Fic - A Very Winchester Christmas
Dec. 13th, 2018 04:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madebyme_xTitle: A Very Winchester Christmas
Summary: With Dad on a hunt, and Dean laid up, it's not shaping up to be a great Christmas. But Sam comes up with a plan.
Genre/Spoilers: Gen. None.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 2500+
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for the 2018![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spn_j2_xmas challenge for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
stanfordsam. I've based this fic on some of your likes and I really hope you enjoy it - happy holidays! A huge thank you to my awesome beta harrigan for the fic idea and all her input. I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to the mods for running this wonderful challenge and for getting me in the festive spirit.
A Very Winchester Christmas
It's cold enough to freeze Sam's breath solid. He's wearing Dean's coat on top of his own, he's still shivering, and his feet froze over the moment he stepped outside. He shovels the last of the snow from Mrs. Shoemaker's drive, takes a look at his hard work, and walks up to the door of the small house.
He knocks with his gloves on; the sound muffled, but he can hear the shuffle of her slippered feet as she approaches the door.
“You've done such a good job, Samuel.” Mrs. Shoemaker is tiny, barely half Sam's size, and he hasn't grown hardly at all this year. Her hair is as white as the snow, and her smile is soft and infectious. “Are you sure that $20 is enough? You've been working awfully hard.”
“That's what we agreed, Mrs. Shoemaker.” It's snowed solidly since Dad left for a hunt nearly a week ago, and Sam's been clearing her sidewalk and driveway every day. Mrs. Shoemaker is the kind of grandmother that Sam always imagined he'd have had; y'know, if he had a normal life. If he didn't need the $20 so badly, he would have done it for free.
She pulls out a few crumpled bills from her brown leather purse, and with shaking hands pushes them into Sam's gloves.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shoemaker. I hope you have a great Christmas.”
Mrs. Shoemaker reaches up and pinches his numb cheek. “Such a sweet boy! I hope your Daddy gets back from his business trip in time, but if not, you make the most of the holidays with that poor brother of yours. He must be bored out of his mind!”
Sam smiles and huffs out a laugh. “Tell me about it! All he does is moan. But thank you Mrs. Shoemaker. I really do appreciate it.”
He tucks the money deep into the back pocket of his jeans, which are cinched around his hips by a belt because he hasn't quite grown into this pair of Dean's hand-me-downs yet.
Mrs. Shoemaker waves at him as he heads next door to the apartment complex they're living in, and up the stairs to their apartment. Dad sublet it from a friend of friend, and it's fully furnished. Everything works, too: heat and appliances. Sam shivers, remembering some of the crappier places they've stayed.
This place has everything they need—except Dad. By the looks of it, he's not planning on being back in time for Christmas. Not that Sam's complaining. They've been in this town since the semester started, which means that not only did Sam win his grade’s speech contest in their school district, but now he'll still be around for the state finals in January. The only problem with Dad being gone was coming up with the fare for the bus to the finals, and now thanks to Mrs. Shoemaker, he has that covered.
He knocks twice on the their door, short and sharp, waits a beat, and then four more times before pushing it open. Dean's exactly where he left him this morning; sitting on the sofa, his left leg outstretched and propped up on the pillow from Sam's bed. His ankle still looks a bit funky after been encased in plaster for weeks.
“That's not the knock we agreed on.” Dean lowers his .45.
“Did you just pull your gun on me?” Sam hates how his voice cracks when he says that. And what's worse is, that Sam knows the gun's loaded because he watched Dean clean and load it last night.
“Well yeah, Sam. We had an agreed knock, so I'd know who was at the door, because with this damn busted foot, I'm pretty vulnerable right now!”
Sam huffs at his brother, pulling off his slush-covered boots, and shucking off his coats. There’s no point in arguing who remembered the pattern right. “Do you need anything?”
“Why? You going out again?” There's a hint of a whine in Dean's tone, and Sam does feel guilty because he knows that Dean's climbing the walls in here; other than the single-digit channel TV, Sam's pretty much his only entertainment, and Dean's barely left the room since he got home from the hospital, what with the snow and ice, and now the PT exercises.
