A/N: Thank you so so much to toridw317, ImpalaLove, and sunshine1984 for reviewing! You guys are amazing and I'm so glad the fluff wasn't too much for you lol. I hope you enjoyed your holidays and I hope you all enjoy this chapter :)
A Winchester Family Christmas: II
December 25, 2014
Sam notices his mother's ring glinting on Claire's finger immediately, and feels something warm and bittersweet prickle in his chest. He gently sets his niece down in the snow, grinning stupidly at his brother as the two tread towards them.
He can tell the elder Winchester is fighting valiantly against a grin of his own.
"Welcome back, guys," Kevin drawls slyly, no doubt suspecting they were up to no good.
"Congratulations," Sam blurts out, unwilling to give anyone else the satisfaction of drawing attention to it first.
Kevin, Mrs. Tran, Castiel, and Jody all share nonplussed expressions, before Jody's eyes hone in on Claire's hand and widen accordingly.
"Oh my god!" she exclaims, pulling the younger woman into a paralyzing embrace. She then turns to Dean, exuberant, and questions, "Seriously?!"
"Why is everyone asking me that?" he questions, scrunching his nose distastefully. "Yes, seriously."
Mrs. Tran also offers her congratulations, as does Kevin, though he seems a bit far-removed from the situation. They suppose it's hard for someone so young to relate.
"This is so weird," he ventures, voicing his thoughts. "After everything, it just seems so… normal."
"Tell me about it," Dean snorts. He scratches the back of his head uncomfortably and kicks the toe of his boot into the snow.
"It is odd," Castiel concurs. "But I am happy for you, my friends. Although, I do not see the point, seeing as you have obviously already participated in all the activities reserved for married couples-"
"Okay, Cas," Dean stunts him. "Thanks for that."
The product of said 'activities' is apparently feeling neglected. Mary whines, "Mama," slapping Claire's shins to get her attention.
"What is it, honey?" she asks, sweeping her into her arms.
"Uncle Sammy made a snowman," she announces, gesturing to a pathetic heap of snow behind the group.
"Tried to, at least," Sam adds with a stealthy smirk.
"Mary, do you know what just happened? Your daddy just asked your mommy to marry him," Jody tells the little girl, crouching slightly to meet her eye-level.
"Married?" she repeats, tasting the word. "I'm Mary!"
"No, sweetheart, they're going to have a wedding – like in the Little Mermaid, when Ariel wears the white dress."
Mary cranes her neck to stare at her mother, no doubt drawing the link between the two redheads. Then, she looks to her father. "Oh!" she exclaims happily, stubby legs kicking excitedly at the realization. "Mommies and daddies are always married!"
Dean's face is unreadable, but Claire winces awkwardly.
"Might wanna rethink drilling her with those traditional family values, Dean," Sam jokes.
"It's not me, it's all those goddamn Disney movies," he mutters, even though it is, in part, him. "What kinda kid likes princesses and 'Palala's?"
"Yours, apparently," Kevin chimes in.
A fond smile pulls his lips, and Dean extracts his daughter from Claire's arms.
"C'mere, baby girl," he says, hugging her close to his chest.
Sam watches the exchange with great curiosity. He still hasn't quite gotten used to the idea of brother having a child. He could never picture it before, and now, even though he's confronted with the picture daily, it still seems surreal. He was there when Mary was born because Dean was gone – Dean was dead – and afterwards he took care of her – loved her – as though she were his own. Three months passed. He witnessed each centimeter she grew, each tiny movement. He… He had braced himself for a lifetime of raising this little girl as his own daughter, and then, just as suddenly, Dean resurfaced.
Of course, Sam was elated. It was the most beautiful, miraculous thing, apart from maybe the first time his brother was resurrected. Of course he was thrilled to see his brother again, to see the reason for is existence spark back into being.
Mary was always Dean's – never his –, but she was also the closest he thought he would ever get to seeing his brother again. And so, in this way, she was his whole world because Dean had been his whole world. She was the life preserver both he and Claire clung to in the choppy wake of Dean's death. And then, Dean wasn't really dead, and he had to disband everything he'd prepared himself for. It wasn't an easy thing, but he'd been glad to do it. It was a relief, in a way; he knew he could never measure-up to his brother.
