Author's Note: I know, it's been a while. But I'm back, and I've brought a bunch of holiday themed angst with me, yay! This chapter was too long, so I split it into two parts, the second of which should be up very soon, pending a bit of fine tuning.
She hadn't wanted to come home for Christmas, not really, not so soon after. The thought occurred to her to lie, lie like a dog on a rug, say she had a new boyfriend, and he desperately wanted her to meet his parents. Or a group of girls she'd grown really close to had invited her to go skiing over the break – isn't that what nice, friendly, rich girls do? – and it would be a really great experience.
She knew her parents wouldn't say no, knew they'd consider something like that to be good for her, a sign she was moving on, getting past Maya's death. The reality of course, was that she wasn't, had actually spent the past several months falling even deeper into that all consuming pit.
There was no new boyfriend. There was no group of super sweet rich girls. There was only the overwhelming feeling of dread when thinking about being with her family, without her.
But she did miss them, almost tearing up whenever talking to her parents over the phone, or reading one of Uncle Dean's ridiculous and rambling emails. She missed Ava's sugar-high type voice, Michael's seemingly always increasing ego – which anyone could see he simply played up for laughs. She missed the feel of her mother's fingers in her hair and the deep rumbling of her father's laugh, the light lines and cracks that filled her uncle's face when he really smiled. And she missed Samantha, that precocious little troublemaker that somehow always made her feel better.
So she came home, four days before Christmas, got off the plane and was greeted this time by a warm and smiling group of boys, men – her father who embraced her quickly and fully, uncle who gave her the evil assessing eye and told her she was too thin – what the hell is it with California, don't they feed people there?
Michael handed her a long, sloppily written list of all the things he wanted for Christmas that he figured she could afford, an explicit warning of, you better get started, don't have much time and a lot of it's probably already sold out. And John, whom she was surprised to find was taller than her, might have been for some time in fact and how could she not notice? He leaned into her and softly said, as was so often his way, "Welcome home." The idea of which nearly set her to tears.
"Daaad," she emits in shrill eight-year-old whine before actually slapping his hand away. "No!"
"What?" he asks innocently. "I'm just trying to help."
"They are gingerbread men," she says deliberately, "not gingerbread warriors."
"Gladiators," he corrects with a crooked smile, holding up his armless masterpiece, crudely painted toga and red icing covering his small brown body.
"That's sick," Rachel comments, leaning over his shoulder to get a glimpse. She turns around, still stirring together the glompy dough. "When I gave you those I thought you would eat them, not…do that."
He makes a psh sound, says, "Wasteful, just because they're not fully intact," and lays on some more blood.
She shakes her head, a gesture mirrored by Samantha, and says with a sigh, "What would Baby Jesus say?"
"Yeah, Dad," Sammy parrots in a too mature manner, "What would the Baby Jesus say?"
"Waaah," he mocks before smirking to himself and saying with a coy lilt, "I'd be more concerned about what Santa'd say anyway. He's the one who holds the fate of my new sound system in his chubby little hands."
"You're going to Hell," Rachel says, one long finger pointed in his face.
"Yeah, like I've never been told that before," he responds smugly.
Samantha quirks up one eyebrow as she swipes her father's gladiator, bites off the bloody head and says, crumbs spilling over her lips, "Mommy tells him all the time."
"Well, she would know," he mutters under his breath, just bitterly enough to earn a knock it off smack to the arm from Rachel. "Ow," he gripes, snatching the remainder of the cookie from his daughter's hand and, in a move mirroring hers, shoves it into his mouth, chewing as he speaks. "You beat on your boyfriend like that?"
She glares at him out of the corner of one eye, plainly sees that he's fishing for info more than making benign conversation. "Which one?" she asks innocently, causing his smile to falter, chewing pace to still.
"How many boyfriends do you have?" Samantha asks without looking up, consumed in her decorating project.
"Dozens," she replies bluntly.
Dean swallows hard, gazes at her assessingly. He's pretty sure she's lying, exaggerating at the very least. But the whole implication leaves him feeling unsteady. He starts to say something about her being full of shit, but before the words can leave his mouth he hears his daughter say in sweet and unassuming singsong, "I have two."
The cookie cutter is left laying on top of the rolled out dough, Rachel's hand lingering above it without ever pressing it in, all her attention instead shifting to her cousin. "Really?" she asks, both surprise and amusement filling her voice.
Dean shifts toward the girl, tries to keep his demeanor calm, voice steady, when he says, "What are you talking about?"
She wipes up a smear of green icing from the counter, licks it clean off her finger tip and turns to smile at him with wide colored teeth – and two gaping holes in front. "Don't be silly, Daddy," she says in an obviously placating tone. "You know Tony and Seth."
"Who and who?" he asks, feeling his resolve give way.
"Tony and Seth," she repeats, giving him a duh look, "my boyfriends."
He lets out a nervous laugh, gaze flickering from his daughter to his niece, both girls offering straight stares. The laughter stops, odd half smile on his face quickly shifting into a frown as he turns and charges from the room, "Ava!" nearly shaking the walls.
"So easy," Samantha murmurs, head shaking back and forth, once Dean's out of ear shot.
And for the first time since she's been back, Rachel really, truly laughs.
"So how many boyfriends do you really have?" Sammy questions as her cousin's giggles begin to wane.
"Oh, uh…none," she tells her with a grin and a bump of her hip. "How about you? Tony and Seth for real?"
