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verucasalt123Wishlist/holiday/ISP fics for me (under a cut because there are so many)
Transfixeddream – Sam/Dean, mocking each other’s gift-wrapping techniques By request:
"Jeez, look at you, Sammy," Dean says with a smirk, nodding to where Sam's wrapping a book for Bobby. He's halfway through, taping the wrapping paper into neat triangles before folding them over the book, taping it into place. "Martha Stewart teach you that one?"
"Shut up," Sam says, but it's muffled due to the--oh man, ribbon dangling from his teeth.
"Oh, no, I think it's great." Dean shakes his head and swallows a mouthful of whiskey, ignoring Sam's look with a wide smile. "You'll make a fine housewife someday, dude."
Sam's expression sours and he spits out the ribbon, scowling. "At least mine looks like an actual gift."
He gestures to Dean's gift, a bottle of Jack that's pretty crudely wrapped in green and gold wrapping paper, strands of tape everywhere. But like it matters, really--Bobby's not gonna appreciate the torn paper, he's gonna appreciate the buzz he'll get from the bottle. Besides, Dean's not Mary Poppins or anything; his gift wrapping is manly.
"It's manly," Dean states, shrugging Sam off.
"It looks like you unwrapped it, tried it, and then wrapped it again."
"Maybe I did," Dean says, a little defensively, and really, Sam is not gonna make him feel self-conscious about not caring how he wrapped Bobby's gift. Bobby will actually probably smack them both for even bothering with useless extravagancies like wrapping paper. It'll be more mess for him to clean up.
But Sam still seems to be judging him, even though he's gone back to meticulously wrapping his own present, the bastard. Dean takes a strand of ribbon Sam had cut and wraps it around the neck of the bottle, ties it in a neat bow like he's tying shoelaces.
"There," Dean says, pointing for emphasis. "Is this not the best looking gift you've ever seen?"
Dean doesn't wait for an answer: he plops down on the couch and pops open a bottle of beer, swings his legs up on the coffee table.
"You want me to wrap it after I'm done here?" When Dean looks over, Sam's flashing him a smug smile.
Dean kind of wants to bite Sam's face off, just a little. "No, I do not want you to wrap it in your pansy way. It's fine the way it is. And don't gimme that look, Sam, 'cause the thing is? There's only one thing I need to know how to wrap up," Dean points with both hands to his crotch. "Yeah, that's right, baby."
"You're such a pervert," Sam says, but it kind of loses any ounce of scathing considering he's tying a ribbon right now.
"Whatever." Dean takes a pull of beer. "Blow me, bitch."
"Later," Sam says.
"Awesome," Dean says.
Teaandhoney – Spike, Dawn (gen) for wishlist
Dawn doesn't feel strong today.
She didn't feel strong yesterday.
She doubts she will tomorrow.
(Perhaps she will never be if the latest cult catches up with them.)
With a huff at the turn of her thoughts, she stops brushing her hair, still damp from the shower, and steps out of the bathroom changing into her nightclothes.
But she does think about it sometimes...
She was all mixed in with the Potentials back in Sunnydale. She has seen a girl's face as she is Chosen. It has kept her up at night more than once wondering what exactly that meant - what that felt like.
Dawn doesn't want to be a Slayer. Living with Buffy, seeing her die, and watching her try to live again has made that something she will never dream of.
But she does find it unfair at times. She's full to the brim of mystical energy but all the Key has ever made her feel is powerless. Dawn bites her lips and traces the little flannel sheep on her pajama pants.
Death is the Slayers' gift but it is something the Key seems to brings about by proxy. It is a thing to be protected - a thing to kill for, to die for.
A thing.
She was silly to have thought that was over, to have fallen back into thinking she was a real person for so many years.
"Deep thoughts, Niblet?" Spike asks sitting on the bed next to her still dressed in the only outfit she has ever seen him wear. The very presence of him seems to chase away her crushing thoughts - her self doubts no match for the Big Bad.
She smiles and leans her head against his shoulder with ease borne out of years of familiarity.
He wraps an arm around her. "Don't worry now, pet," he says with a particular gentleness that is singular with him towards Summer women. Pressing a firm brotherly kiss against the top of her head before continuing. "You know they won't find us in the safe house - Red has seen to that. And with 'ole Sis on her bloody tear of vengeance for even daring to threaten you it won't even be morning 'till their all slaughtered," he sounded utterly satisfied at the thought.
Dawn simply closes her eyes and lets his voice wash over her. She still doesn't feel strong, but when she's with Spike she feels safe.
Spike/Angel, spike_1790 for wishlist
“Angelcakes, I didn't know you could cook!”
Yeah, that's right. Give the poof all the credit. I scowl at Lorne. Everyone looks surprised, actually. I don't blame them- the last time I ate something Peaches cooked it was vile. I couldn't work out whether it even started out as ingredients or whether it really was just a lump of green slime he'd found in the sewer. I later found out it was meant to be chicken casserole.
This, however, this is my work. Just look at it all- the turkey looks like something out of a Good Food magazine, and there's roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and those little pigs in blankets that Gunn made a passing comment about sometime last month. I even set the table myself, because who could really trust the poof to do something as important as that? He'd probably smear everything in that horribly poofy hair gel he likes so much.
I don't think Christmas is high of Angel's list of priorities. He 'forgot' about the office party until me and Wesley forcibly removed him from his penthouse. He wasn't going to put up a tree either until I pointed out that the tree would either go up in the lobby, or go up his oversized, squishy arse. Luckily Harmony had sent out the company Christmas cards to everyone that should have got one and, likely as not, most of LA.
So what are we all doing here sat at Angel's dining table? Well, that was courtesy of yours truly. And it wasn't easy, let me tell you. There's a lot of planning that goes into making a meal like this, including a list of imaginary demons that are terrorising various parts of the city. Yeah, I had Angel out all night just so I could get the stuff from my pitiful little apartment to his place.
I had to rely on Harmony to get most of this done. She's the only one of the lot of 'em that knows His Poofiness didn't do all this by his lonesome. Part of me was hoping that one of them- Fred or Lorne probably- would realise Angel can neither cook nor stand Christmas and give me the credit, but that ain't going to happen.
Anyway, everyone's sat down and there's eggnog being drunk, and Peaches stands up and makes a toast about family and absent friends or some such rot. I wish he'd just get on with carving the bloody turkey. Not that I need to eat, of course. But I'm not one to hold back from enjoying the good things just because I don't need them. Who needs music, or fast cars, or the things that make life, unlife, whatever, fun? I
sure as hell won't hold back just because Peaches thinks punishment equals atonement.
Ah, here we go. Time to eat. I pile my plate high with some of everything and smother it in gravy. Angel gives me a warning look to behave.
Like I don't have table manners! Bloody hell, I was raised in the age of impeccable manners- he's the one that's likely to start drinking too much, not use his cutlery and start regaling us with Irish ballads about potatoes or river dance or something equally depressing.
Everything goes fine for the first course. Better than fine, actually. I'd go as far as to class it as a success. See? I can plan something without bollocksing it up. Anyway, Wesley makes a comment about Christmas pudding and Angel pales. Looks like he might care a little bit about this Christmas lark after all, 'cause I didn't think it was possible for him to get any paler. I roll my eyes and mouth the word 'kitchen'. He gives me an odd look and mouths back 'kitten?'. Sometimes I could throttle him...
Of course, that's when things go tits up. Despite all the wards on the building, and the security teams, and the surveillance cameras, there's always a way for things to go tits up. This time, its in the form of a skinny, scaly demon that quite literally bursts through the door. Splinters of wood fly through the air and me and Angel automatically duck for cover under the table.
And then something happens that I wouldn't have thought possible if I hadn't been peeking out under the tablecloth. Fred- meek, mild little Fred- grabs the centrepiece from the table, the one with the pretty red candles, and she throws it at the demon, roaring like a bloody lion. The flame catches on the scaly demon's clothes and in a matter of seconds, all that's left is a slightly smoking skeleton.
Me and Peaches climb out from under the table, trying to salvage the remains of our dignity. I clear my throat. Then Angel laughs. One of those real laughs that I've only ever heard from his unsouled counterpart. Everyone stares at him, myself included. Then we're all laughing.
Eventually we manage to find our way to our seats as the chuckles die down. I get the Christmas pudding from the kitchen along with a couple of other cakes and cookie style things that I'm too much of a man to admit to cooking myself.
The rest of the meal goes smoothly. We eat our cake and drink eggnog and mulled wine while the corpse of a demon smoulders quietly beside us. If anyone said, even a year ago that I'd be making dinner for Angel and his pet humans, I'd have said they were off their nut. But Iguess if you can't beat them, you can still trick them into thinking you're still the Big Bad.
brutti_ma_buoni - Spike & Dawn exchange gifts
Right away, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted.
Spike’s needs were modest. Beer, smokes, whiskey, blood. Repeat as required. Add violence for seasoning. Or Weetabix, at a push, but no one had ever given him Weetabix for the festive season. Mutilated corpses, jewellery, the occasional book – the usual for Angelus and those he hung around with. Breakfast comestibles, not so much.
Dawn was holding something that was neither the smallish, squarish shape of a fag packet, nor a long, cylindrical, promisingly-alcoholic shape. It was a... splat? Her eyes were wide, hopeful. Worryingly sincere.
“I didn’t want to get you just any stupid thing from a store,” she said.
Bollocks. Spike liked things from stores. They cost money, and he never had enough of that. Also, he’d personally nicked her some really cool Urban Decay polish from a really nice store, and he would sort of have appreciated a reciprocal arrangement.
Instead he got... gloves? “Well, love, that’s...” he said, flannelling. There was something wrong with the gloves. They were ragged, off-centre and noticeably mismatched. “Bit... did you make these yourself?”