“No, but I've got to practice my speech.”
Sam picks up Dean's dirty cereal bowl as well as the couple of magazines that Mrs. Shoemaker had given him for Dean to read; mostly celebrity gossip, and home and garden. Dean must have been desperate.
“Is that what I think it is?” It looks like the old tape cassette player that Sam found in the cupboard when they got here, but it wouldn't work. And now it's in twenty pieces on the coffee table.
Dean shrugs, looking sheepish. “Thought I could maybe fix it.”
“And?”
“I don't know, Sam, that article about when is the best time to plant my roses was pretty riveting stuff, so I'm not sure if I'll have time to finish working on it.”
Sam rolls his eyes at this brother. “Maybe after you plan your rose garden you can take up knitting!”
He heads towards their room and ducks as one of the cushions from the sofa sails towards him; it hits the door with a dull thud.
“Hey, respect your elders!”
Sam slips inside the bedroom with a smile on his face.
Sam takes out his hard-earned wad of bills and looks for the packet of instructions provided for the contestants, to tuck the money inside. The manila envelope had been lying on his bed, but it's on the dresser now. Sam realizes that Dean's made both their beds, and there's a small pile of folded laundry on the chair by the window. Boredom must really have set in today.
His speech lies under the envelope: What does it mean to be a hero? He pretty much knows it by heart now; he just needs a little more practice to get it really nailed down.
Mr. Petersen, their coach, had told Sam he had a really good shot at winning. He also explained how good it would look on future college applications. So really, the speech contest could help to unlock Sam's whole future. He's trying really hard not to focus on that.
He takes the speech into the living room, and sees Dean sitting on the couch, his bad ankle out-stretched as he does his PT exercises; moving it around in slow but controlled circles. Sam catches the grimace of pain on Dean's face, which he hides with an over-the-top groan as soon as he sees the flutter of pages.
“Again?”
“You don't have to listen, but I need to practice.”
Dean falls quiet as Sam stands tall and starts to run through every carefully chosen word, but he can't help but notice Dean flicking his gaze up at Sam, with a thoughtful look on his face. “I didn't know you were so into this stuff. And you call me the nerdboy!”
Dean scoffs. “You wish! It's just a distraction while I work out.”
Sam's looks at Dean's face; the sweat on his brow and his pink cheeks. “Does it hurt that much?”
“Nah, it's just boring.”
But Sam can see the tiny lines of pain around the corners of Dean's mouth, and behind his eyes. He knows his brother, and he'd rather break it again then tell anyone how much it hurts.
Dean rubs at the back of his head. “It gets too damn quiet around here sometimes.”
It's a rare moment of honesty, and Sam can't just let it slide like it doesn't mean anything. “Well, maybe when you get that cassette player working, that'll help.”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, but his expression slowly changes from thoughtful to something that Sam can't quite read at all.
Dean clears his throat. “So, pasta for dinner?”
And before Sam can really argue about it, Dean hopping on one foot into the kitchen, and pulling out a box of dried spaghetti from the cupboard.
That night Sam can't sleep. He thinks about Dean, softly snoring in the bed next to his own, and how much he's gone through over the few months; the hunt that he won't talk about, the surgery, the plaster cast, being stuck indoors all the time, the PT exercises, and all the pain.
And then there's the rest of it; the cooking and laundry, even now when he can barely stand, and how he takes care of Sam in so many little ways that Sam's never really thought of before.
Christmas is just a few days away.
Sam's still got time to do something for his brother; make this Christmas a little more memorable, a little more special for someone who is always putting his family above his own needs, who does everything he can for Sam, and never once asks for anything in return.
So that night Sam barely sleeps a wink as he cooks up his own little Christmas miracle.
“What the hell is...?” Dean hobbles into the living room on Christmas morning on his crutches. He's wearing his sleep sweats and an old Led Zeppelin T-shirt that's seen better days.
“Merry Christmas, Dean!” Sam stands back and watches Dean's face as he takes it all in.
