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It Came Upon a Midnight Clear... Gen Christmas fic...
As promised, the fandom's cheesiest Christmas fic. It's two years old, I guess, and it reads like it was written back in the day, but I figure it's like that ugly Christmas ornament you made for you mom in the first grade and she still puts on the tree.
To be honest, I thought I was okay with Christmas sucking this year, but I'm really not. So, here have Christmas fic. It's the jolliest thing I have. Ho, Ho, Ho!!
ETA: Sorry for momentary lack of cuttage.
It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
May 2002
“This for your, uh, partner?” The jeweler asked, cocking an eyebrow knowingly.
Dean raised one of his own in mirror of the sentiment. He hadn’t really considered what it would look like when an eighteen year old boy brought a ring in for resizing, a ring that just happened to match one that he was wearing himself. “Nooo, no, no, no,” Dean protested, then buttoned his lips. He doth protest too much if you asked Dad, not enough if you asked Sam. “It’s for my kid brother,” he stated. “We got matching ones when I graduated high school, but well, he outgrew his. Anyway, now he’s graduating, and I wanted to get it resized so he could wear it again. You know, kind of a symbol of brotherhood.”
He looked away, blushing. No wonder the guy was looking at him like that. He couldn’t sound any gayer if he tried. He could blame it on Sam, he supposed. It had been Sam who’d suggested they get matching rings in the first place, and at the time, Dean had acted pretty much the same way. “Can you get any gayer, Sam?”
But Sam didn’t wear his hair like Dean, didn’t dress like Dean, didn’t enjoy the same subjects in school as his brother. If he wanted them to wear matching rings, to MATCH…well, they were men’s rings…Dean could suck it up.
“It’ll take a couple of weeks,” the jeweler said, sliding the ring into an envelope. “It’s our busiest time of year, with graduations and weddings. We’ve got quite a backlog.”
“That long, huh?” Dean frowned. He knew his Dad already had a place lined up for them two states over as soon as Sam was out of school for the summer. “Well, if I pay now, can you just send it to my P.O. box?” He asked. “We’re going out of town. I don’t know when I’ll be back this way.”
“That’ll be fine.”
“Cool.” Dean laid his money out on the counter, money he’d earned working at a car wash downtown so that Sam would have no excuse to refuse the gift. No way he could go all high-minded and scream “dirty money” at it. Funny, Sam had never complained when Dean bought his Spaghetti-O’s with scammed credit cards. But then, Sam hadn’t eaten Spaghetti-O’s in years. “Thanks,” he said, and left the store.
--
By the time Dean made it back around to check the P.O. Box, he’d forgotten about the ring. When he opened the box and saw the tiny package with the familiar log on it, the scabs of some very fresh wounds peeled back with a tearing, blood-welling, anguish.
Sam was gone. And if Dean knew anything about his father and brother, Sam was going to stay gone.
Dean waited until he got out to the car before he opened the box, standing behind the opened lid of the Impala’s trunk to block prying eyes as he took a moment to consider the fact that all he had left of his brother was that stupid ring, and a whole lot of memories that hadn’t meant enough to Sam to keep him there. Dean picked up the circle of silver, twirled it around, and tossed it into the trunk and slammed the lid.
Gone. Just like Sam.
By the time he started the engine and pulled away, the blaring strains of AC/DC drowned out the memories playing in his head.
Christmas 2006
The motel room door opened only just enough for Dean to slide in, breath billowing in a white cloud around him, as he scooched through. He rubbed his hands together and stomped his stocking clad feet.
“Dude, I cannot believe you puked on my shoes,” he accused with only a slight raise in the temperature of his voice as he slammed the door shut. He couldn’t really get mad at his brother for being sick, but still, they were his only shoes.
“Sorry, man,” Sam said, laughing half-heartedly as he let his head fall against the headboard of the bed he was propped up on. “At least I got the car door open and spared your upholstery.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” Dean huffed, eyeing Sam worriedly as he put on his laughter-is-the-best-medicine front. “Anyway, gack can’t be much different than most of the monster goo we’ve stepped in over the years. Dad’s trick of freezing it and scraping it off in the morning should work, I hope. And it’s plenty cold enough to freeze out there tonight.”
“They’re predicting a snowstorm. Looks like we’re gonna be stuck here for a few days, at least.”
“Well, from the looks of you, we’re not gonna get back on the road for another week. Just do me a favor and give me some kinda warning next time. Catching half-digested food that your body rejects is not in my big brother job description.” Failing to get a chuckle in response, Dean took off his jacket and sat on the bed across from Sam.
He noted the sickly grey pallor that had crept into his brother’s complexion over the past couple of hours and the slight forward hunch Sam had adopted, though he’d yet to complain about anything at all. Projectile vomiting was apparently Sam’s Benedict Arnold, betraying whatever illness had been festering silently beneath the surface for the past several hundred miles.
“Seriously…” Dean said, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “if you think you need a doctor or something, you better say so, cuz I don’t know if we’re gonna be able to get out of here in an emergency.”
Sam shook his head, but raised it off the headboard more slowly than Dean would have liked. “No, I think it’s just a mild case of food poisoning. I thought the chicken smelled a little off. I shouldn’t have eaten it,” Sam dismissed with an airy chuckle.
“Told you about eating that low-fat crap,” Dean teased. “Salmonella is the healthy eater’s E.coli.”
“Yeah, call me crazy, but I’d rather die of dehydration with clean arteries than to drop over from a heart attack before I hit fifty.”
Dean laughed bemusedly, leaned back on his own bed to watch the TV, remote in hand. “Like either one of us is gonna live to see fifty anyways.”
Sam turned to look at him. “That is so not funny right now. Besides, is that any way to talk on Christmas Eve?
Dean sat up with a start. “Christmas?” He fell back with a thud against the head rest once more. “Sam, I’m sorry, man, I completely forgot.”
Sam raised a hand in protest. “Don’t worry about it. I forgot, too, ‘til I turned on the news. Too bad, cuz I was gonna get you new boots,” Sam teased.
“Yeah, and I was gonna get you barf bags, so now we’ve both missed the boat. Guess we’re stuck on the pier together.” Dean sat for a second in contemplative silence. “Well, could be worse. Could be stuck here alone.”
Sam turned to his brother, eyes glassy with more than just pain and sickness. “Bitch.”
Dean tried to duck away, but stupid Sammy and his big, wet friggin’ eyes always sucked him in like whirlpools. “Jerk,” he said, jumping up suddenly. “Anyway, let’s get you settled in.” He pulled out the duffel that held all their miscellaneous supplies and rummaged around for their med kit. He pulled out the battered box and popped it open. “Let’s see, we got Pepto and ibuprofen.” Thinking twice, he put the ibuprofen back. “I dunno, ibuprofen’s kinda hard on your stomach, Samantha. We got Tylenol instead.” He looked over to find Sam’s gaze following him. “Don’t look at me like that. I ain’t gonna wait on you hand and foot. You’re gonna get your own ass undressed and into bed. In fact, you can do that while I get you a glass of water.”
Dean could hear Sam rustling and groaning weakly in counterpoint to the squeaking of the box spring as he turned on the bathroom faucet. When the water came out piss yellow, he changed his mind. No way was his brother drinking that. He was pretty sure there were some bottles of water under the backseat of the car, still.
He was on his way out the door, glass in hand, when two hundred pounds of Sam nearly mowed him down on his way to the commode. Grimacing, Dean turned to see Sam kneeling rather ungracefully at the exact moment that his whole body convulsed and the rest of his chicken salad made its presence known.