She nodded, blushing. “Tara taught me. In summer. I mean, I already kind of knew, but she said gloves were good, because they’re really fiddly and you have to focus, and sometimes it’s good to think of stuff that doesn’t really matter instead of-“
Your dead sister. Who wasn’t anymore. But still, Spike felt the weight of it, that remembered month on month of Not Buffy. And she wanted him to wear a souvenir of that hell for the foreseeable. Which was sort of sweet, but he really wasn’t in the business of sweet. He almost got to the point of opening his mouth to explain, patiently, why vampires didn’t need warm clothing, especially not in southern Cali, and how it wouldn’t suit his image and-
And Dawn said, “I thought... you know, fingerprints? Gloves are really useful for criminals.” She said it so earnestly, so much like the girl who thought doing crime was a perfectly reasonable way for a neutered vamp to behave, that he couldn’t help but laugh.
“They will, at that. Thanks, love. Merry Christmas.” And not one bit of his blackened soulless self felt ashamed that he meant every word.
Alafaye – John/Sherlock for wishlist
John was rubbing his hair dry as he left the bathroom. "I swear, Sherlock, if you pick up just one more case involving skips or the Thames, I might just dump you in it."
"Are you saying that you don't enjoy it?" Sherlock asked smoothly.
John looked up from under the towel with a fierce frown. He stopped short, however, of giving a good retort. Sherlock had failed again to quit smoking and often times the smell of the tobacco and smoke permeated their bed at night. Quitting at...quitting the smoking, however, was more for John. Ever since their relationship had become romantic and sexual, John found himself with a whole new mess of kinks. Watching Sherlock smoke was just the latest.
John took a deep breath to clear his head before Sherlock saw any reason for them to miss the Yard's holiday party.
"I can't imagine anyone enjoying a kip in a skip or the Thames," John said with a shudder. The feeling of something drifting past him in the Thames was something he, unfortunately, would never forget.
Sherlock chuckled. "I've always found skips to be a fountain of information."
John raised an eyebrow. "Is that so Mr. I-can-read-everything-about-a-person-from-one-look?"
"Was that meant to be several words?" Sherlock asked. "Or did you mean to include the dashes I audibly heard?"
John shrugged. "Take it as you wish." He tossed his towel at Sherlock. "Get changed into something that doesn't smell like garbage."
Sherlock took the last bit of cigarette and ground it out. "Whatever for?"
"The holiday party at the yard?" John asked with raised eyebrows.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "That."
"They're trying, Sherlock," John said. "They want to show you that they're sorry."
"Social niceties I have no use for," Sherlock muttered.
"And yet those niceties are the very thing that will save you if something like this happens again," John reminded him.
"Moriarty is dead. No one else can orchestrate something of that magnitude."
"You never know," John said. "According to the papers, geniuses are born everyday."
"Bogged down by emotions and other boring things," Sherlock retorted.
"Get dressed. We're going."
Sherlock slouched into their bedroom and sullenly changed. "I'll have you know that I am doing this under duress."
"I'm sure," John said.
"I won't enjoy myself."
"Of course not."
"I am, actually, unsure of why I'm going."
"To discover everyone's secrets so you can hold it over them when they call you a freak?" John half smirked--Sherlock could get that information anytime, but he did enjoy having a back log of information.
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. They finished dressing in silence and left the flat. The air was chilly and John was grateful he'd decided to get a new jacket. Sherlock nodded at one of the homeless they passed who offered up a note in exchange for a few pounds. Sherlock smirked as he read it.
"We'll have to take the train out to Manchester tomorrow," Sherlock said gleefully.
"Got something?" John asked.
"For the Clapham case, yes," Sherlock said smugly.
John chuckled at Sherlock's enthusiasm, but was glad that they finally had something for Mrs. Clapham. Not to mention, there would be no post-case lull for Sherlock to fall into. Good news all around, then.
~~~
"Lestrade is back with his wife," Sherlock muttered to John with a tone in his voice that spoke simply of disgust.
"What do you have against his wife?" John asked. He considered having another biscuit, but went instead for just another cup of the punch.
"She hit on me," Sherlock said with a wrinkle of his nose. "And when I replied simply that women do nothing for me, she offered to drug Lestrade so she could watch he and I together."
John frowned at the presented image. "Did you tell Lestrade?"
"Naturally," Sherlock said. "She denied it and said I had assaulted her. I believe that was the second time he put me in a cell. He has since come around, thankfully."
"But he stays with her," John muttered. He shook his head. "Wonders never cease."
"Some people get stuck in a rut and cannot get themselves out," Sherlock said.
John cast his eye around the room, looking for anything to distract Sherlock from Lestrade and his reunion with his cheating wife. (John knew the story well enough to know that she probably was already cheating on him.) He elbowed Sherlock gently and nodded toward a woman propped against the far wall. "What about her? What's her story?"
Sherlock watched her for only a moment. "She was stood up. Not a police woman--she was her date. But the police woman is down the street at the bar getting spectacularly smashed. They had made plans to meet her, but the police woman never made it."
John hummed. "Anything else?"
"They've been fighting, probably because of the alcohol and also because of the job. It's what drove the police woman to drink now it’s driving them apart. A twofold problem it seems. A few money problems, a brother with a gambling problem. Poor self image--look at her dress and shoes; amplifying what little she has and adding to it. Comes from a poor background and struggles to overcome it by having a bigger, better income. Living beyond her means, however."
"Do all the police have trouble with their relationships?" John asked quietly.
"Seems so," Lestrade said as he joined them. He knocked back a cup of punch and then another.
"It's the hours," Sherlock said. "They're never set and always go beyond a set time frame. It does make having a relationship difficult as one's partner does expect reservations to be kept and promises sworn to."
"Be lucky you both have the same job," Lestrade said. He was quickly downing the third cup of punch and John frowned with worry. "Seriously. Though I expect you enjoy time away from this one, eh, John?"
John shared a look with Sherlock. Despite how little Sherlock's opinion might be of Lestrade and his relationship with his wife, Sherlock cared for Lestrade as one of his only friends. To see Lestrade drinking and more than at that, was worrying to them both.
"How about a cigarette?" Sherlock suggested.
"Can't," Lestrade slurred. "Wife don't like it."
"Then at least a breath of fresh air," John said. "Come on."
"No, she'll get mad," Lestrade said. Despite his words, however, he willingly let John pull him out into the street. "S-she thinks I spend too much time at work--it's why she sleeps around, see? She gets lonely."
"No," Sherlock said sternly. "She says that so she can get away with it. In reality, she is addicted to the high of lying and going behind your back. But take heart--you're not the first."
"What?" Lestrade asked. "What do you mean, 'not the first'?"
"Hm? Oh, she's been married before or didn't she tell you?" Sherlock opened his phone, feinging disinterest, but John could tell it was only a front. Clearly Sherlock had not known that Lestrade hadn't and was trying to figure out how best to salvage the conversation.
Lestrade rubbed his face. "That bitch. She told me...oh, god. I'm going to be sick."
"I don't think the news is--oh, that." Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped away as Lestrade threw up the food from the party as well as his dinner.
John sighed and waited until Lestrade was dry heaving. He hefted the man up and swung his arm over his good shoulder. "Home, I think."
"Not his," Sherlock said. "Bring him by ours. I doubt either of them wishes to see the other tonight."
John nodded and Sherlock took up Lestrade's other side. Together, the three of them made their way to Baker St.--even if it took them a good hour.
~~~
"Well, he's asleep," John said. As soon as he'd sat down, Lestrade was out. John had propped him on his side and put a bucket, some aspirin, and a glass of water nearby. Hopefully, Lestrade would sleep peacefully.
Sherlock frowned. "You--"
"Yes, on his side," John said with a smile. "He'll be fine. Besides, you're probably going to be up half the night looking over your notes for the Clapham case; you can check on him."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. The Clapham case."
John watched as Sherlock drifted off in thought. Tomorrow they would be off to Manchester and in a week, they would be celebrating Christmas. All in all, right now, it was good. He fell asleep with a smile.
sammichgirl, for wishlist, Sam/Dean
He’d forgotten this happened.
He’d been at Stanford, and college kids celebrated Christmas like normal people do – most going home to their families while he stayed on campus.
He really didn’t think much of Christmas while he was there. In his life, it had really been just another day at the office, anyway, according to dad.
But not according to Dean.
He’d forgotten about Dean, his own personal Christmas elf.
*****
As long as Sam could remember, Dean had always loved Christmas. LOVED it. He loved the sights (man, those twinkling lights are awesome!), the sounds (corner Santas ringing their bells, carolers wandering the town square), the smells (balsam, pine, cranberry, peppermint) and the jovial moods people tended to be in. Small town Christmases were his favorite. Man, nothing better than singing Jingle Bells and drinking eggnog and eating gingerbread waffles at the diner as far as he was concerned. Followed by a snowball fight or making a snowman or even making snow angels if they were far enough north. He liked volunteering and giving his time to whatever projects he could in town. Yeah, you read that right. Dean.
Dean Winchester was not an emotional kind of guy. One look at him and you knew it. Dean didn’t do warm, happy, fuzzies.
Something though, something in Dean’s head flipped a switch come December 1st every year. For 31 days, Dean was possessed by some Christmas demon.
Well. Sam was pretty sure it was a demon. Something supernatural, anyway. Although he could never prove it. Holy water and salt had no effect. Silver did nothing. Exorcisms didn’t work.
Dean was just a misplaced elf come the holidays. A very happy one, at that. And it always had puzzled Sam.
*****
Sam had been back hunting with Dean for about a month now. Thanksgiving had come and gone, turkey dinner special at some truck stop diner before they hit the road again. It was a Wednesday afternoon, the last day of the month. They’d stopped at a motel in Holiday Hills, IL.