The small living room is decorated with newsprint paper chains, and snowflakes cut of tinfoil. In the corner of the room, there's a cluster of pine boughs planted in a bucket of gravel, decorated with popcorn strings, and more tinfoil snowflakes.
Dean's eyes are huge, his smile growing wider by the second. “Dude, it looks like an elf threw up in here! But it er- this is great Sam.”
“Really? You like it?”
“Well yeah, sure I do, but did you get any sleep?”
Sam shrugs, ushering Dean down onto the sofa, and tucking the crutches out of the way.
“Sam, I thought you weren't into Christmas? I thought you-”
“Well,” Sam interrupts, “this year's different.”
Sam reaches under the tree and passes Dean a small package wrapped in newspaper. “Open it.”
Dean glances at the small package, like he's not sure what to do with it, his hand unconsciously reaching for the amulet around his neck. He looks up at Sam, and Sam nods. Dean then tears into the paper like a little kid.
Inside there's a bundle of cassette tapes. Dean picks one up, and it's The Game, by Queen.
"I thought you could do your PT exercise to the song Another One Bites the Dust,” Sam suggests hopefully. "I know you'll get that cassette player to work!"
Dean looks at him sheepishly. “Well yeah, I did. But I sold it to Mrs. Shoemaker to buy you this.”
Dean looks more proud than disappointed when he pulls out a small white envelope from the pocket of his sweats, which Sam eagerly opens.
Inside is a meal ticket for the optional awards banquet after the speech contest in Des Moines.
"Even I know it's bad form not to show up for the trophy when they call your name." Dean's grinning, but there's something else there too. It's not until this moment that Sam realises that Dean really is proud of him, that despite all the teasing and endless complaints about Sam practicing the speech, he thinks Sam will do well.
“It's great, Dean. It really is. But... I kinda gave up my spot on the bus to the 2nd place winner in my grade, and I spent the bus money on your cassette tapes instead.” Sam looks down at the banquet ticket, and then up at brother, bummed that his brilliant idea to do something nice for Dean went down in flames.
There's a moment of silence and then Dean snorts, clapping his hand on Sam's shoulder. “Dude, we royally screwed that up, huh?”
Dean's laugh is contagious and Sam's disappointment melts into a dimpled grin.
There's a soft knock on the door, and Sam crosses the small room to answer it, pulling a face at Dean, because who could be knocking on their door on Christmas day?
It's Mrs. Shoemaker, in a knitted Christmas sweater with a kitten on it wearing a Santa hat.
“Merry Christmas, boys!” She hands Sam a box wrapped in brightly coloured Christmas paper covered in robins and Christmas trees.
“Oh, Mrs. Shoemaker, this is very kind of you, but we really couldn't accept-”
“Of course you can!” Mrs Shoemaker insists. “After all the hard work you did for me, it's the least I can do. You both deserve it, and I hope you enjoy them!”
Sam tries again to decline the present, upset that he didn't even think to buy their neighbour a gift, but she's already heading towards the stairs.
“Thank you Mrs. Shoemaker! And Merry Christmas!” Sam calls, and she waves at him with a huge smile on her face. If Sam's not mistaken, there's a twinkle in her eye too.
Sam closes the door and then sits back down on the sofa next to Dean. They both look at the gift like it's a strange monster that they've never seen before and don't know how to kill. Sam can't remember the last time they got a gift that wasn't from each other, or maybe their Dad on the rare occasion he wasn't knee-deep in a case throughout Christmas.
“Er, should I-”
“Go for it!” Dean says, his bad foot resting on the coffee table, but he somehow manages to shift closer to Sam so that he has a good view as Sam carefully peels open the paper.
“It better not be some sort of horrendous matching knitted sweaters, or I swear I'll...”
Inside is a cardboard box filled to the brim with homemade Christmas cookies, all neatly iced; silver stars, green Christmas trees, little white snowmen with brightly coloured scarves and hats, and red and white Santas. They smell delicious.
Dean eyes open wide, and he reaches forward and crams one into his mouth, making obscene noises as he chews it down. “I'm in Christmas heaven!”
