Supernatural Fan Fiction ❯ Once Upon a Christmas ❯ Once Upon a Christmas ( Chapter 1 )

The last time Dean Winchester saw snow, he was five years old, and it was Christmas Eve. He woke up that morning, and the first thing he noticed was that the light flooding in through his window was a little too bright. He bounded out of bed, and his small voice filled the room with delighted laughter when he saw the blanket of white over the ground.

 

Dean spent the rest of the morning outside, playing wildly with his father, while his mother watched and held little Sammy, wrapped tightly in blankets. He and John had a snowball fight, made a snowman, even had a wrestling match in the wet powder. By noon, Dean was soaked to the skin, and he felt like a block of ice, and he was as happy as he'd ever been.

 

That had been five years ago, and he hadn't seen snow since.

 

Not since his last Christmas…

 

XXX

 

Miami, Florida

 

December 24, 1990

 

“Yeah…yeah. Okay. Yeah, thanks, Jim.”

 

Dean heard his father end the conversation as if from a great distance, and at the click that signaled the hanging up of the phone, he turned over in his and Sam's bed and opened his eyes.

 

As was usually the case, the first thing he set eyes on was his father, who was sitting on his bed, cleaning out the barrels of one of his guns. On the other side of the room, there was a clinking and dinging, and Dean knew without so much as a glance that Sammy was eating breakfast and that he was, as usual, the last one up.

 

He sat up slowly, rubbing his eyes, and Sam's voice chirped instantly, “Morning, Dean!”

 

“Morning,” Dean replied, pushing himself out of bed and giving his father a smile. John smiled back, just slightly, and went back to his work.

 

“Dean, guess what?!” Sam said excitedly from his seat at their tiny table. When Dean looked over, the six-year-old favored him with a gap-toothed grin. “We're goin' to Pastor Jim's!”

 

“We are?” Dean asked, trying hard to contain his excitement as he whirled to face his father. He had noticed lately that John tended to frown when he displayed things like that too obviously nowadays. He never said anything aloud, but Dean had the feeling that he disapproved.

 

“I have to go on a job for a couple days,” John replied. “Missouri again. Too dangerous for you two to come.”

 

“Oh…” Dean felt a stab of disappointment, but this was something he just couldn't hide. “So…you're not going?”

 

“No. I'm just going to drop you off, and come back—probably around the twenty-sixth or twenty-seventh.”

 

“But…” Dean began to protest, then fell silent reluctantly when John looked up at him. He may have been only ten, but he knew that look, and he didn't make another attempt, although the words inside refused to be silenced.

 

But it's Christmas Eve…

 

XXX

 

“Are we almost there?”

 

Dean let the words escape him only after darkness fell that night, and for once John didn't snap at him—probably because he'd been snapping at Sammy for the past nine hours. Now, though, his father just grunted, and didn't take his eyes off the road.

 

Dean squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, and Sammy shifted along with him even in his sleep. He didn't mind long drives—they were too familiar for him to care—but usually they stopped more often than they had on this trip. His father seemed to be in an awful hurry right now, though…

 

Dean sighed, and leaned against the window, closing his eyes. He was sleepy…he shouldn't be sleepy! He was ten! He should be able to stay awake much later than this…

 

XXX

 

The next time he opened his eyes, the old truck was grinding its way up a long gravel driveway. Rubbing a hand across his eyes, Dean peered into the pitch-blackness, watching as they approached their destination.

 

Sammy began to stir as the truck pulled up and stopped in front of a well-sized cabin, and Dean absently nudged him into full awareness as John pushed open the drivers' side door.

 

“`R we here?” Sammy mumbled, half-sitting up.

 

“Mm-hmm,” Dean replied, already climbing out—and biting back a yelp as the sudden chill sliced through the thin clothing appropriate for Florida weather, but totally useless here. Sammy's complaints sounded behind him as the door slammed, and it took much effort—and a lot of reminding himself that he was ten now—to keep his own complaints silent.

 

“Johnny!”

 

The voice echoed across the small yard, and the door of the cabin banged open and closed as Pastor Jim came out. An actual smile crossed John's face as he clapped eyes on his closest friend for the first time in over a year, and he hurried to meet Jim in their back-pounding, laughing version of an embrace.

