Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Cataclysm for Christmas ❯ Cataclysm for Christmas ( Chapter 1 )

Disclaimer: Nothing, from De Boyz to Christmas, belongs to me. Let's not dwell on it.

 

Characters: Dean and Sam Winchester, and our favorite Bobby Singer

 

Setting: Post…well, everything, I guess. Except “A Very Supernatural Christmas.” Pretend that episode never happened and never will happen, just for the sake of argument.

 

Warnings: Now that “A Very Supernatural Christmas” has aired, it's AU, I guess. Also, Dean just generally being a weirdo.

 

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Cataclysm for Christmas

 

It all started with a few simple words.

 

“Sammy, I think we should have Christmas this year.”

 

Things just generally started to go downhill from there.

 

Dean had decided it while they were in Minnesota for the first snowfall of the season. They'd finished up their hunt there before the blizzard struck, but not in time to avoid being snowed in, and so the Winchester brothers holed up in their motel room with beer and chips and watched the flakes fall outside the window.

 

It had been then that Dean had made his pronouncement, and that was how Sam wound up scrambling all over himself trying to make his brother's last Christmas a good one.

 

The most immediate problem was, of course, that the Winchesters lived in motels, and motels generally aren't the most festive of holiday locales. But that was only the first of several obstacles to be overcome in the effort to realize Dean's admittedly bizarre and out-of-character idea. Other problems included where to get a tree, how to afford each others' presents, and what on earth they were going to do for dinner. Oh, and then there was the fact that they really only had each other to celebrate with.

 

But Dean kept talking and nagging and wanting, until Sam finally hit upon an admittedly brilliant plan.

 

Bobby was understandably surprised when the Winchester brothers showed up on his doorstep laden with bags of groceries and a couple of wrapped gifts on December 22 and announced that they were taking over his house to celebrate Christmas. And judging from his exclamation of “You gotta be kiddin' me with this!” and the disgruntled expression on his face, he wasn't entirely happy with the idea, either.

 

But with Dean using his best “Aw, c'mon, Bobby,” and Sam hitting him with his best-ever puppy dog eyes, the poor man could hardly be expected to raise much of a defense, and so the Winchesters moved their stuff into the guest room.

 

So far, Dean decided as he fell asleep that night, Christmas was shaping up to be pretty darn good.

 

XXX

 

“DECK THE HALLS WITH BOWS OF HOLLY!”

 

“ARGH! GOD! DEAN! I WAS SLEEPING! AND IT'S BOUGHS OF HOLLY!”

 

“FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!”

 

As Dean walked back out of the room he and Sam shared, Sam rolled his eyes and grunted, turning on his side and closing his eyes determinedly, resolving to get some more sleep come hell or high water.

 

SLAM.

 

CLATTER.

 

“DEAN COULD YA NOT BREAK ALL MY STUFF? YA IDGIT!

 

“FA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA!”

 

Sam rolled over onto his back again and groaned.

 

“Damn it.”

 

XXX

 

“I can't believe you're making me do this,” Bobby groaned, turning his shoulder and shoving at the huge tree he and Dean were maneuvering into the living room.

 

“Stop gripin' and push,” Dean grunted, pulling on his end.

 

“This is completely pointless, ya know,” Bobby said irritably. “I don't have any decorations.”

 

“`S okay,” Dean said brightly, brushing aside Bobby's feeble excuse. “We got stuff. Lights and garland and all. And some ornament balls. Heh heh…ornament balls…”

 

“I hate this.”

 

“That's okay,” Dean said again. “Ya don't hafta like it. Ya just have to let us do it.”

 

“And if I said no, would you accept that?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“…Just don't break anything else, okay?”

 

XXX

 

By the morning of December 24, Bobby's house had transformed into “the freakin' Christmas cottage,” and he was being, Dean felt, unnecessarily crotchety about it. And the old hunter's temper certainly didn't improve when Dean got up that morning and took the kitchen by force, declaring that Christmas Eve wasn't Christmas Eve without dinner, and so he was going to make one.

 

“Uh…Dean?” Sam asked nervously. “Have you…ever cooked? Anything? In your whole life?”

 

“Uh-uh,” Dean replied cheerfully, fiddling with Bobby's stove.

 

“Then…uh…how exactly do you plan to now?”

