AN: Christmas schmoop with a little humor. Set at some point where the guys are in the bunker and it's relatively quiet, and before the adoption of Miracle.
The story was inspired by a comment from Colby's girl.
Janice provided her incomparable beta services. (Thank you!)
For those of you waiting for the rest of Subdural, it is coming very soon. Promise.
Happy holidays to everyone!
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In Dean's defense, he only opened the box because it was labeled "Rum." Even the Men of Letters could get their drink on, as evidenced by the entire room full of wine and more fun alcohol they'd come across not long after they'd moved in along with the fancy crystal decanters and glasses they now sipped their whiskey from when they were home. (And even though Dean didn't admit it, it somehow made even the cheap stuff taste better.)
The box didn't have symbols on it to indicate that it was a curse box or anything dangerous. Sure, it was on a shelf in a room that seemed to be chock-full of items with an arcane bent, but rum. Drinking it always made Dean feel like a pirate. He knew he would have made an awesome pirate, too.
The problem hadn't been obvious immediately after Dean had opened the box. Its contents looked innocuous and very non-alcoholic. There was an old leather collar, perhaps the right size for a Chihuahua. A shiny bead hung from it, and the word Rum was etched into the leather. There were more of the beads loose in the box, too, but nothing to explain the whiff of ozone in the air.
"Huh. I w--" Dean started, then spun to catch a glimpse of movement. He would've sworn he saw a tail exit the room, but it was so fleeting that he couldn't be sure of anything.
"Crap, crap, crap, crap!" Dean chanted under his breath. He had to fix this. Whatever "this" was. He couldn't face another "you can't act like a kid in a candy store, Dean, because the stuff in the bunker is dangerous" speech. Sam didn't have to act like a parent, but he sure liked delivering that speech. He'd done it when Dean had tried the Men of Letter's hangover cure and couldn't sleep for three days afterward and when he'd cut himself on the cutlass (cutlass! How was he supposed to resist?) and the wound had turned magically necrotic, requiring Rowena's help to fix or when he'd...huh. Maybe Sam did need to act a little bit like a parent. Not that Dean would tell him that in a million years.
Dean closed the lid of the box and set it back on the shelf, thinking hard. What if he'd released one of those booze ghost monsters that they'd helped Garth gank? They still had the katana and hopefully the blessing didn't have a shelf life. He'd just have to get drunk to hunt it. And somehow not let Sam in on what was happening. Wait.
He had an idea. "Sammy? You want some eggnog?" he called.
He'd decided that they were going to actually "do Christmas" this year and had even found an old, artificial tree deep in the Men of Letters' stores. Sam had done all kinds of incomprehensible things to it and finally determined that it was no more or less than exactly what it looked like. One quick trip to Walmart and they had all kinds and lights and ornaments and quickly learned that the lights have to go on first or the whole thing's a cluster. Sam had added the silver tinsel Dean had mocked him for selecting and they put the wooden Samulet the theater girl had given him on the top and it looked nice. Really nice. It gave Dean a warm feeling every time he saw it.
A few wrapped gifts had even appeared under the tree one day, and Dean had been given strict instructions to ignore them. Of course, he'd snuck out and carefully unwrapped one that night, only to find it empty except for a note informing him that if he so much as touched any of the gifts again before Christmas, Sam would return everything he'd picked up.
It killed Dean, but that tantalizing "everything" convinced him to behave. He even went out and bought some ridiculously expensive special water-wicking sweatshirt and gloves for Sam to jog in.
The pretty girl at the counter wrapped them, and Dean made a point to put them under the tree when Sam was in the room. There. Let him have something to obsess over too.
In any case, the imminent arrival of the Christmas gave Dean an excuse for some holiday cheer, right?
"Dean, it isn't even noon," came Sam's reply, somehow sounding both patient and bewildered at the same time.
"Killjoy. It's almost Christmas." Dean mixed eggnog almost to the strength that Sam would've because he preferred his sweet drinks to have the potency of rocket fuel. But Dean also made French toast with the super dense bread that Phyllis at the bakery had perfected. And he put some of his home-roasted brown sugar pecans on it (because those things were the shit) along with real butter and real maple syrup because Sam needed some nice food. He even put some of the cantaloupe Sam had cut up the night before in a bowl and brought it all to Sam.
