Then Jimi, the Winchesters' half-Hellhound dog,
Who'd been in the back seat, asleep like a log,
He climbed out the window and got to his feet,
Then sprang to the hood, and he there took a seat.
He stared at the night sky and over the snow
And his half-Hellhound eyes started gently to glow,
Like coals in a forge when the fire has been banked
(Or maybe Dean's eyes when he's been and got tanked).
His eyes shone more brightly until they fair blazed
Like they'd lit on a demon about to be razed.
"Well, boys, there's our beacon," the old man did laugh,
"The planes will see him from a mile and a half.
I ought to get going." He climbed on the sleigh.
"Come fly with me you two, see in Christmas Day."
"I'm not sure that's prudent," Sam looked at himself,
"Dean hates to fly; I'm too big for an elf."
"Nah, bro, it's all good," Dean did not hesitate.
"I've brought along this stuff to self-medicate."
He hauled himself up to the back of the sled,
Cradling the bottle of sick reindeer med,
And took a good swig. "Oh yeah, this stuff's best!
Drink some of this Sam, to put hair on your chest."
"You jerk," grumbled Sam, as he climbed to Dean's side,
"If you should sprout antlers, I'll say something snide."
Then Santa said "Make sure you hold on real good,
I'd say she has quite a bit under the hood..."
He lifted the reins and held fast to the knot,
"Now, Baby, rev up, girl! Let's see what you've got!"
The engine turned over, with throttle on full
As she took up the strain, and she started to pull.
The sleigh picked up speed as she roared over snow,
With Jimi's eyes lighting their path in the glow.
The snow in their faces, the wind in their hair,
The sleigh left the ground as she rose through the air...
If anyone had been right there to detect it,
Then Pere Noel's call would've been unexpected.
"On, Baby! On Chevy! Now give it the gas!
We'll circle the globe in one single night pass!
On Jimi! You light up the way for our flight,
And guide us through safely as we race the night!
We won't let that Crowley stop Christmas this year,
And he can go shove all his plots up his rear!"
"This flight shouldn't even be working, I think,"
Said Sam to his brother as Dean took a drink,
"The physics of flying a sleigh round the world,
Consider the speed at which it must be hurled:
There's 31 hours of continuous night
Crossing the time zones in one endless flight.
The distance is 76 million miles,
To get to each Christian child on census files,
At roughly 6-5-0 miles every second,
At least that's as close as the figure I've reckoned,
Or roundabout 3000 times fast as sound.
No reindeer – or Chevy – can cover that ground!
And then there's the payload we have to work out,
For 3-7-8 million kids, thereabout,
Let's say just one present, no more than a pound,
A half million tons, if the figure is round.
And speak of round figures, there's Santa himself –
He's rather substantial – this guy aint no elf!
You start moving that sort of mass through the air,
You find the resistance more than it can bear,
The force that the mass will experience, geez,
It cannot be less than seventeen thousand gs!
So first we'll be pulped into goo that will splash,
And then we'll burn up, disappear in a flash!"
Dean sighed rather sadly. "The problem, as such,
For you, little brother, is thinking too much.
Some things are beyond what a scientist knows,
It's a fact that the job that we do really shows.
So don't overanalyse thermodynamics,
Don't ponder too much on the aeromechanics.
Just go with the flow, Sam. You know what I think?
You need to just loosen up. Here, have a drink."
"No thanks," said Sam shuddering, "What's in that stuff?
What fixes up reindeer when they're feeling rough?"
"I dunno," his brother said, taking a slurp,
Sighing and smiling and doing a burp.
Santa peered down at the snow banks and drifts.
"Maybe you boys could help out with the gifts."
"So, what do we do?" asked the Winchester boys.
"You just have to take them, the presents, the toys,
And throw them all off from the back of the sleigh.
It's unmanned technology finding the way."
"Hey that's really cool!" exclaimed Dean as he saw
A present he'd thrown overboard dip and soar,
And find its way straight down a chimney alone.
"Santa has UAVs! Who would've known?"
"Let's hope that we stay off the radar," griped Sam,
"Or we'll just have to hope that he has missile jam."
So Baby roared on through the long darkened night,
And Jimi's Hell-eyes kept their path lit up bright,
The Winchesters heaved all the presents away
To find their way into homes for Christmas day.
It went on and on, and it seemed like forever,
But Santa's flight path plot was terribly clever,
And just as the sun peeked up into the dawn,
Baby set back down on Santa's white lawn.
"Another job finished," sighed Nick with a smile.
"I sure haven't cut it that fine for a while!
You did a fine job, Baby, Jimi did, too,
It could've all failed if it wasn't for you."
He patted the dog, and he patted the car.
"You boys want a nightcap? Your trip will be far,
To get yourselves home for your own Christmas day.
Maybe some breakfast to be on your way?"
"Maybe some breakfast," Dean grinned like a fool.
"Bacon and eggs for me! Sam will have gruel."
"Oh, you're such a jerk," muttered Sam with rolled eyes,
"So much pure asshole in such a small size."
They bickered and sniped as they followed St Nick
Back into his house, where some food did the trick,
Fed and contented, they set forth to roam,
Two work-weary Hunters, now headed for home.
Singer's car salvage was quiet and dark,
The boys didn't talk and their dog didn't bark,
They headed upstairs and they fell in their beds,
And visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads,
(Which must've been side effects, really, because
Neither Dean or Sam knew what a sugar-plum was).
But they woke the next morning to presents galore
All strewn in the living-room over the floor,
And Bobby stood scratching his head, and said, "Well,
Where all of these came from, I really can't tell..."
The only small hint was a very small note,
"To the Winchesters. Thanks." Santa Claus wrote.
Shampoo and journals, a laptop for Sam,
Some dolphin-safe organic strawberry jam,
Some tools and some ammo and booze were for Dean,
Along with some DVDs fairly obscene.
A pretty good Christmas, by Winchester years,
With presents, and absence of wounds or of tears,
They lifted their glasses with smile and with smirk:
"Merry Christmas, you big bitch."
"Right back at ya, jerk."
oooOOOooo oooOOOooo oooOOOooo oooOOOooo
And just a day later, Sam woke to a sight
That was half hilarious and half a fright,
But Bobby assured them it was temporary.
"Sam, it's not funny!" "Oh, yes it is! Very!
I warned you but you didn't listen to me,
And now you've got them for it... hee hee hee hee!"
Sam took some pictures to Bobby to send...
But Dean's antlers did disappear by week's end.
THE END
Christmas. Bah Humbug. Wake me when it's over...
Reviews are the Giftwrapped Winchester Of Your Choice Under The Christmas Tree Of Life!*
*If you are a fan of Castiel, you may have him perching atop your tree.