So, how was everybody's Christmas? I got Guitar Hero 2 and spent four hours tyring to unlock Carry On Wayward Son, which I then butchered. Also, I finished writing this story on Christmas Eve and it's the longest yet at 100 pages (that's 20 chapters in all). So, sit back, relax, and get ready for a while, loooong ride :)
Merry Christmas!
Sam was surprised he'd never noticed it before. Even if Dean had stopped the annoying habit before facing down a woman in white with him, it still struck the youngest member of the Winchester clan as odd that he'd never paid close enough attention to his brother's nervous habit to pick up on it before.
"You're making me dizzy," Sam said, glancing away from the old TV to watch Dean start another lap around the near-by chair.
"He's not here," Dean muttered, "why isn't he here?"
Sam glanced back into the kitchen, where the breakfast dishes were still soaking. "It's still early."
"It's the twenty-third. He should be here."
"Maybe he's running late."
Dean stopped his pacing to turn on his brother. "It's dad. He's never late."
The older man shrugged. "Maybe the hunt ran long. Maybe he's gonna be a while."
"But he promised," Dean whined.
Sam blinked. That plaintive tone, the pacing, what else had he missed through the years? "Well, hey, he's normally gone on Christmas anyway, so what's the big deal this year?"
"He said he'd be here," the teen repeated, "he promised me he'd come back in time to celebrate with us. He'd told me we'd spend Christmas as a family."
"He used to say that to me a lot," Sam muttered.
"And he didn't lie," Dean pointed out, plopping down in the chair he'd been circling.
"Yeah, he did. He was never there."
"Dude, what am I? Chopped liver?"
Sam mentally kicked himself. "No, I just… I thought you meant… you know?"
He was surprised to see Dean smile. "Relax, would ya? Geez, you're easy to mess with."
Sammy forced a grin. "Yeah, well… I'm just saying that we maybe shouldn't look forward to dad getting back. This wouldn't be the first time he's blown off holidays."
Dean nodded sadly. "Birthdays," he muttered, "He always misses my birthday."
"And Easter."
Another sad nod. "I have to hide the stupid eggs for you, and you never find 'em all."
"Thanksgiving."
"If I have to make one more freakin' turkey-"
"Independence Day."
"And the Fourth of July," Dean added, "he misses that, too."
Sam blinked and turned wide eyes on his brother. "Uh, Dean?"
The teenager cracked another smile. "That's what I'm talking about, man. Twelve years hasn't helped you at all. Still just a gullible as the day you were born. Which is how gullible you were before you woke up like, three feet taller than when you went to bed."
It was Sam's turn to smile. "I wasn't three feet tall when I was twelve."
"You were close."
"Sure," Sam snorted, "whatever you say."
Dean shook his head. "Stop trying to change the subject."
"You're the one who wandered off the holiday path," the older man pointed out, "not me. Besides, the other conversation was so depressing. It's Christmas. We should be talking about mistletoe and mangers and salvation, or something."
"And then maybe Charlie Brown will finally get to kick that football. I just want to know where dad is."
Sammy sighed. "Well, don't ask me, because I can't remember anything from this Christmas."
"You think you're gonna get stuck here?"
The older man shrugged. "No idea. Maybe."
"Don't think dad's gonna like that."
"Dad's not here."
"He will be."
"You said it yourself, Dean," Sam pointed out, "dad misses birthdays and Easter and Thanksgiving. He usually misses Christmas, too. He's not coming back."
"But he promised!"
Now who's the broken record? Sam wondered to himself as he again picked up that desperate tone in his brother's voice. "He'll probably be here. I mean, he was back by New Year's Eve last year, wasn't he?"
Dean shrugged. "He came back on Christmas Day, yeah."
"Well there ya go," Sammy smiled, "he'll be back eventually."
"He was drunk," Dean muttered, "and he told me… he just said some stuff he shouldn't have said and then he passed out, all right?"
"What did he tell you?"
The teenager sighed, hanging his head. "He made fun of my cooking."
"Your cooking? You were offended because our drunkard of a dad insulted your cooking?"
"It's not like we had money for anything good, and I wasn't expecting company. I just made a couple of sandwiches for myself. He didn't like 'em."
"Where was I?"
"You were at Robby's place. He was last year's Jimmy."
"Oh."
"You had fun, though," Dean said, offering a reassuring smile that seemed a little too fake.
"Well," Sam said slowly, "I'm thinking about sticking around this year."
"Really?" There was a new tone of voice, one Sam hadn't heard from his brother in quite a while. It was hopeful.
He shrugged. "Yeah, you know, if dad doesn't come back in time. I'm not gonna leave you alone on Christmas."
"But-"
"Not anymore," Sam amended.
"What about me? In the future? Won't I be alone twelve years from now if you stay here?"
"I think you can handle it. Besides, for all we know, you woke up the other day to find a twelve year old in the room with you."
Dean smiled. "What if dad does get back in time? Would you still stay?"
He shrugged again. "I'd think about it. If dad wanted me to."
"Well, what if I wanted you to?"
"I thought you just wanted dad."
Dean averted his eyes, gazing at the flickering television without really seeing it. "Even when he's here," he said slowly, "dad's not always the most attentive. Not to me, at least. That's why I didn't want you to go to Jimmy's. Dad'll be more invested if you're around. He'll be happier. He won't come stumbling in drunk. He loves you."