“Well, at least you didn’t get any on my socks,” he sighed, glad that he hadn’t gotten the Tylenol into his brother before the big exit. He set the glass down, wet a towel, rolled it, and draped it over the back of Sam’s neck. “Hold that thought, kid. I gotta go out to the car. ‘S water’s not fit for human consumption. Not fit for whatever species you are either.”
Sam raised his hand in a gesture of, ‘dude, not right this minute, ‘k?’ Dean let him finish in peace.
It had already started to snow, tiny, driven flakes of half-snow and half-ice pelting his exposed flesh, as Dean ran out in his stocking feet to fetch the water. He cursed under his breath as he reached into the car and under the seat. “Merry frickin’ Christmas.”
About halfway through the night, or approximately somewhere between the fifth mad dash to the bathroom and the twentieth groaned, “I’ll be fine in the morning,” Dean knew that the four bottles of water he’d managed to scrounge up wouldn’t be enough to keep his brother hydrated until whatever bug this was worked its way out of his system.
Finally, at six a.m., when he knew kids all over the country were already creeping down the stairs to see what treasures Santa had brought, Dean tiptoed out to the vending machines to see if there was any water to be found. Finding none, he got the last bottle of tropical punch flavored Gatorade, and made his way back to the room. He paused at the door to pick up his shoes and ducked back inside.
He found Sam sitting up and looking at him, long strands of sweat-streaked hair matted to his forehead, and t-shirt plastered to his chest. At least he was awake and coherent, a sign that the fever wasn’t as high as Dean feared. He wished, not for the first time that night, that they’d replaced the digital thermometer they’d tossed after its unfortunate fall into the brown-stained toilet of some Motel Hell in Arkansas last summer. Money was short, and they were usually far more prone to cuts and bruises than fevers. When it came to the purchase of medical supplies, bandages and thread won out hands down.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Dean teased, tossing the drink onto the foot of Sam’s bed. “Here ya go. Don’t shoot your eye out, kid.”
Too tired to whip up a comeback, Sam rolled his eyes and picked up the bottle, hands shaking noticeably as he forced open the top. The first swallow was already halfway down his throat when Dean squeaked and dropped his shoes with a clatter, clutching his hand as though he’d been bitten.
Even sick, Sam couldn’t help but laugh, the Gatorade spraying in a red mist onto the comforter, just one more mysterious stain on the questionable patchwork of the quilt. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he rasped, “You scream like a girl!”
“I do not,” Dean said defensively, swallowing hard to lower his voice back to its normal octave. “And you’d scream, too. Something’s in my shoe.”
“Dr. Scholl?” Sam asked, eyes alight, despite his slouched posture.
“Very funny, puking boy. I’m serious. I felt claws, and I’m talking needle-sharp. Could be…I dunno, a gremlin maybe.” Dean slunk over to his own bed, keeping his eyes fixed on the pair of boots. Sam raised is eyebrows as the right shoe actually started to wobble. Oh yeah, something’s in there all right. With slow, precise movements, Dean reached under his pillow for the hunting knife he kept hidden there and withdrew it. The lamplight glistened off the blade as he held it out in front of him, placing his own body between the mysterious entity and his brother’s bed.
Moving in slow motion, Dean crouched down and raised the knife, prepared to deliver a killing blow to whatever vile creature emerged. The air seemed almost to crackle with anticipation as both brothers held their breath and waited.
Meow!
“Ahhh!” They jerked back simultaneously, screaming in unison as a tiny, white kitten poked its head from the top of the shoe and let them know in no uncertain terms that it was hungry.
“Duuddeee,” Dean exhaled with a whimpering laugh. He slumped back against the bed and rubbed a hand over his hair in disbelief. “I think we’ve been punk’d, Sammy.” As his heart settled back into a more normal rhythm, he glanced over his shoulder at his brother and studied the smile that lit up his face. Dean couldn’t remember the last time Sam had smiled like that, and being sick on top of it made the feat that much more superhuman. He turned from his brother to the now squalling kitten. Big things in little packages, he supposed.
The kitten was white with long hair that all but covered its face. Dean picked it up and set it on the bed with Sam. “Better check to make sure it doesn’t have black eyes,” he warned. “Cases of demons possessing small animals are rare, but it’s not unheard of,” he joked.
Sam picked up the kitty and petted its fur back away from its face. “Nope, not black,” he laughed. He turned an evil grin on his brother. “They’re yellow, actually.”
“Christo!” Dean jibed. “Nope, I think it’s good. Little booger musta climbed in my shoe to get outta the wind. The chill’s gotta be twenty below out there.”
Sam placed the kitten on his chest and looked down into its tiny face as he stroked its fur in an attempt to quell its pitiful cries. “Aww,‘ts alright cutie.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Dean teased, glad that Sam had gotten something to take his mind off how miserable he was.
Within a few minutes the kitten curled up into a contented ball and went to sleep.
“You know, some people believe that cats sit on your chest and suck the life outta you while you sleep,” Dean suggested. “You want me to paint a sigil on your ass to protect you from the demon spawn?”
Sam laughed but stopped suddenly and wrapped his right arm around himself protectively. Taking shallow breaths, he waited a good long time before he opened his eyes and met Dean’s worried gaze. He swallowed and forced himself to sit up straighter, a posture of strength Dean knew he didn’t have. When that failed to divert Dean’s eagle-eyed big brother gaze from his sickly, baby brother self, Sam resorted to another diversionary tactic. “You know,” he said, “this reminds me of that old Christmas story. You know the one, right?”
Dean shook his head, biting back the ridiculously lame question of, “You all right?”
“Well,” Sam said, “there was a time that children put their shoes outside the front door on Christmas Eve. They believed Santa came and filled the shoes with toys and candy. Probably the precursor to the modern day stockings, I guess. Anyway, so there was one poor family whose youngest daughter put her shoes out on the stoop every Christmas, but they could never afford to put anything inside. Still, she always put her shoes out anyway. Then, one Christmas morning, she went out to get her shoes, and curled up inside was a kitten. It would have died of exposure if she hadn’t left her shoes.”
“So, you’re saying that by puking on my boots, you inadvertently saved this innocent little kitty from freezing to death on Christmas Eve? And I suppose that gas attack that forced us to pull off the road in Missouri to air out the car miraculously saved someone’s pooch from becoming road pizza,” Dean sneered.
Sam started to laugh, then went ghost white and bolted up, setting the kitten in Dean’s lap as he stumbled into the bathroom. Dean stroked the kitten’s fur absently and grimaced as the sounds of Sam dry heaving into the toilet filled the room. “Guess I shouldn’t have mentioned the pizza.” As the sounds of puking died down, Dean tilted the critter’s chin up to look into his face. “All right, gremlin, duty calls. A big brother’s work is never done, you know.”
Dean stood, expecting the animal to jump gracefully off of his lap onto the floor. Instead, it hung, suspended over the crotch of his jeans, as Dean gazed down at it bemusedly. He heard a scuffling in the doorway and turned to find Sam leaning heavily against the doorframe with a grin on his face, despite the vomit-induced tear streaks on his cheeks.
“I see you found the fur bikini I ordered you from the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog,” Sam joked. “I knew it’d look hot on you.”
“I’m glad that me being fondled by a hairy chick against my consent gives you the jollies. Gives new meaning to the expression, Ho, Ho, Ho.”
Sam moved away from the doorframe, stooping with a hand clenched over his stomach until he found the edge of his bed and settled with a sigh. “FYI, kittens have no control over their claws. And you’re only assuming it’s a chick,” he pointed out. “Did you even check? Could be a Rainbow Alliance kitty.”
Dean pried the kitten off his jeans, each tiny claw leaving a loop in the fabric of the denim. “I am not looking up some cat’s skirt.”
Sam settled slowly back into the bed. “How’re we gonna name it if we don’t know which team it’s playing for?”
