Alas, final chapter for the mini-Christmas-fic! It's Christmas Eve, and I wanted to post this one the same day that it's set, whoops. Anyways, merry Christmas!

Things come to a head on Christmas Eve.

Things worsen after the stair incident and finding the bruises on his chest; the lightbulbs explode on a regular basis, things constantly fall over, the stairway is bitingly cold no matter how much they tinker with the radiators, and none of them appears to get any sleep.

But on the night of Christmas Eve?

That's when Tom leaves his room for a midnight visit to the loo and is met by a figure blocking his path in the stairway. It's dark, and for a second Tom thought it was his father – that was before he saw the snapped neck and the hideous dead eyes staring up at him.

Tom had slapped a hand over his mouth and quickly, quickly stumbled backwards up the few stairs and barricaded his room, where he could hyperventilate in peace followed by climbing out his window.

That's how he, somehow, ended up banging on the Winchesters' door in the middle of the night, occasionally hitting their overly fancy Christmas wreath.

He doesn't recall the journey itself; all he knows is that he freaked the fuck out, and he didn't want his mother's frantic questions or his father's uneasy silences. And apparently he'd rather tell two grumpy, delusional old coots that he's scared of ghosts than to confess that to his parents (or god forbid, his sister).

Jesus, he sounds like a sniveling five-year-old.

"What the fuck is it?" a voice finally roars from inside, and Tom falters for a moment before continuing, this time knocking a tad more carefully.

It takes a while before the door is thrown open, almost hitting Tom in the process, revealing a very pissed off Dean Winchester.

An old man dressed in plaid pajamas and a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers shouldn't be intimidating, but Tom's sure his face alone would be able to scare off a bear or two.

"Why the ever-loving fuck are you…" he starts before breaking off, eyes narrowing.

Tom figures he must look remarkably pathetic to make even this man's face soften marginally and stop shouting.

"What's going on?" Sam's hoarse voice calls from upstairs.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Sam, just get your ass back in bed," Dean yells back, but is answered by defiant thuds in the stairway as Sam hobbles downstairs. Dean growls wordlessly but turns back to Tom, leaning down a bit.

"Do you want to come in or do you want to get frostbite?" he asks gruffly, already stepping aside and impatiently waving him inside. The door shuts behind them, and in the sudden warmth Tom realizes his teeth are clattering against each other.

"Come on, kid, talk to me," Dean prods, surprisingly gently. "Is everything okay at home?"

Well, now that he's here, Tom doesn't really know what he's supposed to say. Hey, wanna come over and play ghost hunters? He opts for giving him a helpless shrug.

He's lead towards the living room and pushed down in a couch, a plaid blanket wrapped around his shaking shoulders.

"There a reason to running around shoeless in December?" Dean asks and makes a tut-tut noise as they both look down at his white-tinted toes.

Sam wanders into the living room and takes in the situation without as much blinking, and wordlessly produces a pair of knitted socks out of thin air for him to put on. The socks are worn and frayed and warm, and about eighty sizes too big for him. At least they're not plaid, he reasons.

"There's a ghost in our stairway," Tom blurts out in the silence that follows, and immediately feels his face redden. Way to sound mature, buddy, way to go. "I mean – um."

The brothers exchange a look, which Tom doesn't even bother trying to transcript. He can see them doing a quick game of rock paper scissors – Dean throws scissors and promptly loses.

"Damn it," he mutters and sits down on the low table in front of Tom. "Okay. Ghost in the stairway. Listen, if you're another kid who thinks this is a fantastic prank I will personally gut –"

"Dean."

"Ugh. Let's say you're not a prankster – what makes you say there's a ghost there?"

Tom stares at him. "There was a ghost. In the stairway," he says slowly, as though Dean's particularly stupid. "I saw it, it saw me, what more do you need to know?"

"What my brother's trying to say," Sam interjects, "Has anything been… off in your home? Any malfunctions with the electricity?"