Sam laughs at his brother, who seems to be floating in some kind of baked goods high, and takes a small star-shaped cookie and takes a bite. Dean's right; it melts in his mouth. It's the best cookie he's ever tasted.
Dean flicks on the TV, and they settle down in front of Die Hard, and a box full of Christmas cookies that never seems to run low.
“Merry Christmas, Jerk.”
Dean looks at him, and knocks his shoulder into Sam's. “Best one ever, Bitch.”
Maybe there isn't a fat turkey cooking in the oven with all the trimmings, maybe they screwed up the gifts, and maybe the room isn't crammed with family and friends, but as Sam watches his brother, the only family Sam's ever really counted on, cheering on John McClane, and snatching the cookie box searching for the biggest one, Sam realises Dean's right, this is the best Christmas ever.
The End
A/N: This fic is based on the short story The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry and was brought to my attention my most excellent betaharrigan. I hope you enjoyed it and happy holidays! Take care :)
Summary: With Dad on a hunt, and Dean laid up, it's not shaping up to be a great Christmas. But Sam comes up with a plan.
Genre/Spoilers: Gen. None.
Warnings: None.
Word Count: 2500+
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural that privilege belongs to CW, Kripke and Co, I'm simply borrowing them for a while. I'm not making a profit, this is just for fun and all the standard disclaimers apply.
A/N: This was written for the 2018
spn_j2_xmas challenge for stanfordsam. I've based this fic on some of your likes and I really hope you enjoy it - happy holidays! A huge thank you to my awesome beta harrigan for the fic idea and all her input. I've tinkered so all mistakes are mine. Thank you also to the mods for running this wonderful challenge and for getting me in the festive spirit.A Very Winchester Christmas
It's cold enough to freeze Sam's breath solid. He's wearing Dean's coat on top of his own, he's still shivering, and his feet froze over the moment he stepped outside. He shovels the last of the snow from Mrs. Shoemaker's drive, takes a look at his hard work, and walks up to the door of the small house.
He knocks with his gloves on; the sound muffled, but he can hear the shuffle of her slippered feet as she approaches the door.
“You've done such a good job, Samuel.” Mrs. Shoemaker is tiny, barely half Sam's size, and he hasn't grown hardly at all this year. Her hair is as white as the snow, and her smile is soft and infectious. “Are you sure that $20 is enough? You've been working awfully hard.”
“That's what we agreed, Mrs. Shoemaker.” It's snowed solidly since Dad left for a hunt nearly a week ago, and Sam's been clearing her sidewalk and driveway every day. Mrs. Shoemaker is the kind of grandmother that Sam always imagined he'd have had; y'know, if he had a normal life. If he didn't need the $20 so badly, he would have done it for free.
She pulls out a few crumpled bills from her brown leather purse, and with shaking hands pushes them into Sam's gloves.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shoemaker. I hope you have a great Christmas.”
Mrs. Shoemaker reaches up and pinches his numb cheek. “Such a sweet boy! I hope your Daddy gets back from his business trip in time, but if not, you make the most of the holidays with that poor brother of yours. He must be bored out of his mind!”
Sam smiles and huffs out a laugh. “Tell me about it! All he does is moan. But thank you Mrs. Shoemaker. I really do appreciate it.”
He tucks the money deep into the back pocket of his jeans, which are cinched around his hips by a belt because he hasn't quite grown into this pair of Dean's hand-me-downs yet.
Mrs. Shoemaker waves at him as he heads next door to the apartment complex they're living in, and up the stairs to their apartment. Dad sublet it from a friend of friend, and it's fully furnished. Everything works, too: heat and appliances. Sam shivers, remembering some of the crappier places they've stayed.
This place has everything they need—except Dad. By the looks of it, he's not planning on being back in time for Christmas. Not that Sam's complaining. They've been in this town since the semester started, which means that not only did Sam win his grade’s speech contest in their school district, but now he'll still be around for the state finals in January. The only problem with Dad being gone was coming up with the fare for the bus to the finals, and now thanks to Mrs. Shoemaker, he has that covered.