Sam wasn't grateful. He was thrilled. He made some of his expensive coffee and poured Dean a huge mug without complaining that he didn't properly appreciate it. Dean ate and tried not to think about just how freaking domestic they'd become.
"This is a meal even the rich douche versions of us would appreciate," he said just to make Sam laugh.
But Dean couldn't totally relax. After all, there was a Japanese alcohol ghost in their home. So he drank his eggnog with his meal and kept the shotgun loaded with salt nearby. Sam looked at the gun askance, and Dean gave him some half-assed explanation that he needed to clean it when they were done eating and he was just keeping it in sight so he didn't forget.
As soon as he was finished and washed up (because syrup might be the nectar of the gods, but it was also the stickiest substance on planet Earth) Dean tracked down the katana he needed. He'd given up on the eggnog and was just carrying the bottle of Captain Morgan he'd used to spike the stuff.
Dean prowled the corridors and nooks of the bunker for hours, drinking just enough to keep himself tipsy, which was harder than it sounded. At one point, he heard Sam calling for him, so he shoved the katana and the bourbon he'd switched to into the closest room and let Sam find him.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked. He looked concerned instead of accusing, so that was something. "Are you...drunk?"
"No. A little. Are you hungry? I want Detroit-style pizza. From Marco's," Dean blurted. "But I can't go get it because I'm a little drunk. But I really want some. Please."
Sam's face went through an impressive range of expressions. He settled back on concerned. "Yeah, I'll go to Marco's. Are you sure you're okay?"
"Yup." Dean left it at that and was beyond relieved when Sam just shrugged like he was weird and went off to get the pizza. Dean was awesome and knew it, but sometimes he was just the teeniest bit sorry for Sam for having to put up with him.
Dean took the time to really look around the bunker one last time, but he didn't find a thing. He actually felt a touch guilty when Sam came back with a double pepperoni since he knew the weather was nasty and Sam was worried about him. He was being so nice about it too. It was a lot easier to hide crap from Sam when he was being a jerk.
And Dean hadn't even found anything. There might not be anything to find…
"Why were you looking for a shōjō?" Sam asked suddenly, making Dean choke on a bite.
"Um, I'm…" Dean's lie died on his lips. Omitting stuff so Sam didn't know he'd sort of let his lack of impulse control cause a potential problem was very different from outright lying. "Something I ran into made me think there's one in the area."
"Ghosts can't get in past the warding," Sam reminded him. "But we can go after it tomorrow if you want."
Dean smiled a little, feeling better despite himself. He hadn't found any sign of anything wrong, after all. And if ghosts couldn't get in, they also couldn't get out.
"Yeah, you're probably right. I think I was seeing stuff that just wasn't there."
But when Dean got up in the morning, the Christmas tree was tipped over. Sam was already gone on his run so it must not have happened before he left. Dean righted it and later informed Sam that he'd only touched the gifts because he had no choice, but he didn't open them and luckily Sam believed him. If Dean had lost his chance at unwrapping his presents because of something he hadn't even done, he might've lost his mind.
Other things began to happen, too. The can full of pens that Sam always kept on a table in the library was always tipped over no matter how many times they righted it. Ornaments off the Christmas tree appeared across the room or under furniture. And Dean kept catching glimpses of something small on the back of the couch or dashing out of the room or under the tree. Twice at night he saw that Sam's bedroom door was open a foot or so instead of just barely cracked like Sam preferred when he slept and nobody was in the bunker except the brothers. Dean knew in his heart of hearts that this (whatever the hell this was) was the result of that stupid box. Any time he caught a glimpse of movement when Sam was nearby, he hastily distracted his brother, sometimes making himself look like a complete moron. But now he was determined to figure this out and fix it.
Then came the afternoon that he was baking Christmas cookies (because Christmas, okay, and because Sam was crappy at cookies, not because Dean was going soft) when there was suddenly something on the counter next to him.