She makes a disgusted face, eyes still plastered to the decorating project before her. "They're real, but…ewwwww."
"Samantha," stuns the both of them out of their brief laughter, Sarah looming behind them in the doorway. "I don't know what you said to your father, but he seems very upset." Her whole face breaks into a wide, coy smile as she approaches the girls.
"See what you did?" Rachel chides. "Gone and started a fight."
Sammy merely snorts, an act so like her father in both method and manner that it's almost startling. "They always fight," she mutters absently, referring to her parents.
Sarah maneuvers herself behind her daughter to get to the oven, open it up and remove another sheet of men while saying, "Oh, they do not."
"Uh, yeah, they do," is the smart alek response. Then, as she turns back to grimly focus on her icing work, "They do now."
Sarah and Rachel both go silent, neither really knowing what to say, both sensing the sudden mood shift in the room. It was true though, even if neither of them had noticed, one being physically absent, the other mentally, from their family for some time now.
Dean and Ava fought. Sam and Sarah barely spoke. And both their children were more than aware of those facts.
"I'm sure they're fine, honey," Sarah says, laying a light hand on top of her niece's dark waves. Rachel looks over at her mother, each exchanging sad faux smiles briefly before Sarah perks up, notices something out of the corner of her eye, and says, pointing to one of Dean's gladiator cookies, "What the hell is that?"
It's Christmas Eve and all is seemingly well. Seemingly. Because Rachel managed to convince her father and uncle to put up the lights outside, including the giant Santa on the roof, which was no small feat for the two bickering brothers. And all the different types of necessary foods had been prepared with care – tree shaped sugar cookies and well dressed gingerbread men, chocolate chip, snickerdoodles, butter cookies. Ava made a roast with all the trimmings. The tree's sparkling in the next room, complete with big gaudy lights and evenly spread tinsel. All the decorations are out and carols are filtering through the speakers.
And it's all just…awful.
But no one admits it. Each and every one of them smiling and laughing and proving that life goes on, even if not a one of them actually believes it.
Last Christmas had been just as chaotic as all the ones before. Even with the kids being older, Winchester-bred insanity rarely waned, never ceased. Michael and John sang carols, only the ones they didn't know the words to, making up new and inappropriate lyrics that made Ava cringe, Christmas lover that she is, and Sarah giggle, always one for messing with tradition.
Rachel relayed all the details of every interesting class, every scholarly debate undertaken, to her father, Sam paying such close attention even while sipping at his wine that at one point she even told him, "I promise, Dad, there won't be a test." Samantha giggled, peppermint scent filtering up as her head lay heavily in Rache's lap – exhausted after dancing, with sugar-induced intensity, in circles all evening – candy cane slowly dissolving in her mouth.
Maya had a cold. That's all she really remembers. There aren't any warm and fuzzy memories of their last Christmas together, no great and wonderful gifts exchanged between the two sisters – a couple of sweaters and a watch she'd found at a resale shop by the pier from her. A CD of quality music and a pair of leather boots she'd forgotten to take back to California with her, knows for a fact Maya wore all the time in her absence, from her sister.
All she really remembers about Maya's involvement last year, was that there wasn't any. She didn't help with the cookies because she was germy, so Rachel wouldn't let her. She didn't help with the lights because Sam was convinced she'd catch pneumonia, no matter how bundled she'd have been. She didn't help with the tree or the decorations or anything else because…well, because, again, Rachel didn't want her spreading her germs all over her perfect holiday.
And once the day had come, the whole family gathered together to celebrate, Maya, the stuffy, coughing mess spent most of the evening laying on the couch, at times with her head on Sarah's lap, feet on Dean's, or leaning against John while watching TV. She doesn't remember her saying anything, other than one quick and fleeting comment about Michael's new friend.
She had blended so seamlessly into the background, always there even without doing anything. She could picture her over on the couch now, could pretend that she was just upstairs sleeping, going to bed early like she had just one year before. But her absence was more than just physical.
Even with everyone trying so hard, seeming so…content, there was an obvious, absolute absence, a niggling sort of something's missing. Even the presents under the tree seem tiny and sparse, as though Maya's had taken up such a noticeable amount of room.
But it is different, no matter how much they don't want to admit it. No one sings or runs or dances or plays. Conversation is forced. At one point the silence drags on for nearly an hour, no one saying a word, all seemingly so engrossed in A Christmas Story on TV. And at that, they barely even laugh, all ridiculous, light-hearted magic gone from their holiday.
It's not until after ten that the tension finally sparks something, quick, ill-mannered jabs between Sam and Rachel taking the place of their usual catch-up conversations. Because she doesn't want to talk about school, not even a little. So when her father pushes her she lets out, bitterly and easily, the news that she had bombed at least one final, maybe two, a thing that sets Sam's face into a stony, angry line.
"I'm sure you tried your best," Ava nearly whispers from across the room, eager to dispel the tension.
But she's had enough. Enough of this stupid holiday, this ridiculous farce. "No," she says simply, rising to her feet, "I didn't."
Sam doesn't move, makes no attempt to go after her as she heads for the door. He simply issues out a deep and dejected, "Rachel," by way of a warning.
She doesn't so much as acknowledge the sound of his voice, lazily clomping out of the room, leaving the lot of them to their pathetic little celebration, as she swipes her coat and hat before venturing out into the welcome cold.