He knocks twice on the their door, short and sharp, waits a beat, and then four more times before pushing it open. Dean's exactly where he left him this morning; sitting on the sofa, his left leg outstretched and propped up on the pillow from Sam's bed. His ankle still looks a bit funky after been encased in plaster for weeks.
“That's not the knock we agreed on.” Dean lowers his .45.
“Did you just pull your gun on me?” Sam hates how his voice cracks when he says that. And what's worse is, that Sam knows the gun's loaded because he watched Dean clean and load it last night.
“Well yeah, Sam. We had an agreed knock, so I'd know who was at the door, because with this damn busted foot, I'm pretty vulnerable right now!”
Sam huffs at his brother, pulling off his slush-covered boots, and shucking off his coats. There’s no point in arguing who remembered the pattern right. “Do you need anything?”
“Why? You going out again?” There's a hint of a whine in Dean's tone, and Sam does feel guilty because he knows that Dean's climbing the walls in here; other than the single-digit channel TV, Sam's pretty much his only entertainment, and Dean's barely left the room since he got home from the hospital, what with the snow and ice, and now the PT exercises.
“No, but I've got to practice my speech.”
Sam picks up Dean's dirty cereal bowl as well as the couple of magazines that Mrs. Shoemaker had given him for Dean to read; mostly celebrity gossip, and home and garden. Dean must have been desperate.
“Is that what I think it is?” It looks like the old tape cassette player that Sam found in the cupboard when they got here, but it wouldn't work. And now it's in twenty pieces on the coffee table.
Dean shrugs, looking sheepish. “Thought I could maybe fix it.”
“And?”
“I don't know, Sam, that article about when is the best time to plant my roses was pretty riveting stuff, so I'm not sure if I'll have time to finish working on it.”
Sam rolls his eyes at this brother. “Maybe after you plan your rose garden you can take up knitting!”
He heads towards their room and ducks as one of the cushions from the sofa sails towards him; it hits the door with a dull thud.
“Hey, respect your elders!”
Sam slips inside the bedroom with a smile on his face.
Sam takes out his hard-earned wad of bills and looks for the packet of instructions provided for the contestants, to tuck the money inside. The manila envelope had been lying on his bed, but it's on the dresser now. Sam realizes that Dean's made both their beds, and there's a small pile of folded laundry on the chair by the window. Boredom must really have set in today.
His speech lies under the envelope: What does it mean to be a hero? He pretty much knows it by heart now; he just needs a little more practice to get it really nailed down.
Mr. Petersen, their coach, had told Sam he had a really good shot at winning. He also explained how good it would look on future college applications. So really, the speech contest could help to unlock Sam's whole future. He's trying really hard not to focus on that.
He takes the speech into the living room, and sees Dean sitting on the couch, his bad ankle out-stretched as he does his PT exercises; moving it around in slow but controlled circles. Sam catches the grimace of pain on Dean's face, which he hides with an over-the-top groan as soon as he sees the flutter of pages.
“Again?”
“You don't have to listen, but I need to practice.”
Dean falls quiet as Sam stands tall and starts to run through every carefully chosen word, but he can't help but notice Dean flicking his gaze up at Sam, with a thoughtful look on his face. “I didn't know you were so into this stuff. And you call me the nerdboy!”
Dean scoffs. “You wish! It's just a distraction while I work out.”
Sam's looks at Dean's face; the sweat on his brow and his pink cheeks. “Does it hurt that much?”
“Nah, it's just boring.”
But Sam can see the tiny lines of pain around the corners of Dean's mouth, and behind his eyes. He knows his brother, and he'd rather break it again then tell anyone how much it hurts.
Dean rubs at the back of his head. “It gets too damn quiet around here sometimes.”
It's a rare moment of honesty, and Sam can't just let it slide like it doesn't mean anything. “Well, maybe when you get that cassette player working, that'll help.”
“Yeah,” Dean answers, but his expression slowly changes from thoughtful to something that Sam can't quite read at all.
Dean clears his throat. “So, pasta for dinner?”
And before Sam can really argue about it, Dean hopping on one foot into the kitchen, and pulling out a box of dried spaghetti from the cupboard.
