Summary: Dean reflects as Christmas approachesand rediscovers perfection.
A/N: I'm not sure if this is completely in character, but it's just a random, peaceful little tale. I don't know. It doesn't really have a plot. I just thought maybe they needed the peace and quiet (I know I do after a day full of hyperactive high school students right before Christmas).
Almost Perfect
Dean shivered.
He sniffled, pulling the collar of his coat up higher. It was early evening and the sky was already dark. He could feel the metal of the bench melt icily through his jeans, seeping deep into his leg muscles.
Why hadn't he looked for a gig someplace warmer--like Florida or California? He had always preferred to pass the winter months in the warmer states. But supernatural beings, he supposed, liked all sorts of different climates.
But this year, he reminded himself, was different. He had spent the last four years purposefully ignoring Christmas. He had avoided shopping centers, never turned on the radio, and watched TV selectively as to not be inundated with constant reminders of the joy everyone around him was allowed to have.
He could never get away from it, though. It was always there. He caught the tail end of carols on the radio, he couldn't avoid shoppers bustling with bags and bags of gifts, and he sneaked snippets of holiday specials.
Those things always made him think of Sam. He would wonder if his baby brother was out shopping too, if he had someone to buy gifts for. Where did Sam go for Christmas? Was he nestled warm with some other family in front of a Christmas tree, drinking eggnog and singing carols?
He wasn't sure whether that thought made him happy or sad. He wanted Sam to be happy, he really did, but he couldn't deny the deeply buried resentment that Sam might find happiness somewhere else apart from him. Not when all of Dean's happiness in life seemed to stem from the brother who had left him.
The questions were too hard to think about, so he tried not to think about them at all. John never even mentioned Christmas, so Dean could easily let it fade into the background of his life.
But his father was missing, and Sam was back. He didn't know about that either. Sam's returned was a result of two negatives--his father's disappearance and Jessica's death. The emotional turmoil was not something Dean relished--it threatened his macho facade--and he knew it wore away at Sam. He knew because it wore away at him, too. Dean was just always a better liar.
He sighed and looked out across the park. Sam had went to talk to a local historian about the mystery involving their latest case. Dean had mingled with some locals at a bar trying to get the rumors spreading around town. They had agreed to meet back at the park, a few blocks from their motel. He had figured he'd beat Sam back. Sam was thorough, detailed. Dean was quick and to the point.
He missed that about his brother, though--the care he took in the details. He had always been the one to focus on the background, to understand things. Dean used to make fun of him, make a show of exasperation while Sam delineated seemingly irrelevant details. But someone had to check the facts, and Dean was just glad that Sam was back to do it.
The park was decked out in Christmas cheer. A colorful display of lights brightened up a proud tree in the center. The lamp posts were wrapped with lighted garland and lighted snowflakes were fastened to the streetlights.
He was glad Sam was with him; he wasn't sure he could have made it through another Christmas without him.
The Winchesters probably never would have celebrated Christmas if it wasn't for Sam. Christmas was about innocence and joy--two things the older Winchesters had lost long ago. But when they looked into Sammy's eyes--it was there. A hope. An inexplicable, indefatigable hope.
That alone made the farce worth it. Christmas thrilled Sam. He eagerly put out the store bought cookies on a paper plate for Santa and smiled for joy as he ripped open the one or two shoddily wrapped packages under the pile of brush John had gathered as an excuse for a Christmas tree.
It didn't matter how little it all was. Because Sam still believed in it; his hope made it magical. He made paper ornaments to adorn the tree. He meticulously wrote letters to Santa, tentative in the requests, but audacious in his belief. Even when he asked for things he never got, he kept believing, kept hoping.
Dean didn't know when it began to change; probably around the same time Sammy became Sam. It was a slow and sure process, and Christmas disappeared into the history of the Winchester family.
In his teens, Sam was irritable during Christmas. Dean let him be, or chided him, but he knew it was because Sam missed the innocence of the holiday, the purity of the celebrations they used to have.
Dean wanted to do something, to revitalize it for them all, but none of them felt very innocent or pure, and he didn't know how to fix that.
Now when he looked at his baby brother, sometimes all he could see was grief, anger, rage. He could see the barren determination when he set out to avenge Jessica. He could see the untempered frustration in his quest for his father. He could see the terror, quickly squelched, when a nightmare shook him from his sleep. And he could see the pure hate, the unadulterated anger in his eyes. He knew what happened at the asylum was not entirely Sam, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt him, that he didn't see that look in Sam's eyes right before he fell asleep.