Because Dean is the best big brother he could have ever hoped for, and now he's the best father Mary could have ever hoped for, even if she doesn't know it yet. It sure as hell took Sam a while to realize just how lucky he was, but he'll never forget it.
He watched his brother grow into fatherhood just as he watched his niece grow during her first few months. Still, it feels foreign to see Dean so soft like this, so gentle, so vulnerable; perhaps it will always feel foreign. Before now he's only ever seen Dean dote on him, but it fills him with joy to see that he is happy. It just sometimes seems…
Too good to be true.
. . .
December 30, 2014
"Jesus, Dean, of course I'll be fine."
Ever since the Trials, Dean hasn't stepped down from his watchtower. He monitors Sam militantly, almost disbelieving that he could have fully rebounded from the state he was in.
And yet, Sam is fine. Sam is healthy. Sam, for all intents and purposes, seems back to his old self: a nerdy, sensitive contrarian who is consistently battling against his (very valid) worries.
"Okay," the elder Winchester relents. "It's only for a few days."
Claire is present but busy packing their bags, mentally steeling herself for a ten-hour car ride with a two year old.
Sam says, "I haven't been a kid for a long time, Dean. I can take care of myself."
Dean doesn't look convinced, but says nothing. He's fully aware that his brother is not a kid anymore, just as he knows his protectiveness is borderline irrational. But he can't help it – logic has never really helped him rein in his emotions, and Sam has already been taken away from him far too many times for him to ever let his guard drop.
"Have fun," the younger of the two goes on, eyes twinkling. He finds the idea of his brother meeting a girl's parents hilarious, even though he knows it's a bit childish. Really, Dean has made leaps and bounds in terms of his maturity, but Sam still remembers him as that roguish teen that used to sneak out in Dad's Impala to impress/pick up chicks.
Dad's Impala became Dean's Impala, and is now becoming Daddy's Impala (well, 'Palala,' but same difference).
"Maybe you should take the fed threads," Sam baits. "You wanna make a good impression, right?"
"Yeah, okay," he drawls sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
"You're gonna be on your best behavior, right Dean?" Claire pipes in from one table over in the library.
He straightens his posture upon realizing she's been eavesdropping. "Of course!" he replies, sounding like he's lying. He and Sam share a good-humored, albeit wry look.
"No f-bombs at the dinner table," he tells him sagely.
"Dude," he scoffs, "I'm not stupid."
"Just trying to help," he says, putting his hands up in mock-surrender. To be fair, he thinks his advice is useful – he's met far more parents than his brother has, that's for sure. And when he sees Dean swearing colorfully at children's movies on a regular basis, it is, in fact, sometimes difficult to remember he can be civilized.
"I'm good," he assures him. He hasn't told him so, but it's Claire he's truly worried about.
Mary abruptly enters the room, Castiel in tow.
"How's it going, Cas?" Sam asks.
Sighing, he does not reply – he only holds up his hand. His nails have been painted fuchsia. Both Sam and Dean chuckle boisterously at his misfortune, but the angel shakes his hand out and the color disappears.
"Mama when d'we leave?" Mary inquires.
"Soon, honey. You remember where we're going, right?"
"Grandmama's and Grandpapa's?"
"Grandma and Grandpa's, yes."
"And who are they?" Dean tests, ascertaining how much information she's retained.
"Mama's mommy and daddy," she recites dutifully.
"That's right," he praises, ruffling her hair.
"Daddy," she chirps, "d'you have a mommy and daddy?"
Sam stares at his brother raptly, but Dean doesn't falter. "Yes," he answers. "Your Uncle Sammy and I have the same mom and dad – that's why we're brothers."
"Does Mama have a brwother?"
Claire bites her lip. Dean replies, "She used to have two."
"Do I have a brwother?"
Sam coughs loudly and now Dean falters, but he manages, "No."
"Where are your mommy and daddy? Are we gonna meet them too?"
"No, Mare," he starts, "I used to have a mom and dad, but not anymore. Like your mom's brothers."
"Where're they?"
"They're in heaven," Sam interjects.
Mary nods, apparently comprehending. She doesn't press the subject further, because she doesn't like the sad look in her mommy and daddy's eyes.
. . .
Dean will never ever admit it, but he's starting to subscribe to the notion that iPads were the greatest technological innovation of the 21st Century. Because god knows, nothing else could've kept Mary occupied for even a fraction of the car ride.