 

“Relax, Sammy,” Dean said, going to the paper bags on the table and reaching in. He pulled out a red box and set it on the table. “Instant mashed potatoes.” He took out another box. “Ready-made pumpkin pie. Corn on the cob. Aaand…” With an air of an extremely accomplished Santa Claus, Dean pulled out the final box and set it down with a flourish. “Beef stew for the crock-pot. I couldn't get a turkey, but this is easier to make, anyway. Ya just add water and stick it in a crock pot for the day. I'm tellin' ya, Sammy, nothing can go wrong.”

 

XXX

 

An hour and a half later, something went decidedly wrong.

 

“UGH! WHAT IS THAT SMELL?”

 

“Uh…don't panic…no need to panic, Sammy…”

 

“It smells like sulfur! Are the demons attacking?!”

 

“No…no, there are no demons…”

 

“…Dean, what did you do?”

 

“I'll take care of it…”

“Dean, what is that?”

 

“Uh…I think it's the water, Bobby…”

 

“Water? That's what causing the smell?”

 

“Yeah. I…I think I boiled it too long or something. It seems to have…um…burned off the inside of the pot…”

 

“DEAN!”

 

XXX

 

“Hey, Sammy, c'mere and taste these for me.”

 

“Why can't you taste them yourself?” Sam asked, eyeing the mashed potatoes suspiciously, remembering the burned water of an hour before.

 

“Because,” Dean said patiently, “I'm the chef. And everyone knows the chef doesn't taste his own food.”

 

“Since when is that the rule?”

“Since always.”

 

“Really?”

 

“I just made it up, but yeah.”

 

Sam gave a helpless sort of chuckle and stepped forward to down a spoonful of the stuff with the aggrieved air of one approaching the gallows.

 

For a second he chewed thoughtfully, and then swallowed.

 

“Huh.”

 

“Well?”

 

“I dunno. Are mashed potatoes supposed to crunch?”

 

“Aw, man…

 

XXX

 

The next catastrophe came in the form of Dean's pumpkin pie.

 

It had been a ready-made pie—one of those Sara Lee desserts that you just pop in the oven and then wait. There was no possible way to screw it up.

 

Or so Dean thought, until he pulled it out and found the outside edges burned black and the center sunken in and half-frozen, half-cooked.

 

Dean studied it for a long time, poking it once in a while, and then said with admirable cheer, “Well, guess it's just the stew, then. We can get ice cream later or something.”

 

Sam nodded complacently and back out of the room, trying very hard not to think about what else could go wrong.

 

XXX

 

“Now this,” Dean said with great certainty, “I can't possibly have screwed up. Right?”

 

“It does smell good,” Sam said rather dubiously, eyeing the thick, brown liquid carefully.

 

“Well, I'm so hungry right now I'd eat fried cabbage, if'n it was all that was available,” Bobby growled, coming forward and ladling some into a bowl.

 

“C'mon, Sam, stop staring at it like it's gonna grow legs. You've gotta eat, and this is what we've got.”

 

Bowing to the inevitable, Sam stepped forward and got his own bowl.

 

He was heading back to the table when it happened.

 

He stumbled, fell, and dropped the bowl.

 

For a second, there was absolute silence in the room as they all stared at the bowl, lying facedown on the floor, as if unable to believe its daring attempt at suicide.

 

Then Bobby sighed gustily and came forward to pick it up with a mutter of, “You Winchesters are more trouble than you're worth.”

 

“Yeah. Love you, too, Bobby,” Sam said wryly, getting to his feet and watching as Bobby lifted the overlarge bowl to reveal the mess underneath.

 

Only…there was no mess underneath.

 

For a second, Bobby stared at the clean spot on the floor, baffled. Then, slowly, he turned the bowl over and looked into it.

 

The stew was still there, as was the spoon, sticking up like a proud little flag.

 

Dean lifted his own bowl roughly to eye level and shook it a little, experimentally.

 

It…jiggled.

 

“Uh…Dean, I'm no expert, but I don't think stew is supposed to do that,” Sam said, staring at the beef gelatin.

 

Dean shook the bowl again and, upon achieving exactly the same result, said, “We'll order pizza. Bobby, get me the phone?”

 

XXX

 

So Christmas Eve dinner consisted of pizza, beer, and chocolate ice cream, and of course that meal came off without a hitch.

