Hugs to Kathy and the two Guests for leaving a review! To be fair, I was going to post this one yesterday, but I got busy with the midseason finale. I mean, this shit can't be good for my health (poor Winchesters who never gets to celebrate Christmas in a pleasant place). I'll refrain from ranting about that and just move on to...this.
Woooo, filler chapter coming up;
Tom's dad isn't overly fond of Christmas. He's never outright said it, but it's obvious enough if even Tom managed to catch on to it pretty early on. He doesn't mind though, since that doesn't stop his mother from making them live out Christmas to its fullest.
The annual Christmas market couldn't have chosen a better day for it to take place; the weather is almost ridiculously perfect with its clear blue sky, the snow clouds having finally cleared, and the sun makes the young snow sparkle like thousands upon thousands of diamonds. It contrasts starkly against the dark evergreen trees, making them seem black instead of green, and the air is so cold it feels like Tom's nostrils are freezing over every time he draws breath. It's perfect.
There's free mulled wine (without alcohol, duh) and hot chocolate at every other stand, carved Santas and reindeers and angels, Christmas wreaths and candy and caramel apples, and heaps upon heaps of knitted socks and sweaters and blankets, along with the random (but painfully pretty) handmade knives in between. The Christmas market is, without a doubt, one of the best happenings of the year.
"…and there's no need to buy her another damn knife."
Tom's head swirls around on its own accord to peer in the direction of the familiar voice. Sam Winchester is impassively standing by one of the stands while his brother waves a carved knife in front of his face. To Sam's credit, he appears to be completely unfazed by the wild knife-swinging in front of him.
The salesman, on the other hand, seems to be on the verge of fainting – Tom supposes "Senior citizen stabbed to death at Christmas stand" can't be very good publicity.
"Well I'm not seeing you coming up with any better ideas," Dean snaps, "So far your only suggestion has been more books."
"Books are practical. They make nicely shaped presents."
"There's a hell of a lot more practical applications for a knife than a novel – Jody goes up against a vampire, what would she rather have in her hand? Is she going to cut its throat with a hardback?"
"Why thank you, Dean, talk a bit louder, why don't you?" Sam says snidely, before lowering his voice to sulkily add; "Besides, it's not like she can decapitate anything with that tooth picker…"
Dean stops his knife acrobatics in order to grin widely, "Says the guy who once took off a vamp's head with razor wire – man, that was –"
"There's a big difference between razor wire and tooth pickers," Sam remarks, but the edge to his voice has melted away. "Jody doesn't even hunt anymore," he continues as he plucks the knife from his brother's hand, but contrary to his words, roots around for his wallet. He gives the poor salesman a tight smile of apology along with the money – quite frankly, Tom's mildly surprised he lets them buy it at all.
Decapitating vampires? Either they're going a bit soft in the head or they played too much violent video games in their youth. Maybe both.
This is the part where Tom should be a good, well-mannered boy and trod away minding his own business, instead of sticking his nose into others'. But then again, he knows for a fact that he's hardly the only one occasionally eavesdropping and finding his source of amusement in those practically senile brothers.
He's heard good and bad about them; rumors ranging from lighthearted to downright mean, heard them be called "those mad old Winchesters" in tones ranging from affectional to mocking and everything in between.
Well hell, Tom's never claimed to be a saint.
"…Claire always needs a new knife, so why don't we buy one for her?" Dean's currently saying, while Sam gives him a notably pained look.
"Agreed on that point, but why the hell can't we just give this knife to her instead of Jody?"
"Listen, man, we should have stopped doing couple gifts ages ago, I swear to god, every year it's the same damn thing –"
"I'm very well aware of that, thank you, you've tried to buy shotguns to Alex five years in a row now."
"What? She'll sure as hell have more use of them than –"
"She, just as Jody – hell, just as us – doesn't hunt and you know it."
"And your point is..? Not hunting doesn't stop any friendly ghosties and beasties from getting into the house."
"You wanted to give her kids silver stakes for Christmas."
"And you wanted to teach said kids how to banish poltergeists, so maybe I'm just a bit thick, but I continuously fail to see your point."
"Right, because it's better to give little kids weapons; run along now, kids, go stab a werewolf in the – hello, Rose, how lovely to see you."