Ten hours is nothing for Claire and Dean, though, and they make a couple of rest stops along the way.
And soon enough, they find themselves in the very same minuscule town where they first met. Dean only remembers it because it later proved itself significant – otherwise, it would look just the same as all the other Podunk Midwestern towns he's burned through in his long career.
It's dark when they arrive, but not so late that there aren't other cars on the road. They drive slowly through the town, mostly because the Impala doesn't handle well on icy terrain. Dean doesn't stop to think about when he started caring about this, and how much it has to do with the precious cargo in the backseat.
They cruise down the main street, by the church Claire confronted him outside after he killed an assload of demons, and by the tattoo parlor she used to live above. They even drive by Richard's, where she worked, where they first laid eyes on one another – part of Claire almost wishes she could claim it was love at first sight, but it absolutely wasn't.
The town looks vastly different from before, only because there is an obscenely thick sheet of snow coating just about everything. The last time they were there – nearly five years ago, now – it was the beginning of summer, and the weather was diametrically opposite.
Lots of other things are different, too. Now, his Impala is chock full of baby crap; now, he's got wrinkles around his eyes; now, Claire's signature locks are about four inches shorter. Now… Those two strangers who met in a pub have created a life of their own, literally and figuratively.
"Who woulda thunk it," he muses aloud.
"Hm?"
"All those years ago, when you somehow found that crappy motel and begged me to take you with me – who woulda thought we'd be back here five years later with a kid?"
"I don't think I 'begged'," she bristles.
He throws her a sidelong glance and a lopsided grin. "Aw, c'mon, no need to be embarrassed – you definitely begged."
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. "There are probably some things about that week that you and I remember very differently."
"Probably," he agrees in an identically combative tone.
She watches his profile, softening. "We had some good times though, didn't we? I mean, after we found Sam. Between all the gloom and doom, we had some fun."
"Yeah," he affirms, eyes flitting pointedly to the rearview mirror. "Maybe a little too much fun."
She whacks him lightly on the arm. "Dean," she warns.
"Gotta get it all out of my system before we get to your house," he explains shrewdly.
Claire snickers and says, "Well if that's the case, by all means – continue."
A laidback grin takes over his face; she can see his eyes sparkle, tinged red by the brake lights of the car in front of them. "Remember that case in Tarrytown?"
"What, that coven?"
"Yeah. Remember how you wanted to go all MI6 and infiltrate their ranks? And how we got into that huge fight in that weird underground chamber and then… Well, you never even made it to the initiation ceremony anyway, didja? That was really somethin'…"
"That's a good memory for you?" she balks in disbelief.
"Yeah, I mean…" He lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "That green dress…"
Her expression goes blank as she finally pieces together what he means by 'somethin'.' Then, a bright blush colors her cheeks.
"Oh. Yeah. That."
"You never wore it again, after that," he says, sounding far more disappointed than the occasion calls for.
"That's because you destroyed it," she counters.
"Oh. Yeah," he echoes sheepishly. "My bad."
She rolls her eyes again, this time more playfully.
But soon enough they pull up to her childhood home, and all traces of mirth flee her face. Dean parks on the street, across form their rusty old mailbox.
Claire's had homecomings before. She came back from college often, since it wasn't a long distance away, but not so much that she never grew homesick, that there wasn't a certain novelty in returning. And then… Well, her second major homecoming had been under the worst circumstances imaginable. And now that she has a child of her own, she's beginning to realize just how terrible those circumstances were for her parents.
Suffice it to say, there's more than one tragedy tied up in those four walls. It's such an ordinary place, ravaged by such an extraordinary fate.
She never understood why they didn't move, why they didn't get out of the house their son shot himself in. Her mother would've. It was her father. He's stubborn – so stubborn he takes living with that horrid memory as a challenge, a challenge to face head-on every single day.
To her, though, it is nothing more than a shrine to her broken family.
The house remains mostly as she remembers it: daffodil-yellow, with white trimming around the doors and windows. It usually looks warm and sunny in the summer, but in the dead of winter it's just as bleak as everything else. Some of the paint is chipping and the hedges aren't trimmed quite as well as they could be, but there are no glaring signs of disrepair. Her parents always were skilled at maintaining an impeccable façade.
They climb up to the front porch, Mary asleep in Dean's arms. One bag is slung across his body, and the other is draped over Claire's shoulder.