He shivered again, but not from the cold.
The air was still and the park was relatively quiet, save a few well-bundled people walking their dogs.
He almost laughed. Sometimes he couldn't stop himself. People filled their lives with so many mundane, irrelevant tasks.
A jogger bustled passed him, her breath curling around her face. Through her panting, she offered Dean a small smile and a nod.
Irrelevant, maybe, but peaceful, content--two things none of the Winchesters seemed familiar with anymore.
A light snow began to fall and Dean considered seeking Sam out. His thighs were numb and he wiggled his toes to check their circulation.
But as he thought about leaving, he realized how beautiful it was.
There was already a layer of snow on the ground, hardened and somewhat browned on the edges. But in the dark it still looked pristine, and the newly falling flakes danced around him, shimmering under the streetlights, gently coating the trees with a serene splendor.
It looked like a scene from a movie. It was a perfect moment.
Almost perfect.
"Dean?"
Dean jumped and looked up at his brother, who was looking at him questioningly.
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you, what's it look like?" he snapped back. He sat up straight, trying to look sure of himself.
"Right." Sam didn't sound convinced. He shook his head and started to speak. "Well, the historian told me the legend of a woman name Rachael Woodson. She was the mayor's daughter."
Dean heard Sam's voice and tried to focus, but he couldn't get away from the image before him.
"Her parents wanted her to marry..." His voice trailed off. "Dean?"
Dean's eyes glanced back at Sam. "Huh?"
"Are you listening to me at all?"
"Yeah, yeah, mayor's daughter, marriage."
Sam scowled. "I thought you wanted to try to get this gig done before Christmas."
"I do."
"Then why are you just sitting there. I mean, didn't you find anything out?"
"Yeah, sure, it's just..." He couldn't find the words and he let his eyes drift back to the scene in front of him. The snow was falling faster now, coating the sidewalk and dusting the brothers' hair.
"It's just...what?"
Dean could almost remember the way Sammy loved to climb into his snow pants and trudge out into the snow. He would play out there all day, would have played until he froze to death if Dean had let him. He'd build snowmen, forts, snow angels.
"Dean?"
Sam used to beg him to walk around at night around Christmas to see all the lights. He would squeal with delight as they passed spectacular displays, jumping excitedly to see all the different arrangements in people's yards. Sam used to ask him to make up stories about the people who lived in the large, two-story houses they passed, with bright Christmas trees, carefully trimmed. Sam was so happy, so content, even though he had so little.
"Dean?"
Dean looked up at his brother finally. "Sit down, Sammy."
Sam looked confused. "Is everything okay?"
"Just sit down and shut up, Sammy."
Sam obeyed, perching on the bench. They sat for a moment. The only sound around was the soft padding of the snow as it fell upon the ground.
"What are we doing, Dean?"
"Just look around," Dean instructed. "Don't you see?"
Sam looked out at the vacant park. "What?"
"The snow, Sam. The lights, the sky--everything. It's perfect, Sammy."
Sam studied the landscape again, taking in what Dean had said. "I always loved white Christmases."
Dean grinned. "I know. You used to ask Santa for that every year, even when we lived in places where it didn't snow."
Sam laughed. "I thought Santa was all powerful."
Dean smiled slightly, sadly. "You never got what you wanted, though."
"Maybe I never knew what I really wanted."
Dean glanced at his brother, who was now staring pensively into the landscape. He had gotten his brother a book and a CD for Christmas, and it suddenly seemed terribly meager. After all, he knew the one thing his brother had always craved and the one thing he had always forced Sam to keep as a fantasy. "We can finish this gig after Christmas."
Sam turned to Dean, surprised. "What do you mean?"
Looking away, Dean shook his head. "I mean that we don't have to rush this. We could...take some time."
"Time for what?"
Dean shrugged, and turned back to his brother. The lights reflected in Sam's eyes, and Dean saw a glimmer of the hope and innocence he had always cherished in his little brother. "Life."
Sam cocked his head, uncertain. Then, slowly, a smile began to spread across his face. "We haven't done that in awhile."
"No. But there's no time like the present."
They both leaned back, staring out over the whitened benches and walkways, snow falling, glittering in the glow from the lights.
"It's amazing, isn't it?" Sam asked. "Almost a perfect Christmas scene."
"Nah, Sammy," Dean said, looking at his brother. "It is perfect."