Dean set the kitty down beside Sam and watched as it curled back up on his chest, not missing the twinges of pain that crossed his brother’s features as the tiny feet traversed his stomach. “We can’t name it, Sam. That would only confuse it when it finds a real home.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, face darkening with disappointment.
“C’mon, man,” Dean said. “You know we can’t keep it. Life on the road isn’t fair to us, let alone a helpless animal.”
“I know…it’s just, well, it seems kinda like we’re meant to have it, don’t you think? I mean, it showed up in your shoe on Christmas morning. And truck drivers keep pets all the time.”
Dean looked away, hating that he had to play Dad when he’d given his father the very same argument more than a dozen times when they were kids, only to be shot down every time. “Truck drivers also have air-conditioned sleeper cabins, Sam, not leather-upholstered metal ovens.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I guess,” Sam finally conceded. “But we can keep it ‘til we leave town, right? Drop it by the animal shelter on our way out? So, it needs a name ‘til then.”
“‘Kay, then let’s call it, It. You know, with all that hair, it kinda reminds me of that freaky cousin from The Addams Family.”
“You’re a real sentimentalist, Dean,” Sam chuckled. “All right, then, It it is.”
“Well, we coulda called it Ralph after the paint on my shoes,” Dean jabbed picking up the boots and carrying them into the bathroom before they could melt. He cleaned them up as best he could, put them back on and emerged, reaching for his coat and keys.
“You gonna be all right here by yourself for awhile?” He asked. “I need to go get some more water before you dry up and blow away. The way that wind’s picking up, I think the storm’s gonna hit any time now. That little bit of sleet last night was just the appetizer.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sam agreed. He stroked the kitty’s fur tenderly and let his eyes slide shut, shivering. “Me and It will hold down the fort,” he slurred, already half-asleep.
“You sure?” Dean asked, suddenly skeptical. A feeling of dread washed over him, clenching in his stomach like a frozen fist. For a second, he almost changed his mind, but the half-empty bottle of Gatorade on the end table brought him back to reality. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised.
--
As it turned out, “as soon as I can” was nearly four hours later. The only thing open on Christmas morning in the town they were in was the local stop ‘n rob convenience store. And while it had plenty of water, it had very little in the way of cat food and other kitten-sitting supplies. He had to drive twenty miles over to the next town, where the Wal-Mart was still open.
The snow began coming down in a blinding sheet of white at about the exact moment he pulled into the parking lot. He looked up at the sky, “Yeah, Merry frickin’ Christmas to you, too, Jackass,” he swore, figuring the only respect he needed to pay was to mentally put a capital ‘J’ on the word to make sure there was no confusion as whom he was addressing. At any rate, he was already out of the car, point of no return, so to speak, so he hurried into the store.
He wasted five minutes in the pet supplies aisle staring at bags of kitten food and twenty different varieties of litter. If there had been any sliver of inkling to keep little It, it vanished the second he realized what a cat box would contribute to the Eau de Winchester aroma of their tiny living quarters. Very few things made Dean Winchester’s stomach flip, but he was pretty sure it did cartwheels at the notion of having a kitty toilet in the backseat of the Impala.
“Can I help you?” A sales associate asked. Poor kid looked to be barely eighteen, just rookie enough, Dean knew, to get stuck with Christmas day duty by default.
“Uh, yeah, we found a stray kitten, and we’re kinda stuck with it until after the holidays,” Dean said, scratching at the back of his neck. “I haven’t got a clue what I’m even looking for.” He pointed to the umpteen bags of litter. “I mean, we got clay, we got clumping, we got crystals, beads, baby powder scented. The cat’s still gonna crap in it, right?”
The girl, a petite brunette with freckles and a stupid elf cap pinned to her head laughed. “Preaching to the choir, man,” she agreed. “I taught my cat to use the toilet. Makes life much simpler.”
“You can do that?” Dean asked.
“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s not really even hard. You still gotta have a box for the initial training period, but you’d be surprised how fast they pick it up. I’ve never been able to get mine to flush, but yeah, no cat box makes me a happy kitty owner.”
Dean’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. No cat box. That was one major check mark erased from the cons side of the Keep Kitty-Don’t Keep Kitty list in the back of his mind. Sam really like the kitty. Big Plus. Dean didn’t hate It. Another big Plus. And, uh, truck drivers kept pets all the time.
The scales shifted.
Within ten minutes, Dean had his cart filled with everything from cat nip to feathers on strings and was making his way to the checkout counter before he could change his mind. The bottom of the cart held the largest bag of clay litter they had in the store, because the clerk had assured him that, for odor control in small spaces, nothing beat clay litter, and the giant bag should be plenty to get them through It’s toilet training phase.
When Dean pulled back into the motel parking lot, crawling at a snail’s pace over the ice-covered snow pack that had already covered the entire world for fifty miles in every direction, he had lost most of his Christmas spirit again. Driving at five miles an hour for twenty miles would do that to a guy.
Turning off the engine, he gazed into the backseat at the pile of shopping bags. He clenched his jaw with a scowl and decided to leave them for the time being, taking just a six pack of water bottles and a couple cans of cat food to tide them over.
He dove through the room door and slammed it shut behind him before the wind could catch it and blow it in, although the hole in the plaster behind the door knob suggested it wouldn’t have been the first time that had happened. Sam was still asleep, It curled up on his chest, just the way Dean had left them.
Dean set the water down on the nightstand and blew into his fists to warm up his fingers before laying the back of his hand against Sam’s cheek. Sam was burning up and still shivering, but he opened his eyes at the touch and greeted Dean with a weak smile. “Took you long enough,” he whispered. “Was getting ready to send the posse.”
Dean opened one of the bottles of water. “Yeah, the weather’s really taken a turn. Here,” he said, holding out the water bottle and helping Sam lift his head to sip from it. After a few small swallows, Sam choked, and Dean took the bottle away. That inkling of dread was back in Dean’s stomach, but one look out the window at the white wall of snow, and he knew he was beyond the point of being able to do much more than pray that Sam didn’t get worse before the storm passed. He wasn’t a praying man, but Sam had a way of making him do things he normally wouldn’t. Sam had a way of making him do anything.
Thinking that It might be making it hard for Sam to breathe by sleeping on his chest, Dean tried to lift the kitten off, but the tiny claws latched into his t-shirt stubbornly, and Sam groaned weakly in protest, putting one of his giant hands in the fur and stroking in a placating motion. Dean conceded and settled the kitty back into place.
“Fine, but if it sucks the breath outta you while you’re sleeping, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Dean whispered, knowing Sam was already asleep. He pulled up a chair, put his feet up on his own bed and took up watch at his brother’s sickbed.
He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but he awoke with a start, his heart racing as horrendous screams filled the air. Dean almost fell off his chair as he lunged for the drawer where his .45 was tucked safely away, his head still swimming with disorientation. The cool metal of the gun sent a shiver up his mind that cleared his head enough for him to realize that the screaming was coming from It.
The kitten had attached itself to the front of his shirt, halfway up his chest, and had its head turned up, yowling like it was on fire. “Geez!” Dean said, snatching at the cat and ripping it off the cotton of his t-shirt, his first irrational thought being that it was possessed and really was going to suck the life from him. When It continued to meowl and yell after he dropped her on the floor, Dean felt the sudden urge to quiet the raucous before it disturbed Sam.
That was when he realized that Sam hadn’t even moved, despite the uproar that was taking place only inches from his head. Dean dropped to his knees beside the bed and reached a shaking hand up to touch his brother’s dripping brow. Sam didn’t even move as Dean lifted his eyelids one at a time, but he flinched involuntarily, curling in on himself the moment Dean reached a hand beneath the comforter and probed across his stomach.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Dean said, heart pounding in his throat. “That’s it, we’re going to the hospital now.” Barely pausing to throw on his coat, Dean rushed out into the storm, brushed as much snow off the windshield of the car as he could, and reached in to turn the key and warm up the engine before heading back into the room. The smell of sickness was so thick as he re-entered the room that he wondered how he could have missed it before.