Winter in Illinois is bitterly cold, and it's easy to see Claire's rapid breathing.
The porch light is on, but the glow is muted because the glass is filthy. The second step wobbles, same as it has for years – her father meant to fix it back in 2007, before a landslide of despair got in the way. Looks like he still hasn't gotten around to it.
She rings the doorbell. And innocuous ding-dong resounds through the house, the sound muffled from their perspective.
And then, Claire's mother appears. Vivian Shurley. She has the same fire-red hair she remembers, but there are new lines on her freckled face.
"Claire," she says, hugging her daughter before taking a moment to truly examine her.
When she pulls back, Dean gets a chance to study her appearance – her features, beyond her hair, are not especially close to Claire's. Her eyes are somewhere between whiskey-brown and moss-green, and her lips are thin and drawn. There are already tears winding down her face before she speaks again: "Pat, come here!"
Soon enough Claire's father appears by his wife's side, and Dean notices where his fiancée and daughter gets their striking blue eyes. Her dad is tall, but no taller than he is, with thinning, steel-gray hair.
He appraises Claire with a grim, severe expression before pulling her into a rough embrace. Her face is wet against the porous fabric of his dark polo shirt, and her eyes are burning.
It's not until they've fully inspected their daughter that they turn their attention to the other two guests.
"Mom, Dad, this is Dean," she introduces hesitantly, and when she faces him he sees that she's crying too. "And Mary."
By now, Mary has stirred and is staring at the strangers with bleary eyes and a pout she inherited from her father. Dean shifts his grip on her so he can have a free hand to extend.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Shurley," he says, shaking hands with her father first, and then her mother.
"You're the famous Dean," Vivian murmurs in a way that leaves him searching for meaning. And then she turns to Mary, smiling sweetly. "And you must be the little one we've heard to much about." She reaches for her and tickles her chubby hand, which is holding onto Dean with a vice-grip. Thankfully, she doesn't flinch at the contact.
"Come in, come in," she urges, apparently only just now realizing they're still loitering in sub-zero temperatures.
Once they're all in the house, Vivian asks to hold Mary, and the little girl miraculously cooperates. She must sense that the woman is familiar; she is her grandmother, after all, and maybe there's something about her that reminds her of Claire.
Patrick Shurley takes a step back and scans Dean like a copy-machine, sizing him up. "So you're the boy Claire ran away with all those years ago," he says finally.
Dean appears to be at a loss, so Claire answers blandly, "It's not running away if you're an adult, Dad."
"Sure it is," he says cryptically. "There're all types of running away – I didn't say you ran away from us."
They stare at one another, talking without words in a way that only family members can do. Claire's tears must have dried (or turned to ice) before she even stepped inside, because the tracks are gone. She matches his stony intensity, squaring herself to him.
He cracks a grin. "Well, I hope you found whatever it was you were looking for. We've missed you, sweetheart. It's a sin to stay gone for so long."
She smiles back. "I've missed you too. And I promise it won't happen again."
Her dad claps Dean hard on the shoulder, taking him by surprise. His fists ball reflexively, but no one seems to notice. "Don't let her break that promise, you hear?"
Upon realizing that they are not under siege, the other man's mouth twitches into something resembling a smile. "I won't, sir," he manages.
"Claire tells me you two are recently engaged," Vivian coos, eyebrows waggling. Mary must be truly beat, because her blonde little head is lolling against the woman's shoulder.
"Yeah," Claire confirms, weaving her arms around Dean's. "Since Christmas."
"Well, let's see the ring!"
Reluctantly, Claire disentangles her left hand from her fiancé's and explains, "It was his mother's."
"It's lovely," she says approvingly. Her eyes dart to Dean's. "That was very sweet of you. It's nicer when it means something, rather than some bauble."
She doesn't ask any more questions about his mother, and he's tremendously grateful for it. People who've lost someone (like all of them have) are usually attuned to when not to pry. He, for his part, tries not to let his gaze linger on the hanging photographs.
"Took ya long enough to make an honest woman out of her," Patrick mutters dryly, under his breath.
"Dad!" Claire admonishes.
Teeth gritted, Dean waves away her outrage and replies, "Nah, he's right. It's been a long time comin', we just… I was away for a long time…"
The older of the two studies him meditatively. "Yeah, Claire mentioned something about that. You do a tour, son? You've got the look."