"Um," Tom says, but he's seen enough horror movies to know lights typically start flickering when something bad is about to happen, so it's not that weird of a question. "Lightbulb keeps flickering, nowadays exploding. It's… cold. Uh, things… fall over?" Including Tom, who was pushed.

Dean stares at him, searching for something – whatever it is he's seeking, he seems to find it. He doesn't appear to be overly pleased with that discovery.

"We heading over?" Sam asks pointedly.

"Well, hell," Dean sighs, "We've driven across states for less. I figure we can walk over the street and check it out; the only thing we're risking is our reputation, which isn't very impressive to start with."

It takes approximately fifteen minutes for the Winchesters to leave their house, and about fourteen minutes for Tom to regret his decision to come here.

For one, they're so wobbly it's scary to watch them try not to slip on the ice-covered road – also, they're carrying shotguns. Badly hidden shotguns. And fire irons. And a bag of road salt they made Tom carry.

Outside his house, it feels more and more unlikely that there's a ghost in their stairway, god, what the hell was he thinking? Annie will have blackmail material on him for life.

"You got a key?" Dean asks lowly as they stand in front of their front door, looking at their own fancy Christmas wreath.

"He turned up at our house without shoes, what makes you think he thought of grabbing his keys?" Sam mutters and slides past his brother, slowly bending his long body until he kneels in front of the door, and… starts tinkering with their lock.

"Are you… are you picking our lock?" Tom asks carefully, doing his best to not sound as though he's seconds away from running screaming for the hills.

He's not graced with an answer.

They enter the house with something called an EMF meter that wails more and more the closer they get to the stairway. It obviously means something, as the Winchester share another bitter look.

Then, Tom's dad shows up, closely followed by Tom's mom, oh, and hi there Annie. Tom's not sure what the Winchesters expected – the wailing sound wasn't exactly subtle.

Tom's dad warningly points his dad at Dean, who raises his arms in the standard non-threatening gesture – it's rather inefficient since he'd holding the freaking fire poker.

"Hey, easy, there's no need to bash in your neighbor's head –"

"You could be the major for all I care; you broke into our home in the middle of the night!"

The drama about to unfold is interrupted by the timely appearance of the ghost in the middle of the stairs. But this time – this time he looks mad. In the blink of an eye he's at the bottom of the stairs, both hands wrapping around dad's throat as though to snap it, and Tom screams, Annie screams, hell, mom screams –

The fire poker is suddenly swept clear through the ghost, wielded as though it's a sword from an ancient myth (or from one of the more awesome fantasy movies) and the ghost screeches as though burned as it disappears.

The awe-inspiring moment is more or less ruined by Dean's face contorting in pain as he bends down and clutches his free hand to his back.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, my fucking back, ah, motherfucking–"

Sam grimaces in sympathy and gives Dean's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "You alright, man?"

"I just fucking threw out my back, what do you think?"

"No you didn't," Sam retorts soothingly, "Believe me, I've seen you throw out your back – this time you'll be just fine."

"Fine my ass, you pesky little…"

Sam doesn't bat an eye as the ghost reappears to their right, barely even looking as he fires a round of whatever-it-is in their shotguns. His face scrunches up at the recoil of the gun but doesn't hesitate to wave the family into the living room.

"Tom, make a big circle of the salt," he orders, and Tom's shell-shocked enough to obey without question (actually, he's quite proud he's coherent enough to understand the command at all).

By the time they're all safely standing inside the circle (spirits are apparently repelled by both salt and iron – good to know for future reference. Spirits are already a bigger problem in his life than he'd ever expected them to be), Dean's standing upright again but none of the brothers look happy.

Their unhappiness is undisguisedly aimed at Tom's dad.

"So, Josh," Dean starts sweetly, "anything you want to share with class?"

Tom's dad, still rubbing his throat (that now bears matching handprints to the ones that marred Tom's own chest) blinks dazedly and takes a moment to answer the question. "I don't… what?"