Sam hauled their duffles and backpacks into the room, which was wallpapered with snowmen. He blinked very slowly, looking around the room. Snowmen was an obvious theme, everything was decorated with them. Lovely. Garish motel room for the Winchesters, check.
Dean walked in behind him with the weapons bag, stopped and did a double take. “Seriously? Who decorated this place, Frosty?” He dropped the bag beside the couch and flopped down on it, turning on the television. “Sammy, you hungry yet?”
“No Dean, we ate not that long ago.” Sam placed their stuff on their respective beds, walked over to the kitchenette and frowned. “Here is what I am sure is a delicious fruitcake for you to enjoy if you are so inclined”, he said, tossing Dean the brick heavy saran wrapped cake.
“Ugh, dude. Fruitcake? I want some pie!” Dean chucked the fruitcake back onto the table and settled in deep to the couch. “Later, Sammy, gonna get some shut-eye first.”
Sam chuffed and dug out his laptop. He had some friends he’d wanted to catch up with, so email was his first priority, and then he’d start research on a hunt. After a while, he was sleepy too, and laid down on one of the beds to grab twenty winks.
*****
Sam woke up early the next morning to the smell of something spicy and comforting. Something smelled good. Wait. What?
“Dean?”
“Mornin’ sunshine!” Dean handed him a cup of…coffee? Sam sniffed it, recognizing the chai immediately.
“Um, Dean?” Sam took a small sip, enjoying what Dean normally considered a frou-frou drink, waiting for the comment about him being girly.
“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean was slicing something in the kitchenette. Something that looked suspiciously like fruitcake.
“You got me chai? And, what are you doing?” Sam had the most adorable confused look on his face Dean hadn’t seen in ages. Awesome.
“Dude, I made you chai! Christmas in a cup, baby brother! And, there’s an awesome fruitcake here begging to be eaten, so that’s breakfast.” Dean grinned, and Sam was hit by two things like a punch to the gut that he’d forgotten.
One: Dean’s only-for-Sammy grin could light up a room and make his tummy fill with butterflies.
Two: The Christmas elf was back.
*****
After breakfast, Sam cleared the dishes and washed up while Dean went to go get ready for the day. He’d been spouting fun things to do while in Holiday Hills, and didn’t that just make Sam groan. There was a town parade that afternoon, and tomorrow at the library they could go learn to string popcorn garlands. Seriously?
What had happened to his big brother? It was like he had taken a holiday roofie. He was ecstatic about the sugarplum body wash in the bathroom and when he got dressed, he wore green khaki pants and a deep red flannel shirt.
Sam’s memories of every Christmas spent with Dean came rushing back. Dean got obsessed. He got a little holiday psycho. And Sam could not for the life of him figure out why or begin to understand it. But he’d just gotten his brother back. They were together again, like they used to be. And Sam didn’t want to feel lonely right now, there was an emptiness in his heart, and the holidays, well…they weren’t a normal family, but maybe he and Dean could do some normal holiday things.
So Sam resolved to just hang on for the December ride, go along with whatever Dean wanted. Besides, seeing his big brother genuinely happy was something he could easily get used to.
*****
Dean knew Sam was puzzled by his Ho-Ho-Holiday behavior. Always had been. And for all Dean’s machismo and that perpetually gruff exterior, he knew he could only get away with this during Christmas. He could let go. He could show Sam how much he loved him, without coming right out and saying it. Christmas was about family, about love, about home. It was about Sam. Dean didn’t know how to tell Sam any other way. And actions spoke louder than words. This year, especially, Sam needed to know it. Needed to feel it. And Dean wanted to give it.
Dean was a big brother, sure. But he’d raised Sam. Growing up, he was everything to Sam, including Santa. He’d seen the disappointment Sam felt when dad wasn’t there for Christmas. Knew Sam got teased at school for not having the newest clothes or the latest electronic games and gadgets. That he felt like Christmas didn’t even matter, because it was always about the next job. So however and whenever he could wherever they were each December, Dean brought on the holiday cheer. He felt silly and stupid at first. But the reactions from everyone made it easy. Folks liked cheery Christmas-involved people. They liked Dean’s friendliness to pitch in and help out, to spread cheer even if he had nothing of his own to give but a smile and time. And when they saw the truth, that Dean did everything for Sam, he unknowingly scored.
Free food for a feast like they never usually had from food pantries. Presents from local church groups – stuff they needed like jackets and boots and gloves. Decorations for their meager lodgings and all kinds of things he never expected from people – just freely given.
Dean learned over his teenage years that being open and giving and full of heart around the holidays meant that Sam would have some kind of Christmas. Would have that family and love and a sense of home, wherever they were. And it became easy to slip into that persona come December 1st. It felt comfortable. And he truly did enjoy it; the smile on his face was real. What Dean did not realize was the true meaning of Christmas crept into his heart.
*****
Walking through Main Street with Sam, Dean was a chatterbox. He kept pointing out the displays of lights and trees in shop windows. He accepted every small-town invite to come in for coffee or cocoa and cookies.
They stopped outside the town square after lunch, watching the giant tree being erected. Dean smiled at Sam, “C’mon, let’s go help!”
And Sam shook his head with a grin but followed his brother up the slight incline through the dusting of snow that had started to fall.
They spent all afternoon crawling on ladders, stringing lights, hanging up poinsettia plants and building the large wooden shelter for the live nativity scene that would be on display each night.
Sam was exhausted, and begged Dean for them to have dinner and go back to the motel already.
Dean looked over at Sam, and took a really good look. Sam’s cheeks were pink. His nose and ears were pink. His hair was windblown every which way, and his lips were slightly chapped. But his smile. He had a megawatt smile on his face that displayed his dimples to perfection. Dean felt warmth surge through him and agreed it was probably enough for the day.
*****
At the diner, they both had the prime rib special. Hearty appetite after a full day of outside work. Sam looked over at Dean, trying to puzzle him out.
“What, Sam?”
“Dude, are we even going to try and find a case around here, or are we going to be stuck in Whoville all month?”
“Whoville? Sam, that kind of talk makes me think you’re a Grinch.” Dean lifted his coffee cup for a refill and beamed at the waitress, who he’d caught staring at his little brother.
“Yeah, ok. Guess that makes you Cindy Lou Who, Dean.” Sam tried to suppress a smile, and couldn’t. He started laughing at the thought of Dean as the little blond girl approaching the Grinch as Santa.
Dean just sat back and took it. Seeing Sam truly laugh was worth whatever Sam had to throw at him. Plus, he felt light-hearted. “Well, a hunt around here would surprise me, Sam. This place is very Norman Rockwell, you know?”
Sam glanced at Dean, surprised at the reference. “Yeah, agreed. So, what, we holing up here? Or do you want to move on?” Sam had had a good time this afternoon, he had to admit to himself. And the town seemed cozy – small, but easy enough to lose yourself in. And to not hunt…Sam hadn’t been back in the game that long, but already he was mentally weary.
Dean watched his little brother. Emotions flitted across his face, and Dean knew every single one. Sam needed this. He needed time to heal. Dean wanted to give Sam a normal Christmas, wanted to give them both time to mend the wounds in their hearts and minds. They were off the grid, it wouldn’t be a problem. “We’re staying, Sammy,” Dean said softly, “if that’s ok with you.”
The waitress brought by slices of warm pecan pie and fresh coffee. Sam took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded at Dean. “Yeah, Dean, ok.” He knew his brother wanted to stay, and honestly, the respite would be welcome. “What are we going to do for money though?”
Dean already knew the answer to that. The motel needed a handyman, and well, a town like this could always use a general helper. And he knew about small towns like this. You pitch in and help, people help you out, too.
*****
A couple weeks in, Sam and Dean found themselves doing lots of small jobs for everyone in town. The motel’s owner, widowed Mrs. Benning, let them stay free of charge for helping out in town and at her place. The diner always had meals fresh and hot for them, and soon, everyone knew Sam and Dean. They had multiple invites for Christmas Day, and to Sam’s surprise, Dean turned them all down. When Sam finally asked him, Dean only replied, “Christmas is about family and home, Sam. We have plans.”
Dean never stopped in his holiday euphoria. They decorated their snowman motel room, making it even more gaudy and glitzed. They made a snowman taller than Sam, and joined the kids at Dixon’s Creek making snow angels on the banks of the river, watching out for the little ones. Dean helped decorate the elementary school, the bank and the post office, and was working weekends with the Ladies Auxiliary, baking cookies and pies and breads for the annual bake sale.
Sam had become completely enchanted with Holiday Hills. He spent time at the library, researching (just for fun, Dean still chuckled at that), and reading stories like The Night Before Christmas to the toddler group for Story Circle. Kids loved him, they tried to climb him like a tree. He got his morning coffee at Bean There, caught up on the local news, and usually took a brisk walk around town before Dean was even awake. Sam felt more open than he had ever been. His smiles came easily. The bickering with Dean dissipated. Now it was just banter, the fun found again in their brotherhood.
*****
The more time Dean spent with Sam enjoying their “vacation”, the more he found he really just liked being with Sam, the person that Sam was, not just the brother. The sound of Sam’s laugh was like a bell, clear and deep and sweetly ringing. The humming sound Sam made when he was doing things like dishes or laundry was endearing. The natural sparkle in Sam’s eyes made Dean’s dance as well, and the smiles. Neither boy realized their own smiles completely melted the other, and that each did everything they could to make that smile appear in the other.
But the townspeople of Holiday Hills noticed. Mrs. Benning was asked of their relationship. As far as she knew, they were just two good boys. She had no idea they were brothers, thought they were just close friends. Mr. Wilson took it upon himself to tell the town gossip Mrs. McCreary that “those two boys oughta just be together already.”
And Mrs. McCreary started the telephone tree that alerted those with the need to know (town elders, church board, ladies auxiliary) that those two boys loved each other and just didn’t know how to say it.