Not wanting to waste time fumbling with Sam’s clothes, Dean just scooped up his brother’s limp body, blankets and all, flung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and tried his best to ignore the sobbed choke of pain that his brother made as he dashed out of the room. He stumbled across the parking lot, and managed to get Sam arranged in the backseat, pushing all the cat supplies onto the floor. “No peeking at your presents, there, Sammy,” he said absently, as he shut the door, trying not get Sam’s feet in the process.
Dean jumped into the front seat and took a deep breath as he put the car in gear. Well, here goes nothing.
Yup. Nothing.
The tires spun ineffectually on the ice, and they moved all of about six inches, sideways. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Dean chanted under his breath. “Uh, I take it back. You’re not a jackass, all right. Just, please…”
He jumped out of the car, knees trembling with anxiety. There had to be something…
He ran to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Rock salt was good for melting ice, right? He picked up the nearly empty bag and remembered that they had been planning to buy more in the next town. He berated himself for not remembering to get it at Wal-Mart. Spent all his cash on cat toys, dammit. Scrabbling to keep his head in the game, his eyes fell on the bag of kitty litter. He shrugged, pushing out his bottom lip. Hell, it was worth a try.
Ripping into the bag with his frozen fingers, he cradled it under his arm and used his free hand to scatter the clay gravel under the tires and around the car, praying silently under his breath.
Finally, the bag empty, he jumped back in the car, closed his eyes, and put the car into gear once more. His face lit up with relief as the car inched backward, fishtailing only slightly on the slick surface. He made it to the road frontage just as a snowplow roared by on the feeder, clearing the path ahead of it and dropping sand behind to add traction. Dean paused momentarily to let the swirling snow clear enough to give him some visibility and glanced up at the street sign on the corner. 34th street. He shook his head in disbelief and pulled out onto the road, following the blue Highway signs to the nearest hospital.
--
“Your brother’s going to be just fine,” the young doctor assured. “He came through the surgery with flying colors, and we got that hot appendix out without any complications. It was good you got him here when you did, though. Appendicitis is nothing to play around with. A few more hours, and who knows?”
“Thanks,” Dean said, his voice thickly painted with relief. “I can’t thank you enough. Can I go see him?”
“Just give us a few more minutes to get him settled in recovery, then we’ll come get you,” the surgeon said, shaking his hand and turning to leave.
Dean slouched back into his chair in the surgical waiting room. He only managed to sit for a few minutes more with his head in his hands before he felt the need to just get up and move, somewhere, anywhere. His nerve endings were still firing at the speed of light, and his knees jerked up and down as his toes pressed into the floor. He jumped up and decided to take a walking tour of the Emergency Room while he waited.
He’d only made one lap around the front desk when he heard a sniffling sob coming from the corner of the room. Dean looked over and saw a man, a woman, and a little girl, all smudged with soot and wrapped in emergency blankets huddled in the chairs. The nurse at the reception desk followed his gaze.
“They’re lucky,” she said. “House fire. They just made it out in the nick of time. Apparently the family cat alerted them to the fire and made sure they all got out. Sad, though, the cat didn’t make it.”
Dean stuttered on his feet, caught between continuing his traipse and going back to his seat. Friggin’ Sam and his stories of Christmas miracles. Dean was starting to believe ‘em himself.
Kinda seems like we’re meant to have it, don’t you think?
For half a second, Dean was tempted to turn away and pretend he hadn’t heard the receptionist. After all, he didn’t know these people from Adam, and they probably didn’t want to be bothered by a complete stranger in light of their recent loss. Besides, he was just getting used to the idea that they were meant to have It. Dean and Sam. It’s the only present he had for his brother.
Still, he was Dean Winchester, dammit, and he’d never been able to turn his back on anyone in need. Especially not a kid. He had plenty to be thankful for this Christmas. He supposed he had a little Christmas spirit left to share. White, furry, Christmas spirit.
--
“You don’t know how much this means,” Mr. Johnson, the now homeless patriarch of the family who’d lost their house in the fire said as Dean handed him the last of the kitten supplies he had stashed in the car. The last few bags came out of the trunk, and Dean barely noticed the tiny clink of metal on the packed snow as something hooked on the plastic and fell to the ground.
Mr. Johnson stooped and picked up the tiny object. “Oops, you dropped something,” he said, holding it out to Dean.
Dean held out his hand, slightly confused, then grinned from ear to ear, the weight of a thousand worlds suddenly lifted from his shoulders.
“Haha! Merry Christmas, Mr. Johnson. I’ll bring the kitten by in the morning,” he laughed, clapping the older gentleman on the back. “I know she’ll have great home with you.”
“Thank you, son.”
“No, thank you. Really…”
--
It was still a few minutes before midnight when Sam opened his eyes in the recovery room, groggy, but obviously in less pain than he had been when he came in.
“How you feeling?” Dean asked, unable to resist the urge to push the bangs away from Sam’s eyes.
“Like a cat sat on my chest and sucked the life outta me,” Sam chuckled.
“More like saved it,” Dean said with a snicker. “She screamed so loud I thought the sky was falling, and when she wouldn’t shut up…” he scratched the back of his neck, “…well, if I hadn’t woke up when I did.”
“See,” Sam smirked, “I told you we were meant to have her.”
“Yeah, about that, uh, Sam,” Dean stammered. “I know you were real attached to It, but I kinda gave her away while you were out.” He looked away guiltily and cleared his throat. “She’s got a real good home, though, or at least she will when they rebuild it,” he huffed half-heartedly.
“‘Ts okay,” Sam said.
“Look, I know your Christmas sucked and all,” Dean said, “and I hate that I forgot to get you anything, so, uh, here…” He held out his hand, a tiny-tissue wrapped object falling into Sam’s. “Consider this an IOU.”
“What? Dean you didn’t need to get me anything. It’s not like I’m gonna be hitting the gift shop anytime soon, myself. You’ll make me feel guilty.”
“Don’t. Dude, just open it,” Dean insisted.
With trembling fingers, Sam worked at the tissue, and halted when a silver ring fell out onto the blanket. “Dean, isn’t this?”
“Yeah, I mean, you don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want, but I thought you’d like to have it back.”
Sam picked up the ring, and rolled it between his fingers. He couldn’t even count the number of times he’d wished he’d known what had happened to that ring.
“Dean, I don’t know what to say…” Sam said, eyes glassy again, though this time not with fever or pain. “After I got to Stanford, I musta went through every pocket of my duffel bag a hundred times. I know I stuck it in there so I’d never lose it, but it was gone. I…” he cleared his throat , “I had to have looked at least a thousand times during the time I was gone. Like if I looked one more time it would be there.”
Dean nodded. He understood. It was just a cheap ring, but it felt like the frame of a hole in his heart that never healed.
Dean rumpled Sam’s hair, something Sam hadn’t allowed him to do since he’d graduated elementary school. “Merry Christmas, little brother.”
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”
The End
ETA2: Some Ghostfacers yumminess.
To be honest, I thought I was okay with Christmas sucking this year, but I'm really not. So, here have Christmas fic. It's the jolliest thing I have. Ho, Ho, Ho!!
ETA: Sorry for momentary lack of cuttage.
It Came Upon A Midnight Clear
May 2002
“This for your, uh, partner?” The jeweler asked, cocking an eyebrow knowingly.