"Something like that…" he murmurs. "My old man was in the Marines."
Patrick's thick, black eyebrows lift. " 'Nam?"
Dean nods sharply.
"Me too. Just plain ole army, though, and can't say I didn't try my damnedest to avoid it. What a shi-"
"The baby, Pat," Vivian interrupts, before he can commence his profanity-littered tirade about the draft and the horrors of the jungle.
He winces. "Sorry 'bout that. Been awhile since I've been around one of these tykes." The sorrow in his voice is unmistakable, and impossible to miss.
"It's fine," Claire dismisses absently, "Dean is still working on censoring himself, too."
"Well, you all must be exhausted," Vivian says finally. "And hungry. Why don't you go upstairs and get washed up while I finish fixing dinner. Roasted chicken sound okay?"
"Sounds delicious," Dean brown-noses.
Claire snorts, "Dean will eat anything. But that does sound great, Mom." She reaches out for her daughter, and the other redhead transfers her into her arms.
"Mama 'm sleepy," Mary announces, nuzzling her face into her sweater.
"I know, sweetie, but you have to eat something first. Your grandma is making chicken – your favorite!"
"Chicken nuggets?" she mumbles hopefully.
Vivian's smile wavers. "Patrick, you could go out to the store-"
"Mom," she cuts her off, making an axe motion with her hand. "Chicken like Daddy makes," she tells the little girl.
"M'kay," she accepts, her eyelids drooping once again.
It's not until they climb the stairs that Claire's heart begins to race. Halfway up, she turns to Dean. "Can you take her?"
" 'course."
Charlie and Ryan's bedroom was the first one on the left. The door is closed, has been since the EMTs dragged the former out eight years ago. It's been almost a decade, and yet she still feels haunted, still feels a darkness emanating from beneath the whitewashed wood.
Dean's eyes follow her gaze, and he instantly understands the reason for her shaking hands. He presses his palm to her back, right over her warding tattoo, as though strength can be transferred through touch alone.
"You okay?"
Her eyes flutter closed as she steels herself. His efforts are not wasted – he reminds her of everything she has survived since. "Mhm."
Her room is the one across from it, next to the bathroom. She makes a mad dash, throwing the duffel in the corner and flicking on the lights.
Everything is untouched. The walls are still blue-green, her queen-size bed still has the same fluffy white comforter on it. There are framed photos on her dresser, photos of her with her friends from high school, photos of her twenty years ago with one arm draped around each of her little brothers (and towering over both of them).
Dean follows her in and gently lays Mary down on the bed, before dropping the second duffel beside the first. His eyes skim over the room, and then fix on his fiancée.
He sees, now – the family within this home should have been just as nondescript as the structure itself. They were not prepared for what happened to them, and they never could have been. Not that his family could have been prepared for what happened to his mother, but she was a hunter, and her death had been supernatural. This was just… ordinary tragedy destroying ordinary people.
But Claire was a prophet; she was always meant for something more. In 'running away' with him, she'd transcended what had happened and built a new life from the rubble of her old one. The new one has been, perhaps, almost equally fraught, but she has become so much more resilient than she once was. Her parents have not. And returning here is just reminding her of what was taken, and what she left behind.
Dean must admit that they seem like nice enough people; average, and ill equipped to deal with such insurmountable pain. They were tested in ways most people never are, but the test revealed an abundance fissures.
Granted, very few people would withstand the test…
And he is looking at one of them.
His chest swells with newfound pride.
"Claire," he begins quietly, "how're you doing?"
"I'm fine," she lies.
He sees through her, always does. "I know this has gotta be hard for you."
She shoots him a flickering smile, finally meeting his eyes. "Yeah," is all she says.
He bridges the void between them, striding over and taking her hand in his. Tenderly, he lifts her chin so she's forced to maintain eye contact. "You're so strong, Claire. One of the strongest people I've ever known."
She laughs like she doesn't believe him. "Not the first word I'd use to describe myself, but I'll take it."
"You are," he insists. "Don't you ever think otherwise." He presses a kiss to her hairline, holding her close.
Into his chest, she murmurs earnestly, "I know you wouldn't lie about something like that. But… Now that we have Mary, I can't – I can't even imagine-"
"Neither can I," he concurs darkly, and he means it.
. . .
Claire is in the kitchen with her mother, while Dean is having a post-dinner drink with her father. Upstairs, Mary is asleep.