Holiday Hills was going to give a Christmas Miracle to the Winchester brothers.
*****
Operation Mistletoe. Betsy, the diner waitress, named it. Mrs. McCreary thought it too obvious. Mr. Wilson didn’t care what it was called; he just wanted those boys to kiss already.
Three days before Christmas, mistletoe sprung up all over Holiday Hills. Every house, every shop, every place of business had some hanging in the doorway. Betsy had hung some up above the boys’ favorite booth at the diner. Mrs. Benning had hung some in their motel room. Mr. Arnold even had some hanging in the auto shop, and from every car being worked on since Dean often dropped by, Sam in tow.
Everywhere the boys went, people would stop and say things like, “You’re under the mistletoe, you have to kiss” or “Christmas rules, you gotta do it” or “C’mon, give him a peck.” Sam was baffled. Dean just went with it, kissing Sam on the cheek or forehead like he did when he was little. He thought the townspeople were goofy, but fun loving. And, he really didn’t mind, anyway. Sam’s eyes would widen and he’d make this little sound when he breathed out that Dean discovered he wanted to hear again.
*****
Dean drug Sam all over town. He said it was to wish people a Merry Christmas and that after all they’d been given that month, to say thank you and be good neighbors.
Sam knew though, knew that Dean just wanted a reason to kiss him. He didn’t know exactly how he knew that, but the butterflies he always felt when Dean gave him that giant smile that said no one else around them existed; he felt them whenever Dean brushed his lips softly against his face.
And then there was that current of something between them. It was new, different, scary and thrilling. Sam felt it whenever Dean touched him, and it wasn’t from the cold outside or static electricity. Something more. Sam thought he might be being silly. Dean was his brother, and surely. No.
Right? But Dean kept kissing him under the mistletoe, chastely. And every so often he’d reach to take Sam’s hand. And the looks lately. Looks of what Sam often saw when girls looked at Dean. Or what Betsy the waitress gave when she looked at him. Or used to, anyway. Betsy had practically gone from mooning over him to just grinning like a fool at them both the last few days.
Sam wasn’t sure what to do with what all those thoughts jumbled in his head might mean. He loved Dean. Always had. And his brother always took care of Sam, trying to give him as normal a home, as normal a life, as normal a Christmas as he possibly could. And now, here. Dean was a different person.
No. Not different. Dean was the same as he’d ever been. Sam had changed. Or maybe they both had? Sam felt like he was trapped in a Hallmark Christmas movie. But he didn’t know the plot.
*****
While Dean was drinking a cup of eggnog and talking to the guys in the auto shop, Sam walked over to the town square’s Christmas tree. Snow crunched under his feet, and he saw Mr. Wilson sitting on a bench inside the open gazebo.
“Mr. Wilson,” called Sam. Sam trotted over to the elderly gentleman and sat down next to him. “Mr. Wilson, its cold out and going to snow tonight. What are you doing out here? It’s Christmas eve.”
Mr. Wilson just stared up at the Christmas tree another minute before slightly turning to Sam. “He’s a good man, Sam. “
Sam felt like his world was about to tilt on its axis. “You mean Dean is? I know that.”
“Then why are you fighting it, son?” Mr. Wilson looked directly into Sam’s eyes and Sam saw the challenge there. As well as the warmth, the non-judgment.
“I-I, well. Mr. Wilson, I do love him. He’s a good man, I know. He’s also my brother.” And then Sam cast his eyes down, a blush tinting his cheeks that had nothing to do with the blowing wind.
“Mmhmm. Yeah, I know, son.”
“You do? How did you-“
“I pay attention, Sam. But you love Dean, yes?” And he waited for Sam to answer him. “Really love him?”
Sam raised his eyes to look again at the man he’d been playing chess with in the library, the man who spent time drinking coffee in the bookshop with him, the man who’d been a confidante of sorts this last month. “I do. I shouldn’t, but yeah, I think I really do.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with love, son.” And Mr. Wilson looked again up to the twinkling tree. “Love comes in all forms. What you and Dean have, that ain’t normal. I don’t mean, it ain’t normal ‘cause he’s your brother. I mean it ain’t normal, ‘cause not many folks find that kind of love in their lives, ever.”
Sam thought about that for a minute. He and Dean had never been normal. Not by society’s standards. They never would be. The love he felt for Dean could not be neatly explained or expressed. It couldn’t be described or put into a tidy little box. The more he thought about it, the more the butterflies grew. Sam thought he was going to hyperventilate.
Mr. Wilson chuckled. “Yeah, I get that feeling. When I think about Matthew, I still get that feeling. Don’t worry, son, you’re going to be ok. Deep breaths. Finding out you’re in love with someone ain’t something you take lightly.” Mr. Wilson started rubbing Sam’s back in circles, glanced over to see Dean walking up. “Gonna let you boys be for a bit.”
As he got up to leave, Sam, grabbed his sleeve. “Mr. Wilson? Who is Matthew?”
Smiling down gently at Sam, he replied, “Matthew was my cousin. And the love of my life. We were raised together after his parents died while we were both toddlers. Sometimes you can’t help who you love, son.” And he walked away.
Dean had reached Sam by the time Mr. Wilson had walked over to the coffee shop. “What was that all about? Sam? Sammy, are you ok? It’s freezing out here, let’s go back to the motel. Mrs. Benning made us hot apple cider.”
“Dean, wait.” Sam looked up at his brother. His eyes were shining wet with unfallen tears. How in the world was he supposed to tell Dean he loved him, like that? Dean was going to hate him. Or maybe not. Dean had been acting a little strange himself lately. Maybe Sam wasn’t alone. Deep breaths. “Dean. I need to tell you something.”
*****
Dean bit his lip nervously. Here it comes. Sam was pissed. Sam was upset because Dean had kept kissing him everywhere they went. Dean couldn’t even help it; he wanted to be with Sam.
He didn’t know why he never realized it before. Everything had always been about Sam in his life, but this last month in Holiday Hills really changed his view on how and why that was. He enjoyed making Sam laugh. He liked taking care of Sam. He saw the man Sam had become, and he loved him for it. Sam’s quirks sometimes pissed him off, but that was the brother talking. The other person talking, the one that had somewhere along the way fallen in love with his baby brother, that one thought even with his quirks, Sam was pretty amazing. Damn amazing.
But Sam had obviously figured it out and was going to leave Dean this time because of it. Dean steeled himself. All he ever wanted to give Sam was family and love and home. Why couldn’t he see that was Dean? So yeah, they were brothers, but in the long-
“-so yeah, that’s what you should know. I love you.”
“Sam?” Dean had stopped breathing. Seconds of silence that felt like minutes.
“Dean, didn’t you hear anything I’ve just said?” Sam was afraid to look at Dean.
“Sammy, did you just say you love me?” Dean still couldn’t breathe. Was he hearing right?
“Yeah, Dean. I did. And I know you-“
“You’re not leaving me?” Dean was trying to breathe, he really was.
“Leaving? Why would I be leaving you when I just told you I loved you?” Sam was starting to feel tension; it was winding low in his gut. He hadn’t felt this way truly since before they had arrived. Dean was gonna take a swing at him. He knew it.
“Sam.” “Sam.” “SAM!” And Sam looked up at Dean, ready to take it. He inhaled and held his breath, waiting.
“You love me. Like. You love me?” Dean was looking down at Sam, his eyes shining too, ready to lay it all on the line for him.
Sam blew out the breath. And remained breathless. He nodded his head, yes. Afraid to blink. Afraid to breathe.
And then most of the population of Holiday Hills in on Operation Mistletoe watched from house and shop windows as Dean dropped to his knees in the snow. He leaned into Sam’s space, and looked up. There was mistletoe garland all around the edge of the gazebo.
It started snowing.
The town clock struck midnight.
And Dean kissed Sam on the lips. The kiss was full of tender sweet promise. It was a present, wrapped up in the best kind of package. It lasted through every peal of the church bells ringing out Christmas day as Sam kissed Dean back.
The boys walked back to the motel, hugging each other, trading small kisses and rubbing noses. As they passed Mr. Wilson, Sam heard a small, “Atta boy, son.”
Betsy and Mrs. McCreary started making plans for the diner on Christmas day. Everyone was going to move their celebrations so the town could come together and be with each other. Their family, their home. Holiday Hills. Which now included Sam and Dean.
The next morning Sam woke to find himself snuggled up against Dean. He stretched out and lazily looked around their room. Wait.
He and Dean were sharing a bed? And they both fit. He glanced up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Santas covered every available space in the room. The wallpaper was a million Santas of every kind. The bed – the bed they both fit on, was king sized. And the comforter was a giant red fluffy one, wrapped like a gift.
Sam knew they hadn’t been drinking. Did they go to the wrong room? All he and Dean had done was cuddle and trade kisses and whisper to each other through the night. He wasn’t even sure when they had fallen asleep.
He snuck out of bed, Dean mumbling and grabbing for Sam’s pillow to replace the loss of warmth. Sam walked around the room. All their stuff had been moved. The kitchenette was fully stocked with breakfast fixings. Under the tree – oh hey, a Christmas tree in their room! – were a few packages. Some for Sam, some for Dean. And a letter.
Boys,
About time. Been waiting a while for you two to catch up to each other. Enjoy your lives, enjoy each other. Love while you can. You always have a home here in Holiday Hills, but I suspect you’ll be moving along in a week or so. Don’t forget to come back here, recharge your batteries now and again. You’re a part of this town.
Santa
Sam started laughing. Santa? Seriously? There was no other way to explain everything else. Sam decided not to question it for once.
He climbed back in the bed with Dean who spooned him immediately, kissing the back of his neck. It was Christmas day. Sam had his family, his love and his home. Not just in Holiday Hills. It was wherever Dean was. That was Christmas. He finally understood what Dean had been trying to tell him for so long.
