A Shining Wreath

~ 1991 ~

Dean jumps up at the sound of the door unlocking, grinning broadly to see his father framed in the doorway. "Hey Dean," John says softly. "Looks like Sammy's asleep, huh?" he asks as he puts a styrofoam takeout container on the little dresser by the door.

Dean looks over to the far bed. Only a few tufts of Sam's hair are visible, poking out from the edge of the blanket he's curled under, sound asleep. Dean looks back to his dad and nods.

"Well, we'll let him get some rest. I brought something for you boys, though," John says, pulling a large circular object (or rather, collection of objects) from behind his back.

Dean's eyes light up at the wreath their father's brought. John hands it to him. "Where do you wanna put it?" he asks his son quietly as he brushes snow out of his hair and slips his jacket off.

"There," Dean says, pointing to the motel room door, with its off-white paint peeling from the wood in thin streaks. John nods, taking a long nail from his pocket and tapping it into the door, using the butt of his gun as a hammer.

"Alright. Hang it up," John says. Dean steps forward and hoists the ring of empty beer cans onto the nail. He moves back to admire it. The light from a nearby lamp glints off the aluminum.

John pats his son's shoulder. "It looks good. I'll be back in a few hours. Keep an eye on Sammy for me," he says, putting his jacket back on. "Oh, and I got some food for you boys," he adds, pointing to the styrofoam box he had set down a minute ago. He claps Dean on the shoulder and steps out of the room. Within seconds, Dean hears the sound of the Impala's engine turning over and fading away.

Sam wakes up a few minutes later, rubbing at his eyes and immediately catching sight of the garish holiday decoration. "What's that?" he asks.

"It's a wreath, dumbass," Dean says, annoyed by his little brother's less-than-approving reaction.

"It's ugly," Sam says, standing up and wrinkling his nose at the wreath.

"Dude, shut up. It's awesome. Dad got it for us."

"Wreaths are supposed to be made from evergreen trees or something," Sam complains, "They're supposed to be pretty and smell good. That's how they are in all the movies and on all the nice houses we drive by," Sam says, folding his arms in front of his chest and sitting back down on the bed.

"Yeah? Well, ours is way cooler. Come on. This is awesome! I mean, doesn't it make you wanna meet the dude who made this?" Dean asks.

"No," Sam replies simply. "Where's Dad?"

Dean frowns.


(1991 - Dean is twelve. Sam is eight.) Reviews please! Thanks.

~a