 

But just when it looked like things would look up after all…

 

Dean fiddled with the radio, and discovered “The Redneck Christmas Song.”

 

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Some parts to a Mustang GT.

 

“…Oh, no,” Sam said in despair as the first line finished.

 

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Two huntin' dogs and some parts to a Mustang GT.

 

Dean cackled delightedly and turned the music up.

 

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Three shotgun shells, two huntin' dogs, and some parts to a Mustang GT.

 

Dean started to sing along.

 

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Four big mud tires, three shotgun shells, two huntin' dogs, and some parts to a Mustang GT.

 

Bobby began to laugh loudly, and sang along as well.

 

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

Five flannel shirts, four big mud tires, three shotgun shells, two huntin' dogs, and some parts to a Mustang GT.

 

On and on and on it went, and Sam bore it admirably, all the way through the twelfth day of Christmas, when the singer's true love gave him:

 

A twelve-pack of Bud, eleven wrestlin' tickets, tin of Copenhagen, nine years' probation, eight table dancers, seven packs of Red Band, six cans of Spam, five flannel shirts, four big mud tires, three shotgun shells, two huntin' dogs, and some parts to a Mustang GT.

 

Finally, though, it was over, the DJ came back on the radio, and Sam felt the need to tear his ears off his head and into small pieces abate a little, and thought he might be able to hang out with Bobby and Dean for the rest of the night without killing himself.

 

“And in the spirit of the theme, I have for you Bob Rivers' `Twelve Pains of Christmas…'”

 

Sam got up and left the room.

 

XXX

 

The presents the Winchesters exchanged were…undeniably crappy that year, and for a number of reasons. Chief among them was, of course, their fairly constant lack of money, but the fact that they hadn't actually gotten anyone gifts in a very long time factored into it, too.

 

Still, as he clutched the shaving cream and hair gel Dean had gotten him, and watched Dean cackle over the pack of beef jerky and the bag of M&Ms he'd received, Sam felt that maybe they were pretty good presents after all.

 

Or, at least, if they were horrible presents, somehow it didn't matter, because Dean was grinning and Bobby was laughing and at the moment life was good.

 

XXX

 

“It wasn't that bad a Christmas, was it, Sammy?”

 

Sam considered raising the old argument over his nickname, but in the end he decided to let it go—just this once. “Nah. Actually, it was kind of fun. Even if listening to you sing Jeff Foxworthy's `Redneck Christmas' is something I'd rather never experience again.”

 

Dean's quiet chuckle echoed through the dark bedroom, followed by silence.

 

After a little while, Sam turned over on his side and faced Dean's bed in the dark.

 

“So are you happy now?”

 

Dean seemed to think about it for a moment. Then he murmured, “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

 

His voice was…different. More serious than usual, almost a tone of…wonder?

 

But then the moment was broken, and Dean laughed.

 

“Go to sleep, Ponyboy.”

 

“Great. Another nickname. Joy.”

 

XXX

 

“So, thanks for letting us take over your house, Bobby,” Sam said, slinging his bag over his shoulder and reaching out to clasp Bobby's hand on his. “Sorry if we drove you completely insane.”

 

Bobby smiled at him, because no one could not smile at Sam when he was wearing that face. “Nah, you didn't. Some of it was even…fun.”

 

Sam laughed. “Wow, that's a really hard word for you to get out.”

 

“Yeah, yeah…”

 

“Hey, you know what we should do?” Dean said as he clapped Bobby on the shoulder in farewell.

 

Looking very much as if he would rather not, Bobby answered. “What?”

 

“We should come back next week for New Years. Get some confetti, some stupid hats, have a countdown…”

 

Bobby smiled, looking extremely and obviously pained to do so. “Oh, yeah, that'd be…great….” He said, ushering them out rather frantically. “Yeah…we should definitely…consider that…”

 

He closed the door behind the Winchesters, and leaned against it with a sigh.

 

“God help us, one and all.”

 

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Author's Note: The parts with the burned sulfur water and the beef gelatin actually happened to a friend of mine. I got permission to use them because I could just see Dean doing something like that. Also, sorry Dean was so out-of-character—it was just supposed to be a humorous little Christmas story, so I took a few liberties.

 

Reviews are chocolate-covered strawberry love!