Not something. A small, tortoise-shell cat that Dean could see right through. The flour on the counter moved when the cat curled its ethereal tail around its translucent feet, because ghost physics were stupid. Dean's mouth opened and closed again as the creature regarded him calmly. It yawned widely and Dean could see a ghostly copy of the collar he'd found in the box around its neck.
"Rum," he breathed aloud. Rum was a cat? No, Rum was the ghost of a cat. Dean didn't know if that was better or worse. The cat cocked its head and reached a paw out for the canister of green sprinkles just in front of it.
"Don't you dare!" Dean snapped. But Rum did dare. The little container hit the floor and the top popped off completely, showering everything with the tiny green particles. Dean swore and swung a hand at the offending creature, but it passed right through it, feeling nothing but cold. The feline seemed to smile as it pushed a measuring cup with milk in it off next.
"Stop! Stop! Bad cat!" Dean yelled. He moved forward again but slipped in the liquid. His hand came down on the edge of a luckily empty cookie sheet, which clattered to the floor so loudly there was no way that Sam hadn't heard it. In the meanwhile, Rum pushed the cinnamon to the floor.
Dean belatedly realized how to rid himself temporarily of the messy intruder. He pitched the cylinder of Morton's at it and the cat dissipated immediately. Dean then realized just what a terrible idea it was to throw the entire container of salt and made a mad grab to keep it from rolling off the counter. His front foot slid in the milky sludge on the floor, and he grabbed at the island but failed to save himself from landing hard on his back. The salt thumped onto his chest.
Of course, that's when Sam showed up in the door. "Dean, are you o-- Oh. My. Gosh." Sam's wide eyes skated over the disaster that was the kitchen. "Are you hurt?" he asked in a strangled voice.
"Yes!" Dean practically shouted back, annoyed and freaking embarrassed. "I dropped the milk, then slipped, then – are you laughing at me?!" The last words were loud and accusing, but it didn't matter. Sam didn't just laugh. He laughed until he was sitting in a heap in the doorway with tears running down his face. He also helped clean up the kitchen, so Dean didn't, as he'd initially planned, eat all of the cookies himself in retribution for the laughing. He gave Sam one.
More presents appeared under the tree but Dean hardly noticed because Operation: Banish Ghost Cat was fully underway now. (He did take the time to order a few more things for Sam, though, because he was not about to be out-Christmased by his little brother. Besides, it was actually a lot of fun to choose things he knew Sam would like.)
Dean's first step was to take the Pandora's box and all its contents outside to burn. December in Kansas is stupid, so he had to find a relatively sheltered spot, then dig away the snow. Then he piled up some small logs he'd stolen from inside, covered everything with salt and lighter fluid, and lit it up. The box burned nicely, and the stones eventually cracked from the heat, but the collar emerged unscathed. It wasn't even dirty.
Dean swore at it as he kicked snow over the ashes. He would have tried more but by then he was freezing. He stuffed the collar in his pocket as he came inside to thaw out and plan round two. The damn cat twined happily around Dean's ankles as he closed the door behind him. It looked more solid than it had so far but disappeared on its own before he could get the salt he always carried with him now out of his pocket with a frozen hand.
"Where were you?" Sam asked from the doorway of the kitchen, bewildered.
"Took a walk."
"In this…?" Sam trailed off, likely knowing he didn't have a leg to stand on, since he regularly went out running in the horrible weather. "You need to dress warmer, dude. Change out of your wet stuff and I'll get something warm for you to drink."
"Something" turned out to be mulled cider with whiskey in it. It was so good and warmed Dean inside and outside so nicely that he even listened to Sam blabber on about how it was a traditional Christmas drink called wassail, etc. etc. And he ignored the sight of the cat behind Sam stretching up against a bookshelf. Just as he ignored Sam's questions about why he smelled like smoke.
Once Dean was warm again, he made grilled cheese. Sam ate his while squirreled away reading in some dusty room full dusty books. Dean stepped away from his own sandwich to refill his coffee only to come back to see a very clear little bite taken out of the untouched side.