Transfixeddream – Sam/Dean, mocking each other’s gift-wrapping techniques By request:
"Jeez, look at you, Sammy," Dean says with a smirk, nodding to where Sam's wrapping a book for Bobby. He's halfway through, taping the wrapping paper into neat triangles before folding them over the book, taping it into place. "Martha Stewart teach you that one?"
"Shut up," Sam says, but it's muffled due to the--oh man, ribbon dangling from his teeth.
"Oh, no, I think it's great." Dean shakes his head and swallows a mouthful of whiskey, ignoring Sam's look with a wide smile. "You'll make a fine housewife someday, dude."
Sam's expression sours and he spits out the ribbon, scowling. "At least mine looks like an actual gift."
He gestures to Dean's gift, a bottle of Jack that's pretty crudely wrapped in green and gold wrapping paper, strands of tape everywhere. But like it matters, really--Bobby's not gonna appreciate the torn paper, he's gonna appreciate the buzz he'll get from the bottle. Besides, Dean's not Mary Poppins or anything; his gift wrapping is manly.
"It's manly," Dean states, shrugging Sam off.
"It looks like you unwrapped it, tried it, and then wrapped it again."
"Maybe I did," Dean says, a little defensively, and really, Sam is not gonna make him feel self-conscious about not caring how he wrapped Bobby's gift. Bobby will actually probably smack them both for even bothering with useless extravagancies like wrapping paper. It'll be more mess for him to clean up.
But Sam still seems to be judging him, even though he's gone back to meticulously wrapping his own present, the bastard. Dean takes a strand of ribbon Sam had cut and wraps it around the neck of the bottle, ties it in a neat bow like he's tying shoelaces.
"There," Dean says, pointing for emphasis. "Is this not the best looking gift you've ever seen?"
Dean doesn't wait for an answer: he plops down on the couch and pops open a bottle of beer, swings his legs up on the coffee table.
"You want me to wrap it after I'm done here?" When Dean looks over, Sam's flashing him a smug smile.
Dean kind of wants to bite Sam's face off, just a little. "No, I do not want you to wrap it in your pansy way. It's fine the way it is. And don't gimme that look, Sam, 'cause the thing is? There's only one thing I need to know how to wrap up," Dean points with both hands to his crotch. "Yeah, that's right, baby."
"You're such a pervert," Sam says, but it kind of loses any ounce of scathing considering he's tying a ribbon right now.
"Whatever." Dean takes a pull of beer. "Blow me, bitch."
"Later," Sam says.
"Awesome," Dean says.
Teaandhoney – Spike, Dawn (gen) for wishlist
Dawn doesn't feel strong today.
She didn't feel strong yesterday.
She doubts she will tomorrow.
(Perhaps she will never be if the latest cult catches up with them.)
With a huff at the turn of her thoughts, she stops brushing her hair, still damp from the shower, and steps out of the bathroom changing into her nightclothes.
But she does think about it sometimes...
She was all mixed in with the Potentials back in Sunnydale. She has seen a girl's face as she is Chosen. It has kept her up at night more than once wondering what exactly that meant - what that felt like.
Dawn doesn't want to be a Slayer. Living with Buffy, seeing her die, and watching her try to live again has made that something she will never dream of.
But she does find it unfair at times. She's full to the brim of mystical energy but all the Key has ever made her feel is powerless. Dawn bites her lips and traces the little flannel sheep on her pajama pants.
Death is the Slayers' gift but it is something the Key seems to brings about by proxy. It is a thing to be protected - a thing to kill for, to die for.
A thing.
She was silly to have thought that was over, to have fallen back into thinking she was a real person for so many years.
"Deep thoughts, Niblet?" Spike asks sitting on the bed next to her still dressed in the only outfit she has ever seen him wear. The very presence of him seems to chase away her crushing thoughts - her self doubts no match for the Big Bad.
She smiles and leans her head against his shoulder with ease borne out of years of familiarity.
He wraps an arm around her. "Don't worry now, pet," he says with a particular gentleness that is singular with him towards Summer women. Pressing a firm brotherly kiss against the top of her head before continuing. "You know they won't find us in the safe house - Red has seen to that. And with 'ole Sis on her bloody tear of vengeance for even daring to threaten you it won't even be morning 'till their all slaughtered," he sounded utterly satisfied at the thought.
Dawn simply closes her eyes and lets his voice wash over her. She still doesn't feel strong, but when she's with Spike she feels safe.
Spike/Angel, spike_1790 for wishlist
“Angelcakes, I didn't know you could cook!”
Yeah, that's right. Give the poof all the credit. I scowl at Lorne. Everyone looks surprised, actually. I don't blame them- the last time I ate something Peaches cooked it was vile. I couldn't work out whether it even started out as ingredients or whether it really was just a lump of green slime he'd found in the sewer. I later found out it was meant to be chicken casserole.
This, however, this is my work. Just look at it all- the turkey looks like something out of a Good Food magazine, and there's roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and those little pigs in blankets that Gunn made a passing comment about sometime last month. I even set the table myself, because who could really trust the poof to do something as important as that? He'd probably smear everything in that horribly poofy hair gel he likes so much.
I don't think Christmas is high of Angel's list of priorities. He 'forgot' about the office party until me and Wesley forcibly removed him from his penthouse. He wasn't going to put up a tree either until I pointed out that the tree would either go up in the lobby, or go up his oversized, squishy arse. Luckily Harmony had sent out the company Christmas cards to everyone that should have got one and, likely as not, most of LA.
So what are we all doing here sat at Angel's dining table? Well, that was courtesy of yours truly. And it wasn't easy, let me tell you. There's a lot of planning that goes into making a meal like this, including a list of imaginary demons that are terrorising various parts of the city. Yeah, I had Angel out all night just so I could get the stuff from my pitiful little apartment to his place.
I had to rely on Harmony to get most of this done. She's the only one of the lot of 'em that knows His Poofiness didn't do all this by his lonesome. Part of me was hoping that one of them- Fred or Lorne probably- would realise Angel can neither cook nor stand Christmas and give me the credit, but that ain't going to happen.
Anyway, everyone's sat down and there's eggnog being drunk, and Peaches stands up and makes a toast about family and absent friends or some such rot. I wish he'd just get on with carving the bloody turkey. Not that I need to eat, of course. But I'm not one to hold back from enjoying the good things just because I don't need them. Who needs music, or fast cars, or the things that make life, unlife, whatever, fun? I
sure as hell won't hold back just because Peaches thinks punishment equals atonement.
Ah, here we go. Time to eat. I pile my plate high with some of everything and smother it in gravy. Angel gives me a warning look to behave.
Like I don't have table manners! Bloody hell, I was raised in the age of impeccable manners- he's the one that's likely to start drinking too much, not use his cutlery and start regaling us with Irish ballads about potatoes or river dance or something equally depressing.
Everything goes fine for the first course. Better than fine, actually. I'd go as far as to class it as a success. See? I can plan something without bollocksing it up. Anyway, Wesley makes a comment about Christmas pudding and Angel pales. Looks like he might care a little bit about this Christmas lark after all, 'cause I didn't think it was possible for him to get any paler. I roll my eyes and mouth the word 'kitchen'. He gives me an odd look and mouths back 'kitten?'. Sometimes I could throttle him...
Of course, that's when things go tits up. Despite all the wards on the building, and the security teams, and the surveillance cameras, there's always a way for things to go tits up. This time, its in the form of a skinny, scaly demon that quite literally bursts through the door. Splinters of wood fly through the air and me and Angel automatically duck for cover under the table.
And then something happens that I wouldn't have thought possible if I hadn't been peeking out under the tablecloth. Fred- meek, mild little Fred- grabs the centrepiece from the table, the one with the pretty red candles, and she throws it at the demon, roaring like a bloody lion. The flame catches on the scaly demon's clothes and in a matter of seconds, all that's left is a slightly smoking skeleton.
Me and Peaches climb out from under the table, trying to salvage the remains of our dignity. I clear my throat. Then Angel laughs. One of those real laughs that I've only ever heard from his unsouled counterpart. Everyone stares at him, myself included. Then we're all laughing.
Eventually we manage to find our way to our seats as the chuckles die down. I get the Christmas pudding from the kitchen along with a couple of other cakes and cookie style things that I'm too much of a man to admit to cooking myself.
The rest of the meal goes smoothly. We eat our cake and drink eggnog and mulled wine while the corpse of a demon smoulders quietly beside us. If anyone said, even a year ago that I'd be making dinner for Angel and his pet humans, I'd have said they were off their nut. But Iguess if you can't beat them, you can still trick them into thinking you're still the Big Bad.
brutti_ma_buoni - Spike & Dawn exchange gifts
Right away, he knew it wasn’t what he wanted.
Spike’s needs were modest. Beer, smokes, whiskey, blood. Repeat as required. Add violence for seasoning. Or Weetabix, at a push, but no one had ever given him Weetabix for the festive season. Mutilated corpses, jewellery, the occasional book – the usual for Angelus and those he hung around with. Breakfast comestibles, not so much.
Dawn was holding something that was neither the smallish, squarish shape of a fag packet, nor a long, cylindrical, promisingly-alcoholic shape. It was a... splat? Her eyes were wide, hopeful. Worryingly sincere.
“I didn’t want to get you just any stupid thing from a store,” she said.
Bollocks. Spike liked things from stores. They cost money, and he never had enough of that. Also, he’d personally nicked her some really cool Urban Decay polish from a really nice store, and he would sort of have appreciated a reciprocal arrangement.
Instead he got... gloves? “Well, love, that’s...” he said, flannelling. There was something wrong with the gloves. They were ragged, off-centre and noticeably mismatched. “Bit... did you make these yourself?”