Dean raised one of his own in mirror of the sentiment. He hadn’t really considered what it would look like when an eighteen year old boy brought a ring in for resizing, a ring that just happened to match one that he was wearing himself. “Nooo, no, no, no,” Dean protested, then buttoned his lips. He doth protest too much if you asked Dad, not enough if you asked Sam. “It’s for my kid brother,” he stated. “We got matching ones when I graduated high school, but well, he outgrew his. Anyway, now he’s graduating, and I wanted to get it resized so he could wear it again. You know, kind of a symbol of brotherhood.”
He looked away, blushing. No wonder the guy was looking at him like that. He couldn’t sound any gayer if he tried. He could blame it on Sam, he supposed. It had been Sam who’d suggested they get matching rings in the first place, and at the time, Dean had acted pretty much the same way. “Can you get any gayer, Sam?”
But Sam didn’t wear his hair like Dean, didn’t dress like Dean, didn’t enjoy the same subjects in school as his brother. If he wanted them to wear matching rings, to MATCH…well, they were men’s rings…Dean could suck it up.
“It’ll take a couple of weeks,” the jeweler said, sliding the ring into an envelope. “It’s our busiest time of year, with graduations and weddings. We’ve got quite a backlog.”
“That long, huh?” Dean frowned. He knew his Dad already had a place lined up for them two states over as soon as Sam was out of school for the summer. “Well, if I pay now, can you just send it to my P.O. box?” He asked. “We’re going out of town. I don’t know when I’ll be back this way.”
“That’ll be fine.”
“Cool.” Dean laid his money out on the counter, money he’d earned working at a car wash downtown so that Sam would have no excuse to refuse the gift. No way he could go all high-minded and scream “dirty money” at it. Funny, Sam had never complained when Dean bought his Spaghetti-O’s with scammed credit cards. But then, Sam hadn’t eaten Spaghetti-O’s in years. “Thanks,” he said, and left the store.
--
By the time Dean made it back around to check the P.O. Box, he’d forgotten about the ring. When he opened the box and saw the tiny package with the familiar log on it, the scabs of some very fresh wounds peeled back with a tearing, blood-welling, anguish.
Sam was gone. And if Dean knew anything about his father and brother, Sam was going to stay gone.
Dean waited until he got out to the car before he opened the box, standing behind the opened lid of the Impala’s trunk to block prying eyes as he took a moment to consider the fact that all he had left of his brother was that stupid ring, and a whole lot of memories that hadn’t meant enough to Sam to keep him there. Dean picked up the circle of silver, twirled it around, and tossed it into the trunk and slammed the lid.
Gone. Just like Sam.
By the time he started the engine and pulled away, the blaring strains of AC/DC drowned out the memories playing in his head.
Christmas 2006
The motel room door opened only just enough for Dean to slide in, breath billowing in a white cloud around him, as he scooched through. He rubbed his hands together and stomped his stocking clad feet.
“Dude, I cannot believe you puked on my shoes,” he accused with only a slight raise in the temperature of his voice as he slammed the door shut. He couldn’t really get mad at his brother for being sick, but still, they were his only shoes.
“Sorry, man,” Sam said, laughing half-heartedly as he let his head fall against the headboard of the bed he was propped up on. “At least I got the car door open and spared your upholstery.”
“Thank God for small miracles,” Dean huffed, eyeing Sam worriedly as he put on his laughter-is-the-best-medicine front. “Anyway, gack can’t be much different than most of the monster goo we’ve stepped in over the years. Dad’s trick of freezing it and scraping it off in the morning should work, I hope. And it’s plenty cold enough to freeze out there tonight.”
“They’re predicting a snowstorm. Looks like we’re gonna be stuck here for a few days, at least.”
“Well, from the looks of you, we’re not gonna get back on the road for another week. Just do me a favor and give me some kinda warning next time. Catching half-digested food that your body rejects is not in my big brother job description.” Failing to get a chuckle in response, Dean took off his jacket and sat on the bed across from Sam.
He noted the sickly grey pallor that had crept into his brother’s complexion over the past couple of hours and the slight forward hunch Sam had adopted, though he’d yet to complain about anything at all. Projectile vomiting was apparently Sam’s Benedict Arnold, betraying whatever illness had been festering silently beneath the surface for the past several hundred miles.
“Seriously…” Dean said, clearing his throat uncomfortably, “if you think you need a doctor or something, you better say so, cuz I don’t know if we’re gonna be able to get out of here in an emergency.”
Sam shook his head, but raised it off the headboard more slowly than Dean would have liked. “No, I think it’s just a mild case of food poisoning. I thought the chicken smelled a little off. I shouldn’t have eaten it,” Sam dismissed with an airy chuckle.
“Told you about eating that low-fat crap,” Dean teased. “Salmonella is the healthy eater’s E.coli.”
“Yeah, call me crazy, but I’d rather die of dehydration with clean arteries than to drop over from a heart attack before I hit fifty.”
Dean laughed bemusedly, leaned back on his own bed to watch the TV, remote in hand. “Like either one of us is gonna live to see fifty anyways.”
Sam turned to look at him. “That is so not funny right now. Besides, is that any way to talk on Christmas Eve?
Dean sat up with a start. “Christmas?” He fell back with a thud against the head rest once more. “Sam, I’m sorry, man, I completely forgot.”
Sam raised a hand in protest. “Don’t worry about it. I forgot, too, ‘til I turned on the news. Too bad, cuz I was gonna get you new boots,” Sam teased.
“Yeah, and I was gonna get you barf bags, so now we’ve both missed the boat. Guess we’re stuck on the pier together.” Dean sat for a second in contemplative silence. “Well, could be worse. Could be stuck here alone.”
Sam turned to his brother, eyes glassy with more than just pain and sickness. “Bitch.”
Dean tried to duck away, but stupid Sammy and his big, wet friggin’ eyes always sucked him in like whirlpools. “Jerk,” he said, jumping up suddenly. “Anyway, let’s get you settled in.” He pulled out the duffel that held all their miscellaneous supplies and rummaged around for their med kit. He pulled out the battered box and popped it open. “Let’s see, we got Pepto and ibuprofen.” Thinking twice, he put the ibuprofen back. “I dunno, ibuprofen’s kinda hard on your stomach, Samantha. We got Tylenol instead.” He looked over to find Sam’s gaze following him. “Don’t look at me like that. I ain’t gonna wait on you hand and foot. You’re gonna get your own ass undressed and into bed. In fact, you can do that while I get you a glass of water.”
Dean could hear Sam rustling and groaning weakly in counterpoint to the squeaking of the box spring as he turned on the bathroom faucet. When the water came out piss yellow, he changed his mind. No way was his brother drinking that. He was pretty sure there were some bottles of water under the backseat of the car, still.
He was on his way out the door, glass in hand, when two hundred pounds of Sam nearly mowed him down on his way to the commode. Grimacing, Dean turned to see Sam kneeling rather ungracefully at the exact moment that his whole body convulsed and the rest of his chicken salad made its presence known.
“Well, at least you didn’t get any on my socks,” he sighed, glad that he hadn’t gotten the Tylenol into his brother before the big exit. He set the glass down, wet a towel, rolled it, and draped it over the back of Sam’s neck. “Hold that thought, kid. I gotta go out to the car. ‘S water’s not fit for human consumption. Not fit for whatever species you are either.”
Sam raised his hand in a gesture of, ‘dude, not right this minute, ‘k?’ Dean let him finish in peace.
It had already started to snow, tiny, driven flakes of half-snow and half-ice pelting his exposed flesh, as Dean ran out in his stocking feet to fetch the water. He cursed under his breath as he reached into the car and under the seat. “Merry frickin’ Christmas.”
