A Wonderful Life
~ 1994 ~
A black-and-white Jimmy Stewart runs across the tiny screen shouting, "Merry Christmas, movie house! Merry Christmas, emporium! Merry Christmas, you wonderful old Building and L-" The television set goes dead, cutting the movie short.
"Dammit," Dean mutters, standing up from his perch on the edge of the bed. He hits the TV, fussing with the rabbit ears, checking the plug, and hitting the TV once more before giving up on it. He throws himself back on the bed, knocking into Sam who shoves him.
"Hey, watch it!" Dean says, scrambling to get a hold on the blanket to keep himself from falling. Sam closes the book he was thumbing through and sits up.
"What's the big deal? You know how it ends already," Sam says, annoyed by the way Dean's eyebrows have knitted together in disappointment.
"Yeah, but I like to see it. I always watch it when it comes on around the holidays."
"I know," Sam says, exercising all the self-control he has not to roll his eyes. He'd enjoyed the movie as a kid, but after watching it year after year, he couldn't help but grow sick of it. He thinks how Dean seems to be fine with watching fictional characters have everything they don't, but it just makes Sam spiteful: George Bailey may have had a difficult life, but he had a family, a community, a place to call home. Sam wants a wonderful life of his own, but he's trapped. Different motel room every year, same sad, lonely, little Christmas.
"Why are you bein' such a brat?" Dean asks, feeling the waves of Sam's sour mood.
Sam shrugs and shakes his head. "No reason. Sorry," he mutters.
"Bullshit. What's your issue?" Dean prods.
"Drop it," Sam says curtly.
"Nope," Dean says, poking Sam in the ribs.
Sam slaps his brother's hand away. "I'm just not into the whole happy, smiling families sitting around a tree and drinking egg nog thing," he says with another shrug.
"Why not?" Dean asks, though he thinks he knows the answer.
"'Cause we don't have that. And I'm used to it, but it's not fun to be reminded of it all the time," Sam explains grudgingly as he rakes a hand through his hair.
Dean nods. "I get that, I guess," he says.
"Really?" Sam asks. "You're not gonna bitch at me for being an ungrateful little crap? Or for taking you and Dad for granted?"
Dean bites on his lip for a second. "Nah. I get it."
"Th-Thanks," Sam says, a little taken aback.
"It was easier when you were a kid, when you didn't realize what you were missin' out on," Dean says, tugging at a loose thread in the wrinkled comforter they're sitting on.
"Yeah. Kinda. When it was just snow angels and whatever."
"Yeah, being a kid and having the whole 'ignorance is bliss' thing going for ya," Dean says, nodding absentmindedly as he remembers the day, years ago, when he taught Sam how to make a snow angel for the first time and told him about Mary's guardian angels.
But snow angels were ice waiting to melt, and guardian angels were just as insubstantial. It came down to Dean to watch out for himself and his brother. There were no angels protecting them.
This is the final chapter in this series of scenes. It's 1994 so, Dean is fifteen and Sam is eleven. Thanks for reading.
~a