She nodded, blushing. “Tara taught me. In summer. I mean, I already kind of knew, but she said gloves were good, because they’re really fiddly and you have to focus, and sometimes it’s good to think of stuff that doesn’t really matter instead of-“
Your dead sister. Who wasn’t anymore. But still, Spike felt the weight of it, that remembered month on month of Not Buffy. And she wanted him to wear a souvenir of that hell for the foreseeable. Which was sort of sweet, but he really wasn’t in the business of sweet. He almost got to the point of opening his mouth to explain, patiently, why vampires didn’t need warm clothing, especially not in southern Cali, and how it wouldn’t suit his image and-
And Dawn said, “I thought... you know, fingerprints? Gloves are really useful for criminals.” She said it so earnestly, so much like the girl who thought doing crime was a perfectly reasonable way for a neutered vamp to behave, that he couldn’t help but laugh.
“They will, at that. Thanks, love. Merry Christmas.” And not one bit of his blackened soulless self felt ashamed that he meant every word.
Alafaye – John/Sherlock for wishlist
John was rubbing his hair dry as he left the bathroom. "I swear, Sherlock, if you pick up just one more case involving skips or the Thames, I might just dump you in it."
"Are you saying that you don't enjoy it?" Sherlock asked smoothly.
John looked up from under the towel with a fierce frown. He stopped short, however, of giving a good retort. Sherlock had failed again to quit smoking and often times the smell of the tobacco and smoke permeated their bed at night. Quitting at...quitting the smoking, however, was more for John. Ever since their relationship had become romantic and sexual, John found himself with a whole new mess of kinks. Watching Sherlock smoke was just the latest.
John took a deep breath to clear his head before Sherlock saw any reason for them to miss the Yard's holiday party.
"I can't imagine anyone enjoying a kip in a skip or the Thames," John said with a shudder. The feeling of something drifting past him in the Thames was something he, unfortunately, would never forget.
Sherlock chuckled. "I've always found skips to be a fountain of information."
John raised an eyebrow. "Is that so Mr. I-can-read-everything-about-a-person-from-one-look?"
"Was that meant to be several words?" Sherlock asked. "Or did you mean to include the dashes I audibly heard?"
John shrugged. "Take it as you wish." He tossed his towel at Sherlock. "Get changed into something that doesn't smell like garbage."
Sherlock took the last bit of cigarette and ground it out. "Whatever for?"
"The holiday party at the yard?" John asked with raised eyebrows.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "That."
"They're trying, Sherlock," John said. "They want to show you that they're sorry."
"Social niceties I have no use for," Sherlock muttered.
"And yet those niceties are the very thing that will save you if something like this happens again," John reminded him.
"Moriarty is dead. No one else can orchestrate something of that magnitude."
"You never know," John said. "According to the papers, geniuses are born everyday."
"Bogged down by emotions and other boring things," Sherlock retorted.
"Get dressed. We're going."
Sherlock slouched into their bedroom and sullenly changed. "I'll have you know that I am doing this under duress."
"I'm sure," John said.
"I won't enjoy myself."
"Of course not."
"I am, actually, unsure of why I'm going."
"To discover everyone's secrets so you can hold it over them when they call you a freak?" John half smirked--Sherlock could get that information anytime, but he did enjoy having a back log of information.
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. They finished dressing in silence and left the flat. The air was chilly and John was grateful he'd decided to get a new jacket. Sherlock nodded at one of the homeless they passed who offered up a note in exchange for a few pounds. Sherlock smirked as he read it.
"We'll have to take the train out to Manchester tomorrow," Sherlock said gleefully.
"Got something?" John asked.
"For the Clapham case, yes," Sherlock said smugly.
John chuckled at Sherlock's enthusiasm, but was glad that they finally had something for Mrs. Clapham. Not to mention, there would be no post-case lull for Sherlock to fall into. Good news all around, then.
~~~
"Lestrade is back with his wife," Sherlock muttered to John with a tone in his voice that spoke simply of disgust.
"What do you have against his wife?" John asked. He considered having another biscuit, but went instead for just another cup of the punch.
"She hit on me," Sherlock said with a wrinkle of his nose. "And when I replied simply that women do nothing for me, she offered to drug Lestrade so she could watch he and I together."
John frowned at the presented image. "Did you tell Lestrade?"
"Naturally," Sherlock said. "She denied it and said I had assaulted her. I believe that was the second time he put me in a cell. He has since come around, thankfully."
"But he stays with her," John muttered. He shook his head. "Wonders never cease."
"Some people get stuck in a rut and cannot get themselves out," Sherlock said.
John cast his eye around the room, looking for anything to distract Sherlock from Lestrade and his reunion with his cheating wife. (John knew the story well enough to know that she probably was already cheating on him.) He elbowed Sherlock gently and nodded toward a woman propped against the far wall. "What about her? What's her story?"
Sherlock watched her for only a moment. "She was stood up. Not a police woman--she was her date. But the police woman is down the street at the bar getting spectacularly smashed. They had made plans to meet her, but the police woman never made it."
John hummed. "Anything else?"
"They've been fighting, probably because of the alcohol and also because of the job. It's what drove the police woman to drink now it’s driving them apart. A twofold problem it seems. A few money problems, a brother with a gambling problem. Poor self image--look at her dress and shoes; amplifying what little she has and adding to it. Comes from a poor background and struggles to overcome it by having a bigger, better income. Living beyond her means, however."
"Do all the police have trouble with their relationships?" John asked quietly.
"Seems so," Lestrade said as he joined them. He knocked back a cup of punch and then another.
"It's the hours," Sherlock said. "They're never set and always go beyond a set time frame. It does make having a relationship difficult as one's partner does expect reservations to be kept and promises sworn to."
"Be lucky you both have the same job," Lestrade said. He was quickly downing the third cup of punch and John frowned with worry. "Seriously. Though I expect you enjoy time away from this one, eh, John?"
John shared a look with Sherlock. Despite how little Sherlock's opinion might be of Lestrade and his relationship with his wife, Sherlock cared for Lestrade as one of his only friends. To see Lestrade drinking and more than at that, was worrying to them both.
"How about a cigarette?" Sherlock suggested.
"Can't," Lestrade slurred. "Wife don't like it."
"Then at least a breath of fresh air," John said. "Come on."
"No, she'll get mad," Lestrade said. Despite his words, however, he willingly let John pull him out into the street. "S-she thinks I spend too much time at work--it's why she sleeps around, see? She gets lonely."
"No," Sherlock said sternly. "She says that so she can get away with it. In reality, she is addicted to the high of lying and going behind your back. But take heart--you're not the first."
"What?" Lestrade asked. "What do you mean, 'not the first'?"
"Hm? Oh, she's been married before or didn't she tell you?" Sherlock opened his phone, feinging disinterest, but John could tell it was only a front. Clearly Sherlock had not known that Lestrade hadn't and was trying to figure out how best to salvage the conversation.
Lestrade rubbed his face. "That bitch. She told me...oh, god. I'm going to be sick."
"I don't think the news is--oh, that." Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped away as Lestrade threw up the food from the party as well as his dinner.
John sighed and waited until Lestrade was dry heaving. He hefted the man up and swung his arm over his good shoulder. "Home, I think."
"Not his," Sherlock said. "Bring him by ours. I doubt either of them wishes to see the other tonight."
John nodded and Sherlock took up Lestrade's other side. Together, the three of them made their way to Baker St.--even if it took them a good hour.
~~~
"Well, he's asleep," John said. As soon as he'd sat down, Lestrade was out. John had propped him on his side and put a bucket, some aspirin, and a glass of water nearby. Hopefully, Lestrade would sleep peacefully.
Sherlock frowned. "You--"
"Yes, on his side," John said with a smile. "He'll be fine. Besides, you're probably going to be up half the night looking over your notes for the Clapham case; you can check on him."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. The Clapham case."
John watched as Sherlock drifted off in thought. Tomorrow they would be off to Manchester and in a week, they would be celebrating Christmas. All in all, right now, it was good. He fell asleep with a smile.
sammichgirl, for wishlist, Sam/Dean
He’d forgotten this happened.
He’d been at Stanford, and college kids celebrated Christmas like normal people do – most going home to their families while he stayed on campus.
He really didn’t think much of Christmas while he was there. In his life, it had really been just another day at the office, anyway, according to dad.
But not according to Dean.
He’d forgotten about Dean, his own personal Christmas elf.
*****
As long as Sam could remember, Dean had always loved Christmas. LOVED it. He loved the sights (man, those twinkling lights are awesome!), the sounds (corner Santas ringing their bells, carolers wandering the town square), the smells (balsam, pine, cranberry, peppermint) and the jovial moods people tended to be in. Small town Christmases were his favorite. Man, nothing better than singing Jingle Bells and drinking eggnog and eating gingerbread waffles at the diner as far as he was concerned. Followed by a snowball fight or making a snowman or even making snow angels if they were far enough north. He liked volunteering and giving his time to whatever projects he could in town. Yeah, you read that right. Dean.
Dean Winchester was not an emotional kind of guy. One look at him and you knew it. Dean didn’t do warm, happy, fuzzies.
Something though, something in Dean’s head flipped a switch come December 1st every year. For 31 days, Dean was possessed by some Christmas demon.
Well. Sam was pretty sure it was a demon. Something supernatural, anyway. Although he could never prove it. Holy water and salt had no effect. Silver did nothing. Exorcisms didn’t work.
Dean was just a misplaced elf come the holidays. A very happy one, at that. And it always had puzzled Sam.
*****
Sam had been back hunting with Dean for about a month now. Thanksgiving had come and gone, turkey dinner special at some truck stop diner before they hit the road again. It was a Wednesday afternoon, the last day of the month. They’d stopped at a motel in Holiday Hills, IL.
Sam hauled their duffles and backpacks into the room, which was wallpapered with snowmen. He blinked very slowly, looking around the room. Snowmen was an obvious theme, everything was decorated with them. Lovely. Garish motel room for the Winchesters, check.