That night Sam can't sleep. He thinks about Dean, softly snoring in the bed next to his own, and how much he's gone through over the few months; the hunt that he won't talk about, the surgery, the plaster cast, being stuck indoors all the time, the PT exercises, and all the pain.
And then there's the rest of it; the cooking and laundry, even now when he can barely stand, and how he takes care of Sam in so many little ways that Sam's never really thought of before.
Christmas is just a few days away.
Sam's still got time to do something for his brother; make this Christmas a little more memorable, a little more special for someone who is always putting his family above his own needs, who does everything he can for Sam, and never once asks for anything in return.
So that night Sam barely sleeps a wink as he cooks up his own little Christmas miracle.
“What the hell is...?” Dean hobbles into the living room on Christmas morning on his crutches. He's wearing his sleep sweats and an old Led Zeppelin T-shirt that's seen better days.
“Merry Christmas, Dean!” Sam stands back and watches Dean's face as he takes it all in.
The small living room is decorated with newsprint paper chains, and snowflakes cut of tinfoil. In the corner of the room, there's a cluster of pine boughs planted in a bucket of gravel, decorated with popcorn strings, and more tinfoil snowflakes.
Dean's eyes are huge, his smile growing wider by the second. “Dude, it looks like an elf threw up in here! But it er- this is great Sam.”
“Really? You like it?”
“Well yeah, sure I do, but did you get any sleep?”
Sam shrugs, ushering Dean down onto the sofa, and tucking the crutches out of the way.
“Sam, I thought you weren't into Christmas? I thought you-”
“Well,” Sam interrupts, “this year's different.”
Sam reaches under the tree and passes Dean a small package wrapped in newspaper. “Open it.”
Dean glances at the small package, like he's not sure what to do with it, his hand unconsciously reaching for the amulet around his neck. He looks up at Sam, and Sam nods. Dean then tears into the paper like a little kid.
Inside there's a bundle of cassette tapes. Dean picks one up, and it's The Game, by Queen.
"I thought you could do your PT exercise to the song Another One Bites the Dust,” Sam suggests hopefully. "I know you'll get that cassette player to work!"
Dean looks at him sheepishly. “Well yeah, I did. But I sold it to Mrs. Shoemaker to buy you this.”
Dean looks more proud than disappointed when he pulls out a small white envelope from the pocket of his sweats, which Sam eagerly opens.
Inside is a meal ticket for the optional awards banquet after the speech contest in Des Moines.
"Even I know it's bad form not to show up for the trophy when they call your name." Dean's grinning, but there's something else there too. It's not until this moment that Sam realises that Dean really is proud of him, that despite all the teasing and endless complaints about Sam practicing the speech, he thinks Sam will do well.
“It's great, Dean. It really is. But... I kinda gave up my spot on the bus to the 2nd place winner in my grade, and I spent the bus money on your cassette tapes instead.” Sam looks down at the banquet ticket, and then up at brother, bummed that his brilliant idea to do something nice for Dean went down in flames.
There's a moment of silence and then Dean snorts, clapping his hand on Sam's shoulder. “Dude, we royally screwed that up, huh?”
Dean's laugh is contagious and Sam's disappointment melts into a dimpled grin.
There's a soft knock on the door, and Sam crosses the small room to answer it, pulling a face at Dean, because who could be knocking on their door on Christmas day?
It's Mrs. Shoemaker, in a knitted Christmas sweater with a kitten on it wearing a Santa hat.
“Merry Christmas, boys!” She hands Sam a box wrapped in brightly coloured Christmas paper covered in robins and Christmas trees.
“Oh, Mrs. Shoemaker, this is very kind of you, but we really couldn't accept-”
“Of course you can!” Mrs Shoemaker insists. “After all the hard work you did for me, it's the least I can do. You both deserve it, and I hope you enjoy them!”
Sam tries again to decline the present, upset that he didn't even think to buy their neighbour a gift, but she's already heading towards the stairs.
“Thank you Mrs. Shoemaker! And Merry Christmas!” Sam calls, and she waves at him with a huge smile on her face. If Sam's not mistaken, there's a twinkle in her eye too.