Then it was on, as if it hadn't been before. One simply doesn't mess with a man's grilled cheese.
Dean locked the collar in a curse box, which he stuck in a second, larger curse box. The cat sat on a nearby shelf and watched, its tail twitching. Dean could hardly see through it anymore. He gave up at five curse boxes and decided to start on research.
He recited every exorcism and purification rite that he could find, then when the cat didn't even stay awake for them, started in on the ones that required mixing and ingredients. He nearly dropped the verbena essence when something cold nudged his hand. It was a cat nose, like his enemy was looking for pets.
"Stop it. I don't like you and you're not cute," he told it vehemently but quietly. The last thing he wanted to do was to have Sam come to find out why he was talking to himself and ask him what he was mixing up. "Wait. Why are you so...so substantial?"
Dean reached out experimentally, running a finger down the cat's back. He could feel the softness of the fur and the bumps of the thing's spine as it arched up into the touch. It even felt warm, and he couldn't see through it at all. "How are you getting stronger?" he demanded as the effer dared to purr at him.
With a huff, Dean turned back to his task.
One slightly burned finger, a singed flannel, four different band-aids from needing drops of blood, and a big, fat goose egg for success, Dean came across a one spell that required the ash off a cigar. The only cigars he knew of were in the Dean cave just in case Sam ever unbent enough to smoke a stogie with Dean. On his way to retrieve one, Dean finally realized just how long he'd been at it – it was pretty much the middle of the night. He opened the door to see Sam sprawled on the couch, fast asleep. His feet hung off the end of the couch, a book lay on the floor next to one of Sam's hands. And Rum was curled up on his chest.
Dean felt like a cartoon with the way his eyes bugged out. Freezing in place, he waved his arms to attract the animal's attention without waking up Sam. Nothing happened, so he waved harder. The back of his hand hit the door frame, and Dean bit his tongue to stop himself from making a noise. The cat's eyes opened halfway. It stretched both front feet forward and tiny razors slid soundlessly out of each toe.
Dean really froze this time, arms still in the air. The claws came out far enough to touch Sam's shirt but not pierce. They retracted and appeared again, pushing just a little farther but not enough to inflict pain or wake a sleeping Hunter.
Claws sheathed. Claws out. Dean would swear the cat was teasing him. His arms were starting to ache from being outstretched, but he was invested now and Sam was not going to find out Dean had been bested (so far) by an 8-pound spectral menace.
"Dean? What are you doing?"
Sam was awake and...Rum had disappeared. Dean grabbed the top of the door frame. "Stretching," he said, his voice too high. "You gotta get up and go to bed, man. You don't really fit on the couch." Deflect, deflect.
Sam sat up and rubbed his eyes and thank whatever luck Dean still had that he was tired and too out of it to catch on to the fact that anything was off.
"You get some sleep, too," Sam mumbled. He scratched at his chest as if it itched where Rum had made himself comfortable. He put his book in a safe spot and started to walk out. He squinted at Dean until the latter realized that he was still holding onto the door frame.
"What's that smell?" Sam asked.
"Dittany," Dean answered honestly, apparently too tired to prevaricate properly. He'd accidentally stuck his elbow in a bowl of the fragrant herb. He showed said elbow to Sam who looked at it, tired and more than a little confused.
"Oh," he said, then shrugged and headed for bed.
Dean let out a breath and followed, heading for his own room. He was conceding. For tonight.
In the morning, Dean woke to a heavenly smell. He followed it automatically to the kitchen, where Sam was pulling something amazing out of the oven.
"Sammy, what did you do?" Dean asked reverently.
Sam, apparently going for sainthood, poured Dean a cup of coffee as he answered. "Well, I got the recipe of that quiche you liked so much from Jody –"
"Sausage pie," interrupted Dean, because he was much too manly to eat quiche, much less love it.
"Sausage pie," Sam corrected obediently. "And I couldn't get it right, so she made a few of them for us and had 'em shipped overnight. I just stuck them in the oven for Christmas morning breakfast."
"I don't even need presents," Dean breathed, smelling in the goodness before him.