About halfway through the night, or approximately somewhere between the fifth mad dash to the bathroom and the twentieth groaned, “I’ll be fine in the morning,” Dean knew that the four bottles of water he’d managed to scrounge up wouldn’t be enough to keep his brother hydrated until whatever bug this was worked its way out of his system.
Finally, at six a.m., when he knew kids all over the country were already creeping down the stairs to see what treasures Santa had brought, Dean tiptoed out to the vending machines to see if there was any water to be found. Finding none, he got the last bottle of tropical punch flavored Gatorade, and made his way back to the room. He paused at the door to pick up his shoes and ducked back inside.
He found Sam sitting up and looking at him, long strands of sweat-streaked hair matted to his forehead, and t-shirt plastered to his chest. At least he was awake and coherent, a sign that the fever wasn’t as high as Dean feared. He wished, not for the first time that night, that they’d replaced the digital thermometer they’d tossed after its unfortunate fall into the brown-stained toilet of some Motel Hell in Arkansas last summer. Money was short, and they were usually far more prone to cuts and bruises than fevers. When it came to the purchase of medical supplies, bandages and thread won out hands down.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Dean teased, tossing the drink onto the foot of Sam’s bed. “Here ya go. Don’t shoot your eye out, kid.”
Too tired to whip up a comeback, Sam rolled his eyes and picked up the bottle, hands shaking noticeably as he forced open the top. The first swallow was already halfway down his throat when Dean squeaked and dropped his shoes with a clatter, clutching his hand as though he’d been bitten.
Even sick, Sam couldn’t help but laugh, the Gatorade spraying in a red mist onto the comforter, just one more mysterious stain on the questionable patchwork of the quilt. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he rasped, “You scream like a girl!”
“I do not,” Dean said defensively, swallowing hard to lower his voice back to its normal octave. “And you’d scream, too. Something’s in my shoe.”
“Dr. Scholl?” Sam asked, eyes alight, despite his slouched posture.
“Very funny, puking boy. I’m serious. I felt claws, and I’m talking needle-sharp. Could be…I dunno, a gremlin maybe.” Dean slunk over to his own bed, keeping his eyes fixed on the pair of boots. Sam raised is eyebrows as the right shoe actually started to wobble. Oh yeah, something’s in there all right. With slow, precise movements, Dean reached under his pillow for the hunting knife he kept hidden there and withdrew it. The lamplight glistened off the blade as he held it out in front of him, placing his own body between the mysterious entity and his brother’s bed.
Moving in slow motion, Dean crouched down and raised the knife, prepared to deliver a killing blow to whatever vile creature emerged. The air seemed almost to crackle with anticipation as both brothers held their breath and waited.
Meow!
“Ahhh!” They jerked back simultaneously, screaming in unison as a tiny, white kitten poked its head from the top of the shoe and let them know in no uncertain terms that it was hungry.
“Duuddeee,” Dean exhaled with a whimpering laugh. He slumped back against the bed and rubbed a hand over his hair in disbelief. “I think we’ve been punk’d, Sammy.” As his heart settled back into a more normal rhythm, he glanced over his shoulder at his brother and studied the smile that lit up his face. Dean couldn’t remember the last time Sam had smiled like that, and being sick on top of it made the feat that much more superhuman. He turned from his brother to the now squalling kitten. Big things in little packages, he supposed.
The kitten was white with long hair that all but covered its face. Dean picked it up and set it on the bed with Sam. “Better check to make sure it doesn’t have black eyes,” he warned. “Cases of demons possessing small animals are rare, but it’s not unheard of,” he joked.
Sam picked up the kitty and petted its fur back away from its face. “Nope, not black,” he laughed. He turned an evil grin on his brother. “They’re yellow, actually.”
“Christo!” Dean jibed. “Nope, I think it’s good. Little booger musta climbed in my shoe to get outta the wind. The chill’s gotta be twenty below out there.”
Sam placed the kitten on his chest and looked down into its tiny face as he stroked its fur in an attempt to quell its pitiful cries. “Aww,‘ts alright cutie.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Dean teased, glad that Sam had gotten something to take his mind off how miserable he was.
Within a few minutes the kitten curled up into a contented ball and went to sleep.
“You know, some people believe that cats sit on your chest and suck the life outta you while you sleep,” Dean suggested. “You want me to paint a sigil on your ass to protect you from the demon spawn?”
Sam laughed but stopped suddenly and wrapped his right arm around himself protectively. Taking shallow breaths, he waited a good long time before he opened his eyes and met Dean’s worried gaze. He swallowed and forced himself to sit up straighter, a posture of strength Dean knew he didn’t have. When that failed to divert Dean’s eagle-eyed big brother gaze from his sickly, baby brother self, Sam resorted to another diversionary tactic. “You know,” he said, “this reminds me of that old Christmas story. You know the one, right?”
Dean shook his head, biting back the ridiculously lame question of, “You all right?”
“Well,” Sam said, “there was a time that children put their shoes outside the front door on Christmas Eve. They believed Santa came and filled the shoes with toys and candy. Probably the precursor to the modern day stockings, I guess. Anyway, so there was one poor family whose youngest daughter put her shoes out on the stoop every Christmas, but they could never afford to put anything inside. Still, she always put her shoes out anyway. Then, one Christmas morning, she went out to get her shoes, and curled up inside was a kitten. It would have died of exposure if she hadn’t left her shoes.”
“So, you’re saying that by puking on my boots, you inadvertently saved this innocent little kitty from freezing to death on Christmas Eve? And I suppose that gas attack that forced us to pull off the road in Missouri to air out the car miraculously saved someone’s pooch from becoming road pizza,” Dean sneered.
Sam started to laugh, then went ghost white and bolted up, setting the kitten in Dean’s lap as he stumbled into the bathroom. Dean stroked the kitten’s fur absently and grimaced as the sounds of Sam dry heaving into the toilet filled the room. “Guess I shouldn’t have mentioned the pizza.” As the sounds of puking died down, Dean tilted the critter’s chin up to look into his face. “All right, gremlin, duty calls. A big brother’s work is never done, you know.”
Dean stood, expecting the animal to jump gracefully off of his lap onto the floor. Instead, it hung, suspended over the crotch of his jeans, as Dean gazed down at it bemusedly. He heard a scuffling in the doorway and turned to find Sam leaning heavily against the doorframe with a grin on his face, despite the vomit-induced tear streaks on his cheeks.
“I see you found the fur bikini I ordered you from the Frederick’s of Hollywood catalog,” Sam joked. “I knew it’d look hot on you.”
“I’m glad that me being fondled by a hairy chick against my consent gives you the jollies. Gives new meaning to the expression, Ho, Ho, Ho.”
Sam moved away from the doorframe, stooping with a hand clenched over his stomach until he found the edge of his bed and settled with a sigh. “FYI, kittens have no control over their claws. And you’re only assuming it’s a chick,” he pointed out. “Did you even check? Could be a Rainbow Alliance kitty.”
Dean pried the kitten off his jeans, each tiny claw leaving a loop in the fabric of the denim. “I am not looking up some cat’s skirt.”
Sam settled slowly back into the bed. “How’re we gonna name it if we don’t know which team it’s playing for?”
Dean set the kitty down beside Sam and watched as it curled back up on his chest, not missing the twinges of pain that crossed his brother’s features as the tiny feet traversed his stomach. “We can’t name it, Sam. That would only confuse it when it finds a real home.”
“Yeah,” Sam agreed, face darkening with disappointment.
“C’mon, man,” Dean said. “You know we can’t keep it. Life on the road isn’t fair to us, let alone a helpless animal.”
“I know…it’s just, well, it seems kinda like we’re meant to have it, don’t you think? I mean, it showed up in your shoe on Christmas morning. And truck drivers keep pets all the time.”