Rose, or Mrs. Rogers, the old lady next door, is giving them an extraordinary filthy look. Tom has a vague memory of his mother mentioning something about an old grudge between those particular neighbors.
"Lovely, I'm sure," she states sweetly, and Tom feels giddily surprised by the contempt in the kind old woman's eyes – Mrs. Rogers who's never ever looked as much as annoyed before. "Lovely is the day when the two of you finally move to a safely locked away residential home."
"Oh don't sweat it, Rose," Dean winks, "We'll move there as soon as you do, don't you worry; you won't get rid of us that easily."
"Oh, for god's sake," Sam mutters. "Sorry, Rose, we don't have the time to stay and chat today – present hunting is hard work."
"Indeed," Rose says, "Especially if said presents have to contain at least three separate ways to murder someone."
"Merry Christmas," Dean agrees and tips an imaginary hat at her, while Sam pointedly steers them away. Tom, less pointedly, sneaks after them.
"Man, I'm telling you," Dean gripes as he purchases several candid apples, waving one at Sam until he takes it, "if we had settled down in a bigger town we wouldn't have had to deal with neighbors like Rose and her ass of a husband."
"There's no need to talk shit about the dead."
"All I'm saying is, it wouldn't hurt to dig him up and salt his ass to make sure he can't come back to haunt our –"
"See, this is the exact reason why anyone in this town, the Rogers included, give us the stink eye."
"No, the reason is that we live in the middle of nowhere where everyone knows everyone and you can't lose your sock without the neighbors knowing about it."
"As soon as we moved in we started carving so called satanic sigils into everything we could find, it's hardly surprising the Rogers started thinking we were both Satanists and murderers."
"Oh, get your head out of your – hold on, Sammy, gingerbread cutters to the right."
As one, both brothers come to a truce in order to peer at the stand with said cutters.
"Tom," someone calls, and Tom jumps guiltily as he quickly turns towards his mom. Her cheeks are flaming red just as everyone else's, but she's got a cheery Christmas tree drawn onto the left side of her face (courtesy of the facial art stand) and Tom wants to die a very quick death. Preferably before anyone sees her. She's carrying several bags of newly bought goodies, a pretty Christmas wreath under her arm, as well as an overly large supply of new lightbulbs.
"Your sister and I are ready to get going," his mom says, "Do you want to stay any longer?"
"Nah, I'm good," Tom quickly decides, knowing that his chances of getting another ride home are slim.
Behind him he can hear the Winchesters arguing about the morals behind rifle-shaped gingerbread and angels.
He spends the ride home contemplating whether or not he should ask his mother about the Winchesters – and their apparent belief in the occult. And their thought about firearms. Then again, there's no way to ask that without sounding judgmental, and his mom belongs to the type who says "those mad old Winchesters" with absolute fondness.
If Tom's not mistaken, he thinks she's mentioned something about visiting them as a child.
As soon as they get home, Tom snags a lightbulb from his mom and skids towards the living room, and very pointedly drops it at his dozing father. His dad grumbles a bit and peers up at him from the couch.
"Lightbulb," Tom clarifies briskly.
"I've changed that damn lightbulb three times this week alone," he gripes, but long-sufferingly allows himself to be bullied away from the couch.
"The rest of us are too short to change it," Annie hollers from the kitchen, and their dad makes a face in his daughter's direction.
Tom skips up the stairway and rolls his eyes at his dad's slowness, only to stagger slightly.
For a moment he feels lightheaded, eyes unseeing, (so, so cold), and he swears he can feel someone shove him in the chest, making him tip backwards and down, down, down the stairs, and he can feel an echo of terror right before (his head cracks open, like an egg, his neck snapping, pain, pain, pain) –
Another set of hands catch him (these ones blessedly warm), and he bends his head backwards to look up at his father's wide eyes.
Only… instead of looking exasperated or rebuking he looks terrified, squeezing his son's shoulders hard enough to hurt.
Tom squirms a bit until his dad lets go, face alarmingly pain and breathing shallowly. He opens his mouth to say something, but in the end he just changes the lightbulb and leaves without a word.
Tom doesn't think too much about it before he undresses for bed and spots a very distinctive set of hand-shaped bruises etched into his chest.
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