The last sentence was a whisper, but Sam had caught it. He was starting to worry that his stomach would soon find itself permanently knotted. "He loves you, too," he attempted weakly.
Dean shook his head. "Not since I was nine." He looked over at Sam with wide eyes, hurt eyes, scared eyes. "He couldn't care less about me. That's why I have to keep you safe. That's why you can't leave." He swallowed hard. "You're the only thing keeping him around. If you leave, he will, too."
Sam stared at his brother, the truth of the statement hitting home. Dean was right. He was right, and if he'd thought that way since he was sixteen…
"He did, didn't he? He left after you did?"
"He went looking for the thing that killed mom."
"Did he come back?" Dean asked softly.
Sam nodded. "Yeah. He came back."
"After you came back?"
The older man paused. He had left his family. Four years later, John had done the same. The only difference was that Dean was the only one left to leave at that point. Sam had gone back after Jessica's death, and a few months later, John had shown up again. Dean was right.
The teen shook his head. "I try," he admitted, "so hard. I just want to be perfect. I've done everything I can think of, I've followed every order. Sam, what's wrong with me?"
"You… there's nothing wrong with you," Sam replied after a second's pause, a moment's hesitation. That silence had seemed to drag on forever, though. It had told his brother more than a few stunned words of reassurance ever could. Nothing was wrong with him, and yet, somehow, everything was wrong with him.
"He told me," Dean whispered slowly, as if trying to decide whether or not it was worth it to take the plunge, "he said that a good son would have made him a real Christmas dinner. I want to be good."
Sam just stared at him, awestruck. There was definitely something magical about Christmas, something that brought long-hidden secrets bubbling from behind his brother's towering mental walls. It was almost too much to take.
"He tells me to be faster and stronger and smarter, and then he turns around and slaps you on the back and goes to your school plays and laughs with your teachers about how good you are. He never even went to my school conferences… or the plays. He was always busy."
"He was saving people." Sam couldn't believe that he'd said it, couldn't believe that he'd actually defended his father, a man he'd hated for most of his life.
"They were more important than me."
The older man closed his eyes and sighed. "They were innocent."
"I was, too. A long time ago. And then… he told me to take care of you. And I made sure you never had to worry about the monsters or the danger or anything. I thought I did good. Wasn't it enough? Nine years? You got to be a kid for nine years. And then you found out… and dad found out you found out and he yelled at me. I tried, though. Wasn't that good enough?"
"It was."
"Then why'd you leave?"
"I had to get away from dad. I had to try and be normal."
Dean dropped his gaze again. "Could I? Do you think I could be like everyone else? Do you think I could go with you?"
"I think it would be hard."
"But I could do it. Because I've thought about it. Just leaving in the middle of the night and running until I thought dad would never find us again and then starting over." He looked back up at Sam. "I could pass for eighteen. I could be your legal guardian."
"Why are you telling me this?"
Dean smiled sadly. "Because I know you won't tell. Not like before. Not like with Jimmy. You're different now. You're older. I can trust you."
Sam sighed, slumping his shoulders. Had all of that really been pent up inside his brother? Had it really all just come spilling out in a torrential confession that left him feeling numb inside? Was he really being expected to not look at his brother differently after that? Because to look at him differently would be to act like his father. And Dean and John had their problems.
"When do you think dad's gonna get home?" Dean asked again, back to pacing around his chair, as if the conversation had never happened.
o0o0o0o0o0o
It had been a grainy TV and leftovers kind of day in the current Winchester house. There had been no more talk of abandonment or emotional damage, no more talking about futilely attempting to fix what had never been broken, but many more mentions of their father's whereabouts.
Sam rolled onto his side to glance at the digital clock that sat between the room's two beds. It was almost midnight. Almost Christmas Eve. And still no sign of John.
He rolled back over, staring up at the dark ceiling, watching shadows play across the plaster. He'd been sitting numbly in front of the television set for most of the day, just trying to process what his brother had told him.
Dean was right. He just couldn't get over that fact. Dean was right… in his own, twisted way, of course. His mind had put the pieces together, but it had skewed some things, placed them incorrectly. He'd jumped to conclusions and had stumbled across an eerie coincidence.
He looked back at the clock, knowing that he should get some sleep, but unable to quiet his busy mind. The numbers changed as he gazed at them, ushering in a new day. The other bed creaked.
He stayed still, thinking he might have disturbed his brother's rest with his own tossing and turning. When he didn't hear anything else, he let himself relax, his eyes sliding shut, mind finally giving up its desperate attempt to figure out the mystery that was Dean Winchester.
Sam drifted slowly off to sleep around 12:30, one last sound resonating before he finally let oblivion take him (or maybe after- it could have been a dream): his brother's voice whispering, "I wish…"
o0o0o0o0o0o
John Winchester wasn't entirely sure how he'd gotten home. Most of the drive had been a blur, as if something was pushing him away from his unfinished hunt, He'd headed out of the forest where he'd been tracking the ghoul around 12:30 and made it back to Clarkson in record time.
He crept up the stairs to the room that his sons shared, anxious to see the surprise written on their young faces when he woke them. Sure, he'd abandoned a hunt, but the ghoul wasn't bloodthirsty and it was cold outside, which would stop people from wandering into its territory. Besides, for some reason, he just couldn't bring himself to leave once he'd stepped through the door and into the small house. Not to mention that it was Christmas.
He nudged the door to his sons' room open, peeked inside, and instantly switched back into Hunter Mode.