Sam grinned and fed a bit of sausage to…
Dean spit out his coffee. Rum was sitting on the table, happily nibbling at the treat Sam had given him. He looked as solid as the table he sat on.
"Well, I don't need any more presents, either," Sam smiled, scratching the top of Rum's ears. Judging by the answering rumble, the cat appreciated it. "I never could've imagined that you'd find a pet we could actually have. You aren't allergic to him and we don't even have to feed him, really, or worry about a litter box or anything." Sam's smile widened. "Thank you, Dean."
He snapped his fingers and, since Rum was apparently only a disobedient asshole for Dean, the cat jumped down. Sam set two plates he'd filled on the table. He didn't seem to notice that Dean's mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish.
Dean refilled Sam's coffee cup to give himself a second.
"I have a confession," Sam said when Dean sat down. "I'm sure he's supposed to be a surprise, but I found about him days ago. I, uh, installed a nanny cam so I'd know if you messed with the presents, and I saw him." His face was red. He reached over like he couldn't help himself and scratched under Rum's chin. "I, uh, called out to him the next time you were gone, He's been sleeping in my room ever since."
If that cat wasn't already dead, Dean would've killed it. The only reason he didn't choke on his qui – sausage pie – was that it was too good to waste. "I...I had no idea you'd already seen him," he said because it was true and he didn't quite know what else to say. "Wait. You installed a nanny cam?!"
"I wanted my gifts to be a surprise," Sam answered a bit sullenly. He did not, however, sound the slightest bit apologetic. "Since we're actually doing Christmas. And you're not good with surprises." He wasn't wrong. Sam winced a little. "I really didn't mean to ruin your surprise."
"Veer all goo'," Dean answered with his mouth full. "Vis makef up for it." As soon as Sam wasn't looking, he sent the cat a death glare. He couldn't exactly get rid of it now.
"I did the research on it, of course," Sam continued, because he was always far too chatty in the morning. "Who knew one of the Men of Letters took his cat to live here with him? I had to laugh about it sleeping on his crystals until it literally made itself undead." Sam shook his head and fed the already-spoiled pet another bit of food it didn't need. "But, uh, it sounds like affection makes him solid, so if you were worried that I wouldn't be happy with him, that ought to tell you something."
(Research? Why hadn't he thought of that?)
Sam was smiling so deeply his dimples were showing and Rum was purring like a diesel engine and it was getting really hard to hate the cat.
"Oh!" Sam lit up. "And I figured out that you stayed up late improving the wards – thank you for that too! Sorry you got dittany on your clothes, but if you give them to me, I know how to get the smell out." He shook his head a little. "Dean, I have to tell you, these gifts are incredibly thoughtful. I don't...I'm sorry I wasn't more excited about Christmas. Just...thank you for all of it."
Sam's eyes were shining and even though he was feeling pretty good himself right now, Dean wasn't about to let his fabulous breakfast be interrupted by a chick-flick moment. "Proof you should always listen to your big brother," he said, shoveling in yet more food. He suddenly sniffed the air. "I smell...is that…?"
"Oh, yes." Sam stood and opened the oven again. "One of Jody's huge cinnamon rolls. I stuck it in the over just before you got here so it should be warm."
"Marry me. No wait, maybe I'll marry Jody." Dean was drooling and he didn't care.
Sam was smiling again or possibly still, and he looked happy and healthy and rested and maybe Dean shouldn't take credit for the accidental gifts (though he was pretty proud of the on-purpose ones too and was looking forward to seeing Sam open them), but he wasn't about to mess with a good thing. Anticipating cinnamon roll and gifts of his own to open, Dean gave a little scratch to the annoying little ghost that was nudging his ankle and grinned back at his happy brother.
"Merry Christmas, Sammy."
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AN: The episode with the shōjō was Party on, Garth, season 7, episode 18.
Rum is sort of named for Rum Tum Tugger of T.S. Eliot's Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats and Andrew Lloyed Webber's Cats.
Colby's girl: It might not be the same Rum cat from Subdural, but I found a way to get a kitty into the bunker. Thanks for the idea!