As the younger redhead dries the dishes, her mother comments, "Well, he sure is handsome, I'll give him that."
She snickers and says, "Don't let him hear you say that."
"Reminds me a bit of your father, when he was younger."
Claire pauses suddenly, letting the towel drop on the counter. "He's nothing like Dad," she states resolutely. "I know… He may not seem like it, but Dean's not closed-off like Dad is. The two of us… We've been through a lot together. We've had ups and downs. But I can say – truly say – that I feel like… like I know every part of him. He's the strongest, most caring man I've ever known. There's no one else like him."
Vivian stares at her daughter inquisitively, like she cannot fathom what they could have possibly been through that was so trying. But the look in her eye speaks volumes – Claire is telling the truth, or at least her version of it.
Vivian turns her attention back to the dishes. "Well then. I'm happy for you, honey. He takes care of you?"
"I would die without him."
Her mother chortles lightly. "No need to be so melodramatic. I just mean… You said his brother also lives with you?"
"Sam," she corrects. "Yeah, he lives with us."
"How does that work?"
"Sam and Dean are as close as…" She halts her sentence, because she knows she doesn't need to continue. The tone – the air in the room – changes drastically, like the lights have been dimmed even though they haven't.
"I see…"
"And I love Sam as if he were my own brother. He's amazing – you should see him with Mary."
"Okay," she allows skeptically. "Still, that has to be a little strange."
"We're used to it," she answers easily. "When Dean was gone… Sam was there."
The other woman's red eyebrows creep upwards, but she doesn't say anything besides, "Where was he? Did he enlist?"
She hates to lie, but there's no other way. "Yeah."
Vivian doesn't question her further because she knows from experience how to identify the look of a man home from war, and Dean certainly has it. "Does he get nightmares?" she asks.
"Sometimes," Claire replies softly. "But then again, don't we all?"
Her mother nods, eyes peering into the soapy sink. She only has one last interrogatory.
"You love him?"
Claire ponders this question for a moment, searching her mind for the most accurate response. Eventually she replies, "So much that I sometimes wish I'd never even met him."
. . .
Meanwhile, in the dining room, Dean is enduring a cross-examination of his own.
Patrick takes a swig of scotch, swallowing it without difficulty. "Where'd you grow up, son?"
Dean takes a sip of his own, because he sure as hell needs it. "Lawrence, Kansas, sir. Not too far from where we live now."
"Lebanon, was it?" he proposes uncertainly, dark brows knitted.
"That's right."
"I'll skip all the routine questions for both our sakes," he starts. "I hate to be boring. What's most important to me is if you're gonna be able to take care of my baby girl and my grandbaby."
"Don't worry about that, sir. I will. I'm working as a mechanic nowadays, but my brother's a real brainiac and he's got some of our money tied up in the stock market. I'll make sure they have the very best. My kid is going to college and hell, maybe even grad school if that's what she wants."
"Mechanic, huh? That a family trade?"
"You could say that, yeah." He supposes he probably shouldn't mention the other family trade, or the vamp nest he took out last week.
"And this brother – what's he do?"
"Sam's working at a law firm, and he's thinking of applying to law school. He went to Stanford."
"Huh. Am I supposed to be impressed?" the other man deadpans.
Dean looks as though he stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
Patrick grins and laughs, "I'm just kiddin', son! The look on your face is priceless!"
The younger of the two hazards a grin and takes a generous gulp of his scotch. "Jesus," he mutters to himself.
"So, a mechanic… That car out front – that an Impala? What year is she?"
"'67. She was my dad's."
"Real beauty. I was never any good with that stuff, but I know a nice machine when I see one."
"What do you do, sir?"
"Now? Mostly save up for retirement," he jokes. "But I'm an engineer by training. Not mechanical, before you ask – electrical."
"Ah."
Patrick refills both their glasses. Dean tries desperately not to stare at the family portrait over the other man's right shoulder.
This is the first time he's seen photos of either of Claire's brothers. Ryan was tall and a little scruffy, with brown hair and the same blue eyes as everyone else. Must be a dominant gene, despite what he'd learned in high school. He was in uniform, next to his beaming father. Charlie, on the other hand, had Claire's hair and their mother's greenish eyes, as well as her dense constellation of freckles. They all look happy, in the pictures.