Dean walked in behind him with the weapons bag, stopped and did a double take. “Seriously? Who decorated this place, Frosty?” He dropped the bag beside the couch and flopped down on it, turning on the television. “Sammy, you hungry yet?”
“No Dean, we ate not that long ago.” Sam placed their stuff on their respective beds, walked over to the kitchenette and frowned. “Here is what I am sure is a delicious fruitcake for you to enjoy if you are so inclined”, he said, tossing Dean the brick heavy saran wrapped cake.
“Ugh, dude. Fruitcake? I want some pie!” Dean chucked the fruitcake back onto the table and settled in deep to the couch. “Later, Sammy, gonna get some shut-eye first.”
Sam chuffed and dug out his laptop. He had some friends he’d wanted to catch up with, so email was his first priority, and then he’d start research on a hunt. After a while, he was sleepy too, and laid down on one of the beds to grab twenty winks.
*****
Sam woke up early the next morning to the smell of something spicy and comforting. Something smelled good. Wait. What?
“Dean?”
“Mornin’ sunshine!” Dean handed him a cup of…coffee? Sam sniffed it, recognizing the chai immediately.
“Um, Dean?” Sam took a small sip, enjoying what Dean normally considered a frou-frou drink, waiting for the comment about him being girly.
“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean was slicing something in the kitchenette. Something that looked suspiciously like fruitcake.
“You got me chai? And, what are you doing?” Sam had the most adorable confused look on his face Dean hadn’t seen in ages. Awesome.
“Dude, I made you chai! Christmas in a cup, baby brother! And, there’s an awesome fruitcake here begging to be eaten, so that’s breakfast.” Dean grinned, and Sam was hit by two things like a punch to the gut that he’d forgotten.
One: Dean’s only-for-Sammy grin could light up a room and make his tummy fill with butterflies.
Two: The Christmas elf was back.
*****
After breakfast, Sam cleared the dishes and washed up while Dean went to go get ready for the day. He’d been spouting fun things to do while in Holiday Hills, and didn’t that just make Sam groan. There was a town parade that afternoon, and tomorrow at the library they could go learn to string popcorn garlands. Seriously?
What had happened to his big brother? It was like he had taken a holiday roofie. He was ecstatic about the sugarplum body wash in the bathroom and when he got dressed, he wore green khaki pants and a deep red flannel shirt.
Sam’s memories of every Christmas spent with Dean came rushing back. Dean got obsessed. He got a little holiday psycho. And Sam could not for the life of him figure out why or begin to understand it. But he’d just gotten his brother back. They were together again, like they used to be. And Sam didn’t want to feel lonely right now, there was an emptiness in his heart, and the holidays, well…they weren’t a normal family, but maybe he and Dean could do some normal holiday things.
So Sam resolved to just hang on for the December ride, go along with whatever Dean wanted. Besides, seeing his big brother genuinely happy was something he could easily get used to.
*****
Dean knew Sam was puzzled by his Ho-Ho-Holiday behavior. Always had been. And for all Dean’s machismo and that perpetually gruff exterior, he knew he could only get away with this during Christmas. He could let go. He could show Sam how much he loved him, without coming right out and saying it. Christmas was about family, about love, about home. It was about Sam. Dean didn’t know how to tell Sam any other way. And actions spoke louder than words. This year, especially, Sam needed to know it. Needed to feel it. And Dean wanted to give it.
Dean was a big brother, sure. But he’d raised Sam. Growing up, he was everything to Sam, including Santa. He’d seen the disappointment Sam felt when dad wasn’t there for Christmas. Knew Sam got teased at school for not having the newest clothes or the latest electronic games and gadgets. That he felt like Christmas didn’t even matter, because it was always about the next job. So however and whenever he could wherever they were each December, Dean brought on the holiday cheer. He felt silly and stupid at first. But the reactions from everyone made it easy. Folks liked cheery Christmas-involved people. They liked Dean’s friendliness to pitch in and help out, to spread cheer even if he had nothing of his own to give but a smile and time. And when they saw the truth, that Dean did everything for Sam, he unknowingly scored.
Free food for a feast like they never usually had from food pantries. Presents from local church groups – stuff they needed like jackets and boots and gloves. Decorations for their meager lodgings and all kinds of things he never expected from people – just freely given.
Dean learned over his teenage years that being open and giving and full of heart around the holidays meant that Sam would have some kind of Christmas. Would have that family and love and a sense of home, wherever they were. And it became easy to slip into that persona come December 1st. It felt comfortable. And he truly did enjoy it; the smile on his face was real. What Dean did not realize was the true meaning of Christmas crept into his heart.
*****
Walking through Main Street with Sam, Dean was a chatterbox. He kept pointing out the displays of lights and trees in shop windows. He accepted every small-town invite to come in for coffee or cocoa and cookies.
They stopped outside the town square after lunch, watching the giant tree being erected. Dean smiled at Sam, “C’mon, let’s go help!”
And Sam shook his head with a grin but followed his brother up the slight incline through the dusting of snow that had started to fall.
They spent all afternoon crawling on ladders, stringing lights, hanging up poinsettia plants and building the large wooden shelter for the live nativity scene that would be on display each night.
Sam was exhausted, and begged Dean for them to have dinner and go back to the motel already.
Dean looked over at Sam, and took a really good look. Sam’s cheeks were pink. His nose and ears were pink. His hair was windblown every which way, and his lips were slightly chapped. But his smile. He had a megawatt smile on his face that displayed his dimples to perfection. Dean felt warmth surge through him and agreed it was probably enough for the day.
*****
At the diner, they both had the prime rib special. Hearty appetite after a full day of outside work. Sam looked over at Dean, trying to puzzle him out.
“What, Sam?”
“Dude, are we even going to try and find a case around here, or are we going to be stuck in Whoville all month?”
“Whoville? Sam, that kind of talk makes me think you’re a Grinch.” Dean lifted his coffee cup for a refill and beamed at the waitress, who he’d caught staring at his little brother.
“Yeah, ok. Guess that makes you Cindy Lou Who, Dean.” Sam tried to suppress a smile, and couldn’t. He started laughing at the thought of Dean as the little blond girl approaching the Grinch as Santa.
Dean just sat back and took it. Seeing Sam truly laugh was worth whatever Sam had to throw at him. Plus, he felt light-hearted. “Well, a hunt around here would surprise me, Sam. This place is very Norman Rockwell, you know?”
Sam glanced at Dean, surprised at the reference. “Yeah, agreed. So, what, we holing up here? Or do you want to move on?” Sam had had a good time this afternoon, he had to admit to himself. And the town seemed cozy – small, but easy enough to lose yourself in. And to not hunt…Sam hadn’t been back in the game that long, but already he was mentally weary.
Dean watched his little brother. Emotions flitted across his face, and Dean knew every single one. Sam needed this. He needed time to heal. Dean wanted to give Sam a normal Christmas, wanted to give them both time to mend the wounds in their hearts and minds. They were off the grid, it wouldn’t be a problem. “We’re staying, Sammy,” Dean said softly, “if that’s ok with you.”
The waitress brought by slices of warm pecan pie and fresh coffee. Sam took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and nodded at Dean. “Yeah, Dean, ok.” He knew his brother wanted to stay, and honestly, the respite would be welcome. “What are we going to do for money though?”
Dean already knew the answer to that. The motel needed a handyman, and well, a town like this could always use a general helper. And he knew about small towns like this. You pitch in and help, people help you out, too.
*****
A couple weeks in, Sam and Dean found themselves doing lots of small jobs for everyone in town. The motel’s owner, widowed Mrs. Benning, let them stay free of charge for helping out in town and at her place. The diner always had meals fresh and hot for them, and soon, everyone knew Sam and Dean. They had multiple invites for Christmas Day, and to Sam’s surprise, Dean turned them all down. When Sam finally asked him, Dean only replied, “Christmas is about family and home, Sam. We have plans.”
Dean never stopped in his holiday euphoria. They decorated their snowman motel room, making it even more gaudy and glitzed. They made a snowman taller than Sam, and joined the kids at Dixon’s Creek making snow angels on the banks of the river, watching out for the little ones. Dean helped decorate the elementary school, the bank and the post office, and was working weekends with the Ladies Auxiliary, baking cookies and pies and breads for the annual bake sale.
Sam had become completely enchanted with Holiday Hills. He spent time at the library, researching (just for fun, Dean still chuckled at that), and reading stories like The Night Before Christmas to the toddler group for Story Circle. Kids loved him, they tried to climb him like a tree. He got his morning coffee at Bean There, caught up on the local news, and usually took a brisk walk around town before Dean was even awake. Sam felt more open than he had ever been. His smiles came easily. The bickering with Dean dissipated. Now it was just banter, the fun found again in their brotherhood.
*****
The more time Dean spent with Sam enjoying their “vacation”, the more he found he really just liked being with Sam, the person that Sam was, not just the brother. The sound of Sam’s laugh was like a bell, clear and deep and sweetly ringing. The humming sound Sam made when he was doing things like dishes or laundry was endearing. The natural sparkle in Sam’s eyes made Dean’s dance as well, and the smiles. Neither boy realized their own smiles completely melted the other, and that each did everything they could to make that smile appear in the other.
But the townspeople of Holiday Hills noticed. Mrs. Benning was asked of their relationship. As far as she knew, they were just two good boys. She had no idea they were brothers, thought they were just close friends. Mr. Wilson took it upon himself to tell the town gossip Mrs. McCreary that “those two boys oughta just be together already.”
And Mrs. McCreary started the telephone tree that alerted those with the need to know (town elders, church board, ladies auxiliary) that those two boys loved each other and just didn’t know how to say it.
Holiday Hills was going to give a Christmas Miracle to the Winchester brothers.