"Cut the crap, Josh," Sam says, and Tom startles at his cold tone – it's a big change from his usual kind grandfatherly role. Actually, the brothers look at his dad the way Mrs. Rogers look at the Winchesters. "Vengeful spirits don't appear without reason – and it's not a coincidence that this one went straight for you."

"What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Josh," their mom interrupts, a slight quiver to her voice, "that was – oh god, Josh, that was Matt."

"Such a shame Matt doesn't come around for Christmas anymore," Dean says mournfully, as Sam nods in agreement.

"Pity. We liked Matt."

"Haven't seen him in years, though – I gotta admit, I'm a bit hurt that he didn't keep in contact. Tell me, Sammy, when was the last time we saw him..?"

"Mm, I actually think it was during Christmas – you know that he used to spend Christmas around here. Christmas Eve, if we want to be more specific."

"Yeah, yeah – like I said, such a shame he stopped visiting."

"Oh god," Ellie mumbles and presses a hand against her mouth. "Josh, what did you do?"

"I haven't done anything," their dad says, but even to Tom's ears it sounds weak.

"Right," Dean deadpans, "that's why dear old Matt is currently haunting your stairway. Something tells me something happened during Christmas all those years ago – it'd explain why he's been growing more active the closer we've gotten to the holiday. Hah – Sammy, are we dealing with a seasonal ghost?"

"Dean."

"The Christmas spirit?"

"For god's sake, Dean."

"I'm just saying, man –"

"It's not Matt," Josh interrupts, "he wouldn't – he almost killed Tommy in the stairs. Matt – Matt wasn't like that – he wouldn't do that, to Tom or me."

"What," Dean raises a disbelieving eyebrow, "you kill your brother and expect him not to be pissed?"

"Pretty sure he didn't expect him to stick around and be pissed," Sam remarks.

"It wasn't like that," Tom's dad says, but his shoulders are hunched and he's speaking to the floor. "It was – it was an accident, alright? I didn't mean to, but we were arguing in the stairs and I…" It's not particularly hard to fill in the blanks.

"Oh, bullshit," his mom shoots back, voice shrill and hands curled into defensive fists. "You don't – you don't accidentally murder your brother and hide his corpse in our home if you –"

She breaks off and Tom takes another step closer to his sister. His heart is beating too fast and it feels like the air is too thin, too far away, too cold (well, he reflects numbly as his breath fogs in front of his face, the cold part was at least true).

Tom's never claimed to be overly brave.

He squeezes his eyes shut the moment the ghost – his uncle – reappears in the corner of his eye. He can hear his dad emit a pained, hitching sound at the sight and Tom fumbles for Annie's hand.

One of the Winchesters makes it go away again and he can hear them swearing lowly.

"Well Sammy," Dean says mockingly, "how's the retire going for us, huh?"

"Splendidly."

"Mmhm. And isn't this family wonderfully and utterly protected from the dark and nasty things that go bump in the night, protected by their blessedly innocent innocence?"

"I get your point, alright."

"Hmm, what a joy we didn't buy those shotguns to Alex since she clearly doesn't need any weapons since she's retired."

"Oh my god, will you let it go?"

"Enough!" his mother explodes and Tom dares to peer at his mother, red-faced and visibly terrified yet pissed as hell. "Misters, you will stop your bickering right this instance or so help me, I'll shove those shotguns up your asses. What is happening in my home?"

Dean sends Sam one last glare, but it has nothing against the naked disgust he sends towards Tom's dad. "Your home's haunted since good ole Josh over there is a fucking moronic killer who's into fratricide."

"Yes, thank you, I got that part," Ellie snaps, "Now what the hell do we do about it?"

"If it's a regular haunting," Sam starts mildly, "We'll just have to put him to rest by taking care of his… remains."

With this, both brothers give Josh a pointed look, whereas he goes sickeningly white.

"No," he says, "You're all crazy, I won't – No."