Sam closes the door and then sits back down on the sofa next to Dean. They both look at the gift like it's a strange monster that they've never seen before and don't know how to kill. Sam can't remember the last time they got a gift that wasn't from each other, or maybe their Dad on the rare occasion he wasn't knee-deep in a case throughout Christmas.
“Er, should I-”
“Go for it!” Dean says, his bad foot resting on the coffee table, but he somehow manages to shift closer to Sam so that he has a good view as Sam carefully peels open the paper.
“It better not be some sort of horrendous matching knitted sweaters, or I swear I'll...”
Inside is a cardboard box filled to the brim with homemade Christmas cookies, all neatly iced; silver stars, green Christmas trees, little white snowmen with brightly coloured scarves and hats, and red and white Santas. They smell delicious.
Dean eyes open wide, and he reaches forward and crams one into his mouth, making obscene noises as he chews it down. “I'm in Christmas heaven!”
Sam laughs at his brother, who seems to be floating in some kind of baked goods high, and takes a small star-shaped cookie and takes a bite. Dean's right; it melts in his mouth. It's the best cookie he's ever tasted.
Dean flicks on the TV, and they settle down in front of Die Hard, and a box full of Christmas cookies that never seems to run low.
“Merry Christmas, Jerk.”
Dean looks at him, and knocks his shoulder into Sam's. “Best one ever, Bitch.”
Maybe there isn't a fat turkey cooking in the oven with all the trimmings, maybe they screwed up the gifts, and maybe the room isn't crammed with family and friends, but as Sam watches his brother, the only family Sam's ever really counted on, cheering on John McClane, and snatching the cookie box searching for the biggest one, Sam realises Dean's right, this is the best Christmas ever.
The End
A/N: This fic is based on the short story The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry and was brought to my attention my most excellent beta
harrigan. I hope you enjoyed it and happy holidays! Take care :)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2018-12-13 04:57 pm (UTC)♥
no subject
Date: 2018-12-13 06:06 pm (UTC)As always thanks you so much for your lovely comment! Take care :)
no subject
Date: 2018-12-13 05:14 pm (UTC)May we all have holidays as bright!
no subject
Date: 2018-12-13 06:12 pm (UTC)It makes it all the more poignant that in the end neither of them really care about the gifts - it truly is the thought that counts with these two, and the fact that they're together *happy sigh*
Thanks again for always having my back, and I wish you and yours all the best for the festive season!!! ♥
no subject
Date: 2018-12-13 08:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-14 10:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-14 04:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-14 10:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-14 07:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-14 10:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-14 10:43 pm (UTC)Some moments I particularly enjoyed:
It's a rare moment of honesty, and Sam can't just let it slide like it doesn't mean anything.
FEELS and so true to both of them.
The entire scene where Sam is lying in bed thinking of how much Dean does for him and deciding to make him a nice Christmas makes me want to UGLY CRY. I love you for it.
Dude, it looks like an elf threw up in here!
HA! So very Dean!
Dean glances at the small package, like he's not sure what to do with it, his hand unconsciously reaching for the amulet around his neck. He looks up at Sam, and Sam nods. Dean then tears into the paper like a little kid.
ALL MY FEEEEEEEELINGS
They both look at the gift like it's a strange monster that they've never seen before and don't know how to kill. Sam can't remember the last time they got a gift that wasn't from each other, or maybe their Dad on the rare occasion he wasn't knee-deep in a case throughout Christmas.
STILL MORE FEELINGS
Dean eyes open wide, and he reaches forward and crams one into his mouth, making obscene noises as he chews it down. “I'm in Christmas heaven!”
Sam laughs at his brother, who seems to be floating in some kind of baked goods high
XD Also so delightfully Dean.
Thank you for writing and sharing this lovely, feelsy holiday gift! <3
ETA: Do you mind if I friend you? I'd love to follow your writing. :)
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Date: 2018-12-17 10:24 am (UTC)And yes, please do feel free to friend me (I'll friend you now!) Thank you so much for stopping by :)
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