*****
Operation Mistletoe. Betsy, the diner waitress, named it. Mrs. McCreary thought it too obvious. Mr. Wilson didn’t care what it was called; he just wanted those boys to kiss already.
Three days before Christmas, mistletoe sprung up all over Holiday Hills. Every house, every shop, every place of business had some hanging in the doorway. Betsy had hung some up above the boys’ favorite booth at the diner. Mrs. Benning had hung some in their motel room. Mr. Arnold even had some hanging in the auto shop, and from every car being worked on since Dean often dropped by, Sam in tow.
Everywhere the boys went, people would stop and say things like, “You’re under the mistletoe, you have to kiss” or “Christmas rules, you gotta do it” or “C’mon, give him a peck.” Sam was baffled. Dean just went with it, kissing Sam on the cheek or forehead like he did when he was little. He thought the townspeople were goofy, but fun loving. And, he really didn’t mind, anyway. Sam’s eyes would widen and he’d make this little sound when he breathed out that Dean discovered he wanted to hear again.
*****
Dean drug Sam all over town. He said it was to wish people a Merry Christmas and that after all they’d been given that month, to say thank you and be good neighbors.
Sam knew though, knew that Dean just wanted a reason to kiss him. He didn’t know exactly how he knew that, but the butterflies he always felt when Dean gave him that giant smile that said no one else around them existed; he felt them whenever Dean brushed his lips softly against his face.
And then there was that current of something between them. It was new, different, scary and thrilling. Sam felt it whenever Dean touched him, and it wasn’t from the cold outside or static electricity. Something more. Sam thought he might be being silly. Dean was his brother, and surely. No.
Right? But Dean kept kissing him under the mistletoe, chastely. And every so often he’d reach to take Sam’s hand. And the looks lately. Looks of what Sam often saw when girls looked at Dean. Or what Betsy the waitress gave when she looked at him. Or used to, anyway. Betsy had practically gone from mooning over him to just grinning like a fool at them both the last few days.
Sam wasn’t sure what to do with what all those thoughts jumbled in his head might mean. He loved Dean. Always had. And his brother always took care of Sam, trying to give him as normal a home, as normal a life, as normal a Christmas as he possibly could. And now, here. Dean was a different person.
No. Not different. Dean was the same as he’d ever been. Sam had changed. Or maybe they both had? Sam felt like he was trapped in a Hallmark Christmas movie. But he didn’t know the plot.
*****
While Dean was drinking a cup of eggnog and talking to the guys in the auto shop, Sam walked over to the town square’s Christmas tree. Snow crunched under his feet, and he saw Mr. Wilson sitting on a bench inside the open gazebo.
“Mr. Wilson,” called Sam. Sam trotted over to the elderly gentleman and sat down next to him. “Mr. Wilson, its cold out and going to snow tonight. What are you doing out here? It’s Christmas eve.”
Mr. Wilson just stared up at the Christmas tree another minute before slightly turning to Sam. “He’s a good man, Sam. “
Sam felt like his world was about to tilt on its axis. “You mean Dean is? I know that.”
“Then why are you fighting it, son?” Mr. Wilson looked directly into Sam’s eyes and Sam saw the challenge there. As well as the warmth, the non-judgment.
“I-I, well. Mr. Wilson, I do love him. He’s a good man, I know. He’s also my brother.” And then Sam cast his eyes down, a blush tinting his cheeks that had nothing to do with the blowing wind.
“Mmhmm. Yeah, I know, son.”
“You do? How did you-“
“I pay attention, Sam. But you love Dean, yes?” And he waited for Sam to answer him. “Really love him?”
Sam raised his eyes to look again at the man he’d been playing chess with in the library, the man who spent time drinking coffee in the bookshop with him, the man who’d been a confidante of sorts this last month. “I do. I shouldn’t, but yeah, I think I really do.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with love, son.” And Mr. Wilson looked again up to the twinkling tree. “Love comes in all forms. What you and Dean have, that ain’t normal. I don’t mean, it ain’t normal ‘cause he’s your brother. I mean it ain’t normal, ‘cause not many folks find that kind of love in their lives, ever.”
Sam thought about that for a minute. He and Dean had never been normal. Not by society’s standards. They never would be. The love he felt for Dean could not be neatly explained or expressed. It couldn’t be described or put into a tidy little box. The more he thought about it, the more the butterflies grew. Sam thought he was going to hyperventilate.
Mr. Wilson chuckled. “Yeah, I get that feeling. When I think about Matthew, I still get that feeling. Don’t worry, son, you’re going to be ok. Deep breaths. Finding out you’re in love with someone ain’t something you take lightly.” Mr. Wilson started rubbing Sam’s back in circles, glanced over to see Dean walking up. “Gonna let you boys be for a bit.”
As he got up to leave, Sam, grabbed his sleeve. “Mr. Wilson? Who is Matthew?”
Smiling down gently at Sam, he replied, “Matthew was my cousin. And the love of my life. We were raised together after his parents died while we were both toddlers. Sometimes you can’t help who you love, son.” And he walked away.
Dean had reached Sam by the time Mr. Wilson had walked over to the coffee shop. “What was that all about? Sam? Sammy, are you ok? It’s freezing out here, let’s go back to the motel. Mrs. Benning made us hot apple cider.”
“Dean, wait.” Sam looked up at his brother. His eyes were shining wet with unfallen tears. How in the world was he supposed to tell Dean he loved him, like that? Dean was going to hate him. Or maybe not. Dean had been acting a little strange himself lately. Maybe Sam wasn’t alone. Deep breaths. “Dean. I need to tell you something.”
*****
Dean bit his lip nervously. Here it comes. Sam was pissed. Sam was upset because Dean had kept kissing him everywhere they went. Dean couldn’t even help it; he wanted to be with Sam.
He didn’t know why he never realized it before. Everything had always been about Sam in his life, but this last month in Holiday Hills really changed his view on how and why that was. He enjoyed making Sam laugh. He liked taking care of Sam. He saw the man Sam had become, and he loved him for it. Sam’s quirks sometimes pissed him off, but that was the brother talking. The other person talking, the one that had somewhere along the way fallen in love with his baby brother, that one thought even with his quirks, Sam was pretty amazing. Damn amazing.
But Sam had obviously figured it out and was going to leave Dean this time because of it. Dean steeled himself. All he ever wanted to give Sam was family and love and home. Why couldn’t he see that was Dean? So yeah, they were brothers, but in the long-
“-so yeah, that’s what you should know. I love you.”
“Sam?” Dean had stopped breathing. Seconds of silence that felt like minutes.
“Dean, didn’t you hear anything I’ve just said?” Sam was afraid to look at Dean.
“Sammy, did you just say you love me?” Dean still couldn’t breathe. Was he hearing right?
“Yeah, Dean. I did. And I know you-“
“You’re not leaving me?” Dean was trying to breathe, he really was.
“Leaving? Why would I be leaving you when I just told you I loved you?” Sam was starting to feel tension; it was winding low in his gut. He hadn’t felt this way truly since before they had arrived. Dean was gonna take a swing at him. He knew it.
“Sam.” “Sam.” “SAM!” And Sam looked up at Dean, ready to take it. He inhaled and held his breath, waiting.
“You love me. Like. You love me?” Dean was looking down at Sam, his eyes shining too, ready to lay it all on the line for him.
Sam blew out the breath. And remained breathless. He nodded his head, yes. Afraid to blink. Afraid to breathe.
And then most of the population of Holiday Hills in on Operation Mistletoe watched from house and shop windows as Dean dropped to his knees in the snow. He leaned into Sam’s space, and looked up. There was mistletoe garland all around the edge of the gazebo.
It started snowing.
The town clock struck midnight.
And Dean kissed Sam on the lips. The kiss was full of tender sweet promise. It was a present, wrapped up in the best kind of package. It lasted through every peal of the church bells ringing out Christmas day as Sam kissed Dean back.
The boys walked back to the motel, hugging each other, trading small kisses and rubbing noses. As they passed Mr. Wilson, Sam heard a small, “Atta boy, son.”
Betsy and Mrs. McCreary started making plans for the diner on Christmas day. Everyone was going to move their celebrations so the town could come together and be with each other. Their family, their home. Holiday Hills. Which now included Sam and Dean.
The next morning Sam woke to find himself snuggled up against Dean. He stretched out and lazily looked around their room. Wait.
He and Dean were sharing a bed? And they both fit. He glanced up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Santas covered every available space in the room. The wallpaper was a million Santas of every kind. The bed – the bed they both fit on, was king sized. And the comforter was a giant red fluffy one, wrapped like a gift.
Sam knew they hadn’t been drinking. Did they go to the wrong room? All he and Dean had done was cuddle and trade kisses and whisper to each other through the night. He wasn’t even sure when they had fallen asleep.
He snuck out of bed, Dean mumbling and grabbing for Sam’s pillow to replace the loss of warmth. Sam walked around the room. All their stuff had been moved. The kitchenette was fully stocked with breakfast fixings. Under the tree – oh hey, a Christmas tree in their room! – were a few packages. Some for Sam, some for Dean. And a letter.
Boys,
About time. Been waiting a while for you two to catch up to each other. Enjoy your lives, enjoy each other. Love while you can. You always have a home here in Holiday Hills, but I suspect you’ll be moving along in a week or so. Don’t forget to come back here, recharge your batteries now and again. You’re a part of this town.
Santa
Sam started laughing. Santa? Seriously? There was no other way to explain everything else. Sam decided not to question it for once.
He climbed back in the bed with Dean who spooned him immediately, kissing the back of his neck. It was Christmas day. Sam had his family, his love and his home. Not just in Holiday Hills. It was wherever Dean was. That was Christmas. He finally understood what Dean had been trying to tell him for so long.
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Date: 2012-12-27 08:22 pm (UTC)