Dean looked away, hating that he had to play Dad when he’d given his father the very same argument more than a dozen times when they were kids, only to be shot down every time. “Truck drivers also have air-conditioned sleeper cabins, Sam, not leather-upholstered metal ovens.”
“Yeah, you’re right, I guess,” Sam finally conceded. “But we can keep it ‘til we leave town, right? Drop it by the animal shelter on our way out? So, it needs a name ‘til then.”
“‘Kay, then let’s call it, It. You know, with all that hair, it kinda reminds me of that freaky cousin from The Addams Family.”
“You’re a real sentimentalist, Dean,” Sam chuckled. “All right, then, It it is.”
“Well, we coulda called it Ralph after the paint on my shoes,” Dean jabbed picking up the boots and carrying them into the bathroom before they could melt. He cleaned them up as best he could, put them back on and emerged, reaching for his coat and keys.
“You gonna be all right here by yourself for awhile?” He asked. “I need to go get some more water before you dry up and blow away. The way that wind’s picking up, I think the storm’s gonna hit any time now. That little bit of sleet last night was just the appetizer.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sam agreed. He stroked the kitty’s fur tenderly and let his eyes slide shut, shivering. “Me and It will hold down the fort,” he slurred, already half-asleep.
“You sure?” Dean asked, suddenly skeptical. A feeling of dread washed over him, clenching in his stomach like a frozen fist. For a second, he almost changed his mind, but the half-empty bottle of Gatorade on the end table brought him back to reality. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised.
--
As it turned out, “as soon as I can” was nearly four hours later. The only thing open on Christmas morning in the town they were in was the local stop ‘n rob convenience store. And while it had plenty of water, it had very little in the way of cat food and other kitten-sitting supplies. He had to drive twenty miles over to the next town, where the Wal-Mart was still open.
The snow began coming down in a blinding sheet of white at about the exact moment he pulled into the parking lot. He looked up at the sky, “Yeah, Merry frickin’ Christmas to you, too, Jackass,” he swore, figuring the only respect he needed to pay was to mentally put a capital ‘J’ on the word to make sure there was no confusion as whom he was addressing. At any rate, he was already out of the car, point of no return, so to speak, so he hurried into the store.
He wasted five minutes in the pet supplies aisle staring at bags of kitten food and twenty different varieties of litter. If there had been any sliver of inkling to keep little It, it vanished the second he realized what a cat box would contribute to the Eau de Winchester aroma of their tiny living quarters. Very few things made Dean Winchester’s stomach flip, but he was pretty sure it did cartwheels at the notion of having a kitty toilet in the backseat of the Impala.
“Can I help you?” A sales associate asked. Poor kid looked to be barely eighteen, just rookie enough, Dean knew, to get stuck with Christmas day duty by default.
“Uh, yeah, we found a stray kitten, and we’re kinda stuck with it until after the holidays,” Dean said, scratching at the back of his neck. “I haven’t got a clue what I’m even looking for.” He pointed to the umpteen bags of litter. “I mean, we got clay, we got clumping, we got crystals, beads, baby powder scented. The cat’s still gonna crap in it, right?”
The girl, a petite brunette with freckles and a stupid elf cap pinned to her head laughed. “Preaching to the choir, man,” she agreed. “I taught my cat to use the toilet. Makes life much simpler.”
“You can do that?” Dean asked.
“Yeah,” she shrugged. “It’s not really even hard. You still gotta have a box for the initial training period, but you’d be surprised how fast they pick it up. I’ve never been able to get mine to flush, but yeah, no cat box makes me a happy kitty owner.”
Dean’s brow furrowed thoughtfully. No cat box. That was one major check mark erased from the cons side of the Keep Kitty-Don’t Keep Kitty list in the back of his mind. Sam really like the kitty. Big Plus. Dean didn’t hate It. Another big Plus. And, uh, truck drivers kept pets all the time.
The scales shifted.
Within ten minutes, Dean had his cart filled with everything from cat nip to feathers on strings and was making his way to the checkout counter before he could change his mind. The bottom of the cart held the largest bag of clay litter they had in the store, because the clerk had assured him that, for odor control in small spaces, nothing beat clay litter, and the giant bag should be plenty to get them through It’s toilet training phase.
When Dean pulled back into the motel parking lot, crawling at a snail’s pace over the ice-covered snow pack that had already covered the entire world for fifty miles in every direction, he had lost most of his Christmas spirit again. Driving at five miles an hour for twenty miles would do that to a guy.
Turning off the engine, he gazed into the backseat at the pile of shopping bags. He clenched his jaw with a scowl and decided to leave them for the time being, taking just a six pack of water bottles and a couple cans of cat food to tide them over.
He dove through the room door and slammed it shut behind him before the wind could catch it and blow it in, although the hole in the plaster behind the door knob suggested it wouldn’t have been the first time that had happened. Sam was still asleep, It curled up on his chest, just the way Dean had left them.
Dean set the water down on the nightstand and blew into his fists to warm up his fingers before laying the back of his hand against Sam’s cheek. Sam was burning up and still shivering, but he opened his eyes at the touch and greeted Dean with a weak smile. “Took you long enough,” he whispered. “Was getting ready to send the posse.”
Dean opened one of the bottles of water. “Yeah, the weather’s really taken a turn. Here,” he said, holding out the water bottle and helping Sam lift his head to sip from it. After a few small swallows, Sam choked, and Dean took the bottle away. That inkling of dread was back in Dean’s stomach, but one look out the window at the white wall of snow, and he knew he was beyond the point of being able to do much more than pray that Sam didn’t get worse before the storm passed. He wasn’t a praying man, but Sam had a way of making him do things he normally wouldn’t. Sam had a way of making him do anything.
Thinking that It might be making it hard for Sam to breathe by sleeping on his chest, Dean tried to lift the kitten off, but the tiny claws latched into his t-shirt stubbornly, and Sam groaned weakly in protest, putting one of his giant hands in the fur and stroking in a placating motion. Dean conceded and settled the kitty back into place.
“Fine, but if it sucks the breath outta you while you’re sleeping, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Dean whispered, knowing Sam was already asleep. He pulled up a chair, put his feet up on his own bed and took up watch at his brother’s sickbed.
He didn’t know when he’d fallen asleep, but he awoke with a start, his heart racing as horrendous screams filled the air. Dean almost fell off his chair as he lunged for the drawer where his .45 was tucked safely away, his head still swimming with disorientation. The cool metal of the gun sent a shiver up his mind that cleared his head enough for him to realize that the screaming was coming from It.
The kitten had attached itself to the front of his shirt, halfway up his chest, and had its head turned up, yowling like it was on fire. “Geez!” Dean said, snatching at the cat and ripping it off the cotton of his t-shirt, his first irrational thought being that it was possessed and really was going to suck the life from him. When It continued to meowl and yell after he dropped her on the floor, Dean felt the sudden urge to quiet the raucous before it disturbed Sam.
That was when he realized that Sam hadn’t even moved, despite the uproar that was taking place only inches from his head. Dean dropped to his knees beside the bed and reached a shaking hand up to touch his brother’s dripping brow. Sam didn’t even move as Dean lifted his eyelids one at a time, but he flinched involuntarily, curling in on himself the moment Dean reached a hand beneath the comforter and probed across his stomach.
“Shit, shit, shit!” Dean said, heart pounding in his throat. “That’s it, we’re going to the hospital now.” Barely pausing to throw on his coat, Dean rushed out into the storm, brushed as much snow off the windshield of the car as he could, and reached in to turn the key and warm up the engine before heading back into the room. The smell of sickness was so thick as he re-entered the room that he wondered how he could have missed it before.