His wandering gaze, however, does not escape Patrick's notice. The older man swallows hard, the taste of alcohol sticking to his palette. The liquor may burn on the way down, but it's not the source of the burning.
"So, when's the wedding?" jars Dean from his perusal.
He stammers, "W-we haven't really gotten much of a chance to talk about it yet. We want to do it before Mary's in school, though."
"Smart." He studies him for a moment, absorbing his presence. Eventually he continues, "You're not what I expected."
Dean raises his eyebrows. "Hm?"
"At least when she was younger, Claire always went for those artsy types."
A sly, vaguely impertinent grin finds its way to his face. "Did she?" he asks, tone steeped in curiosity.
"Oh yeah. Can't tell you how many aspiring musicians came through here."
"Not too many, I hope."
At this, Patrick smiles. "No, not too many."
Several beats of silence pass, before Claire and her mother appear in the doorway.
"What're you two talking about?" she questions innocently enough.
"Just your old boyfriends," Dean answers just as innocently.
"Dad!"
"Did I tell you about that one with the earring? What was his name? Liam Mc-something or other?"
"Dad!" she repeats in horror.
"Glad to see you boys are getting on so well," Vivian observes.
"Yeah. Lovely. Time to go to bed," Claire interjects.
"But he was just gettin' to the good part," Dean teases.
She shoots him a wary look, but he polishes off his drink before standing.
. . .
"They seem all right," Dean whispers, careful not to wake his two-year-old, who's snoozing in a newly-assembled playpen in the center of the room. Claire had prepared him for much worse, and her parents weren't anything close to the distraught wrecks he'd been expecting.
"They're okay in short doses," she allows, "but whenever it is brought up, they shut down. They can't talk about it, and if they try… That's when it all goes to hell."
Dean nods distantly, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he grinds his teeth. He used to be like that – every time Sam would bring their mother up, he'd lose it.
"It's never going to go away – you know that. It might just take some more time before they can face it," he proposes. "You could hardly talk about it when we first met."
"Yeah, but now it's been almost ten years," she points out.
"Well, they were their kids."
"You don't think I cared about them as much?"
"No, of course not, Claire – that's not what I mean… It's just… It's different for them. Kids aren't supposed to die before their parents."
"I know," she allows, more subdued. "And I know they're trying, and I appreciate it. They've been fine so far. How much did my dad drink?"
His eyebrows slam together so swiftly they almost meet. "Only a couple of glasses, why?"
Claire fidgets, sitting on the edge of her bed. Eyes downcast, she replies, "He… Sometimes he used to drink too much."
Dean's face is impassive, because he knows that sometimes he drinks too much, too. And so did his dad. And so did Bobby. And so did Sam, even, for a time.
He has been totally immersed in his own family for so long (for as long as he can recall, really) that it feels bizarre to plunge so suddenly into someone else's. And yet, at the same time, this immersion illuminates certain parallels – parallels that make him feel just a little bit less alone, a little less discrete from the rest of humanity.
He knows there is no humor in the situation, but he wants to make her feel better. He joins her on the bed and pulls her against his chest, breathing in the fruity scent of her shampoo. "Don't we all?" he replies lightly, completely unaware she said these exact words not more than twenty minutes earlier.
She smiles sadly. "I guess you're right."
. . .
December 31, 2014
At quarter to twelve, Mary is conked out on the sofa and the majority of the house is sipping champagne.
Seeing Dean drink the bubbly beverage out of a crystal flute is absolutely surreal, in the most absurd sense – how many times has she seen that very same hand clutch a machete or a shotgun or a stake?
It doesn't have much of an effect on him or her father. Claire's mother, on the other hand, is rapidly approaching belligerence.
"We hav'ta watch the ball drop," she hiccups, corralling everyone in front of the television.
Through the flat-screen, they're transported halfway across the country. Times Square is teeming with rowdy spectators, heads tilted unanimously upwards in the direction of a giant, glittering orb.
"You sure I can't getchu a drink, sweetie?" Vivian croons.
"I'm fine, Mom. I think you've had enough for both of us."
She giggles, and Claire goes on, "I would never want to go there for New Years. It looks like total chaos."
"It is," Dean agrees.
"You've been?" Patrick questions.
"Once," he replies, a grin working its way across his face. "When I was younger. My old man brought me and Sam. It wasn't on purpose – we just happened to be there at the time. He'd always hated New York, but after that he hated it. We never went back, and he'd complained about how many people there were for like a week after."