"Yes you will," Ellie hisses and digs a finger into his chest, "I don't see you coming up with any solutions to this, so you'll goddamn well listen to the only ones who think they have their shit together."

"I won't –"

"Dad, for fuck's sake," Annie screeches, "There's a ghost in our living room!"

Sam walks closer to Josh, subtly leaning downwards with an earnest look on his face, yet again looking terribly grandfatherly and awfully out of place in their haunted house. "Josh," he says softly, "if you don't tell us where your brother is, your family will die."

"Don't sweat it, Sammy," Dean drawls, "This guy obviously isn't bothered by being the death of his family members."

"That's not true," Josh snarls, "Think what you will about me, but don't you say that I don't care about my family."

"Yeah? Then prove it. And oh, if you buried him in the backyard, we're all screwed – Sam and I can't even shovel our own driveway anymore, much less dig up a frozen grave."

As it turns out, uncle Matt isn't buried in the backyard. From the whispered conversation Tom can make out that Matt's somewhere in the basement, hidden somewhere underneath the floor. Dean swears some more, before stating that they need help to get him out of there. Tom's dad point blank refuses.

"Coward or not, he's got a point," Sam reflects sourly, "Matt will be out for Josh's head; he'll bother us even more if Josh steps out of the circle."

"Josh is the one who put him there," Ellie pipes up with a smile so false it hurts to look at. "He'd better be the one who gets him out."

"One of us needs to stay with the kids," Josh states softly, and Ellie nods briskly.

"Yes. And I sure as hell ain't letting you stay alone with them."

Their dad flinches as though struck, before nodding meekly and leading the Winchesters towards the basement. After what feels forever, their mom has to go downstairs as well; two elderly men with aching joints and traitorous backs aren't much help when it comes to grave searching.

There's the occasional crash and bang from downstairs, but neither Annie nor Tom move an inch. The salt is safe; they'll stay with the salt, thank you very much.

They stay there until they can see the very first rays of the morning sun creep through the windows, so faint the light's barely even there, until their feet ache and their eyes burn, but they still don't move. One time during the night uncle Matt appeared outside the circle, but he did nothing but stare at them with his terrifyingly empty eyes. Tom doesn't have many memories of his uncle, but in the ones he has, Matt's always been cheerful and kind. Perhaps, he thought as he'd stupidly met the ghost's eyes, there was something left of Matt in there, as he didn't appear to give a damn about his nephew and niece. He was far too busy chasing down his brother.

Come dawn, they all stumble up from the basement, looking more or less whole.

Mom doesn't hesitate to stride forward and throw her arms around them – Tom's not sure how he should act towards his dad, so he opts for hiding his face in his mother's shoulder.

Sam and Dean carry out a hushed conversation yet again, something about police and something about evidence and something more about keeping quiet about the whole ghost business – Tom's not listening very closely.

He knows that the Winchesters stay for a while longer, keeping a watchful eye over Josh ("Normally we'd already be out of here"), while Tom and Annie occasionally nod off in the couch. Tom would rather stay away from his room and the stairway for a while, thank you very much.

The elderly brother linger at the couch, looking for something to say.

"Well," Sam starts with a weak smile, "Your help with the shoveling will always be welcome. And regardless of what Dean tells you, we'll need help with mowing the lawn as well."

Tom's not sure if they'll still live here come summer, but he appreciates the offer anyway.

"Don't you listen to him, Tom," Dean says as he reappears out of nowhere to stand next to his brother, "We're fucking fantastic. We can handle ourselves."

That, if nothing else, is something Tom does believe.

…He figures he, however, owes them both a couple of free shoveled driveways and mowed lawns.

Ta daaa.

There it is! I ended up cutting away some of the scenes with the ghost, since I wanted to keep Tom as the sole story teller. Overall, I think this was very fun to write (even if the plot was an obvious excuse to write about bickering old Winchesters. I've developed a soft spot for them).

Again, Merry Christmas! :)