Not wanting to waste time fumbling with Sam’s clothes, Dean just scooped up his brother’s limp body, blankets and all, flung him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and tried his best to ignore the sobbed choke of pain that his brother made as he dashed out of the room. He stumbled across the parking lot, and managed to get Sam arranged in the backseat, pushing all the cat supplies onto the floor. “No peeking at your presents, there, Sammy,” he said absently, as he shut the door, trying not get Sam’s feet in the process.
Dean jumped into the front seat and took a deep breath as he put the car in gear. Well, here goes nothing.
Yup. Nothing.
The tires spun ineffectually on the ice, and they moved all of about six inches, sideways. “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Dean chanted under his breath. “Uh, I take it back. You’re not a jackass, all right. Just, please…”
He jumped out of the car, knees trembling with anxiety. There had to be something…
He ran to the back of the car and popped the trunk. Rock salt was good for melting ice, right? He picked up the nearly empty bag and remembered that they had been planning to buy more in the next town. He berated himself for not remembering to get it at Wal-Mart. Spent all his cash on cat toys, dammit. Scrabbling to keep his head in the game, his eyes fell on the bag of kitty litter. He shrugged, pushing out his bottom lip. Hell, it was worth a try.
Ripping into the bag with his frozen fingers, he cradled it under his arm and used his free hand to scatter the clay gravel under the tires and around the car, praying silently under his breath.
Finally, the bag empty, he jumped back in the car, closed his eyes, and put the car into gear once more. His face lit up with relief as the car inched backward, fishtailing only slightly on the slick surface. He made it to the road frontage just as a snowplow roared by on the feeder, clearing the path ahead of it and dropping sand behind to add traction. Dean paused momentarily to let the swirling snow clear enough to give him some visibility and glanced up at the street sign on the corner. 34th street. He shook his head in disbelief and pulled out onto the road, following the blue Highway signs to the nearest hospital.
--
“Your brother’s going to be just fine,” the young doctor assured. “He came through the surgery with flying colors, and we got that hot appendix out without any complications. It was good you got him here when you did, though. Appendicitis is nothing to play around with. A few more hours, and who knows?”
“Thanks,” Dean said, his voice thickly painted with relief. “I can’t thank you enough. Can I go see him?”
“Just give us a few more minutes to get him settled in recovery, then we’ll come get you,” the surgeon said, shaking his hand and turning to leave.
Dean slouched back into his chair in the surgical waiting room. He only managed to sit for a few minutes more with his head in his hands before he felt the need to just get up and move, somewhere, anywhere. His nerve endings were still firing at the speed of light, and his knees jerked up and down as his toes pressed into the floor. He jumped up and decided to take a walking tour of the Emergency Room while he waited.
He’d only made one lap around the front desk when he heard a sniffling sob coming from the corner of the room. Dean looked over and saw a man, a woman, and a little girl, all smudged with soot and wrapped in emergency blankets huddled in the chairs. The nurse at the reception desk followed his gaze.
“They’re lucky,” she said. “House fire. They just made it out in the nick of time. Apparently the family cat alerted them to the fire and made sure they all got out. Sad, though, the cat didn’t make it.”
Dean stuttered on his feet, caught between continuing his traipse and going back to his seat. Friggin’ Sam and his stories of Christmas miracles. Dean was starting to believe ‘em himself.
Kinda seems like we’re meant to have it, don’t you think?
For half a second, Dean was tempted to turn away and pretend he hadn’t heard the receptionist. After all, he didn’t know these people from Adam, and they probably didn’t want to be bothered by a complete stranger in light of their recent loss. Besides, he was just getting used to the idea that they were meant to have It. Dean and Sam. It’s the only present he had for his brother.
Still, he was Dean Winchester, dammit, and he’d never been able to turn his back on anyone in need. Especially not a kid. He had plenty to be thankful for this Christmas. He supposed he had a little Christmas spirit left to share. White, furry, Christmas spirit.
--
“You don’t know how much this means,” Mr. Johnson, the now homeless patriarch of the family who’d lost their house in the fire said as Dean handed him the last of the kitten supplies he had stashed in the car. The last few bags came out of the trunk, and Dean barely noticed the tiny clink of metal on the packed snow as something hooked on the plastic and fell to the ground.
Mr. Johnson stooped and picked up the tiny object. “Oops, you dropped something,” he said, holding it out to Dean.
Dean held out his hand, slightly confused, then grinned from ear to ear, the weight of a thousand worlds suddenly lifted from his shoulders.
“Haha! Merry Christmas, Mr. Johnson. I’ll bring the kitten by in the morning,” he laughed, clapping the older gentleman on the back. “I know she’ll have great home with you.”
“Thank you, son.”
“No, thank you. Really…”
--
It was still a few minutes before midnight when Sam opened his eyes in the recovery room, groggy, but obviously in less pain than he had been when he came in.
“How you feeling?” Dean asked, unable to resist the urge to push the bangs away from Sam’s eyes.
“Like a cat sat on my chest and sucked the life outta me,” Sam chuckled.
“More like saved it,” Dean said with a snicker. “She screamed so loud I thought the sky was falling, and when she wouldn’t shut up…” he scratched the back of his neck, “…well, if I hadn’t woke up when I did.”
“See,” Sam smirked, “I told you we were meant to have her.”
“Yeah, about that, uh, Sam,” Dean stammered. “I know you were real attached to It, but I kinda gave her away while you were out.” He looked away guiltily and cleared his throat. “She’s got a real good home, though, or at least she will when they rebuild it,” he huffed half-heartedly.
“‘Ts okay,” Sam said.
“Look, I know your Christmas sucked and all,” Dean said, “and I hate that I forgot to get you anything, so, uh, here…” He held out his hand, a tiny-tissue wrapped object falling into Sam’s. “Consider this an IOU.”
“What? Dean you didn’t need to get me anything. It’s not like I’m gonna be hitting the gift shop anytime soon, myself. You’ll make me feel guilty.”
“Don’t. Dude, just open it,” Dean insisted.
With trembling fingers, Sam worked at the tissue, and halted when a silver ring fell out onto the blanket. “Dean, isn’t this?”
“Yeah, I mean, you don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want, but I thought you’d like to have it back.”
Sam picked up the ring, and rolled it between his fingers. He couldn’t even count the number of times he’d wished he’d known what had happened to that ring.
“Dean, I don’t know what to say…” Sam said, eyes glassy again, though this time not with fever or pain. “After I got to Stanford, I musta went through every pocket of my duffel bag a hundred times. I know I stuck it in there so I’d never lose it, but it was gone. I…” he cleared his throat , “I had to have looked at least a thousand times during the time I was gone. Like if I looked one more time it would be there.”
Dean nodded. He understood. It was just a cheap ring, but it felt like the frame of a hole in his heart that never healed.
Dean rumpled Sam’s hair, something Sam hadn’t allowed him to do since he’d graduated elementary school. “Merry Christmas, little brother.”
“Merry Christmas, Dean.”
The End
ETA2: Some Ghostfacers yumminess.
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I'll get to the fic when I can actually open my eyes and read more than one sentence repeatedly...
Have a great Xmas and enjoy the holydays!
*hugs*
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Have a wonderful Holiday, love.
Tracy
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I'm stuck at here work on Christmas Eve and sneaking peaks at this story and reading little bits every chance I got has totally made my day. Thanks for putting a smile on my miserable day.
*hugs*
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*smooshes you*
Tracy
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Then I get to go home and cook a turkey. Kinda sad but I'm sorta excited about that. LOL.
Hope you have a great Christmas! Be sure to hug the ponies and all the other critters!
I only have a bird at home, not huggable at all. *gigglesnort*
Thanks again for helping my day go by faster!!!
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Hugging everyone as we speak.
Merry Christmas!
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