"You never told me that," Claire murmurs, and he just shrugs.
"After the war?" Her father lets out a low whistle. "Only a brave man would pack himself in with people like that. To this day I can't stand crowds."
The room becomes somber, until, only a moment later, the countdown commences and fills the silence.
When the ball drops, everyone cheers (onscreen and in the living room), startling Mary awake; the girl watches the scene with wide eyes, utterly silent and un-amused.
Claire and Dean kiss, but quick enough not to cause any scandal, and all the adults then have a turn at cuddling a still-sullen Mary.
"Why're you so loud?" she complains, pouting again.
"Sorry, honey," Claire atones.
"Let's get you to bed, kiddo. It's way past your bedtime," Dean adds.
. . .
January 1, 2015
After putting Mary to sleep and before helping her parents clean up, Claire and Dean linger in the hallway.
"Dean, I have to tell you something," she stops him as he starts towards the staircase.
"Yeah?"
"I was gonna wait until your birthday, but… Well, you know I'm terrible at keeping secrets from you."
Now, he's beginning to grow worried. Even in the dark, she can see his eyes glimmer with unease and his face harden as he braces himself for some horrible revelation.
"It's nothing bad," she assures, "or at least I hope not."
"What is it?" he questions. "Just spit it out." He is many things, but patient he is not.
"I… I know we talked about this a little bit before… But, I mean, it's so soon after…"
Now, his eyebrows are raised expectantly, urging her to continue.
"I… I'm pregnant," she finishes. "Again."
If Dean Winchester ever looked faint, it's now. He wobbles almost imperceptibly, before scrubbing his hands over his ears as though he must have misheard. "You're… What?"
"Pregnant."
"B-but…" The lull stretches on long enough for them to count the seconds.
"You're not… upset?"
The hurt that flits across her features snaps his heart, and he instantly amends, "No no no, of course not!" He puts his hands on her shoulders to steady the both of them, before continuing, "I'm just… We just had that conversation, like, a month ago. And I mean… Doesn't it take some people like a year? I was expecting a bit of a longer timeline, is all."
"I know," she winces. "We must be… I dunno. Lucky?"
"That's one way of putting it," he mutters. "How do you know?"
"I took a test right before we left. Are you sure you're not-"
"I'm happy, I am," he says, letting out a half-crazed chuckle. "I just can't believe how… fast."
"Everything about this-" she gestures between them "-has been fast."
"True," he allows, searching her face. "Am I the only one who knows?"
"Yeah," she answers quickly. "I mean, it's so early – who knows-"
"Don't talk like that," he chastises softly.
There's a pause, during which time each measures the other, trying to discern their true feelings on the matter. "But this'll be good, right?" she asks weakly. "We agreed we don't want Mary to be an only child."
"Yeah, yeah, it'll be good," he says, trying to come to terms with being a father all over again. Before, he never got an 'I'm pregnant' – what he got was a three-month-old and a 'things changed a lot while you were gone.' He supposes that this time, at least, he'll have a chance to prep.
Starting again, he says, "I'm sorry I reacted like that. You just… caught me off guard."
"Yeah, my timing probably wasn't great," she admits. "It just felt wrong to keep it from you any longer, and I wanted to tell you before you got suspicious and figured it out for yourself."
"C'mere." He draws her into an embrace. With more levity he says, "Jeez, we're hittin' all the milestones at once, aren't we?"
"Now that hunting's pretty much a day job, we have a lot of normal-people stuff to catch up on."
"I guess you're right. All I know is it better be a boy."
He can predict her reaction without even looking at her.
"Dean!"
He smiles to himself, because if someone is out there, looking down on him, they must finally finally be thinking, This was how it was meant to be.
The End
A/N: A little less fluffy than the first one, but still pretty fluffy. The 'someone' at the end is supposed to be his mom :') And if anyone is curious, I've posted pics of what Claire and her family members are supposed to look like on my page, but for your convenience: Claire (Deborah Ann Woll), Ryan (Jamie Dornan), Charlie (Cameron Monaghan), Patrick (Peter Gallagher), and Vivian (Julianne Nicholson). I love when people give their OCs actor counterparts for some reason, but maybe I'm weird.
Happy New Years, everyone! Thanks for reading and stay safe!