 

Dean watched, and shivered. It was cold up here…

 

“Daddy, I'm cold!” Sammy's voice piped up, echoing his own thoughts. “Can we go inside?”

 

Pastor Jim released the senior Winchester then, and gave a very impressive, priestly glare. “Johnny, these boys are freezing! What kind of a father are you?”

 

“The kind that spent the last four and a half winters in either Florida, California, or Texas,” John retorted. “And did I mention how much I'm going to kill you if you call me that one more time?” But his words fell on deaf ears as Pastor Jim gave a sudden roar of greeting, and Dean found himself grabbed clean off the ground in a bear hug. Sammy squealed in delight at exactly the same time, so apparently Pastor Jim could still lift them both.

 

Once Jim had them returned safely to the ground, he surveyed them with a slight frown. “You two are tall! John, your boys are tall! And…abnormally skinny.”

 

“So feed them,” John said dismissively. “Listen, I hate to do this, but…”

 

“Get out of my yard, Johnny,” Jim said with a chuckle. “Go on, we're good here.”

 

So, John tossed his and Sammy's shared bag to Jim, and went to bid goodbye to Dean and Sam. Well, actually, it was more like a casual “See ya later,” instead of a farewell between people who would be apart for days, but the basic point was the same.

 

“By, Daddy!” Sammy said cheerfully, bounding forward with his arms open. Dean felt a stab of jealousy when John hugged him back with no reservation, when John had been more and more stand-offish with him lately, and he just didn't know why…

 

Before he could keep wondering, though, his father turned to him and said, “Dean, you be good for Jim. That means none of your `fun pranks.' Got it?”

 

“Yeah, Dad. I promise.”

 

“Good. And—”

 

“Take care of Sammy. I know, Dad.”

 

“Good. C'mon, look sharp. It's only for a couple days.”

 

“Yeah…I know.”

 

But it's Christmas…

 

XXX

 

The place was completely decorated for Christmas, and that was something that, for some reason, Dean hadn't expected. It had been years since he'd seen a Christmas decoration, and now they practically leaped down his throat. On every available surface, there was a Santa, or a reindeer, or a really fat snowman, or something else that screamed Christmas. There was even mistletoe hanging from the ceiling, and Christmas music echoing through the whole house from a single radio.

 

The Winchesters were sleeping on the couch, as they usually did when they were at Jim's. The living room hadn't changed much since the last time they had come here—hardwood floors, paneled wood walls, many hanging pictures, truly gigantic, comfortable furniture, a fire burning in the large stone fireplace—a fairly plain room, and one of the only places where any Winchester ever felt truly comfortable and safe.

 

Yep, very little had changed…except for the Christmas tree.

 

The thing was enormous—it loaded over the whole room, filling the place with the scent of pine and sap, and it was strung liberally with lights, popcorn balls, and ornaments. Dean stared at it the whole time Jim and Sammy made up the couch, Sammy chattering happily the whole time. He certainly had no problem being away from his dad over Christmas, that much was certain…

 

Dean had no idea that he'd fallen into any sort of reverie until a hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and he jumped. “Oh…hi, Pastor Jim.”

 

“It's late, Dean, and you two've been in the car all day. Why your daddy didn't stay, too, instead of going on to drive for hours, I'll never know…but anyway, you go to bed, okay?”

 

Dean started to argue that he wasn't tired, but a yawn stopped him mid-sentence, and he went reluctantly to the couch and clambered up onto it. Sammy was already lounging there, half asleep, and as Dean crawled in behind him he curled himself up into Dean's chest. Dean adjusted without thinking or—really—noticing, so that both of them were comfortable, and in minutes Sam was sound asleep.

 

Jim had left the fire burning, probably with the intent of returning to extinguish it before he himself went to bed, and the flames created dancing, flickering shadows throughout the room. Dean felt a few moments of apprehension looking at them, but after a while, they just sort of…grew on him.

 

It wasn't long before the day began catching up with him. His arm tightened briefly around Sammy, and he stopped trying to keep his eyes open.

 

XXX

 

He had a dream.

 

Well, actually, it was more like he had many dreams, all rolled into one. First he was back in his old front yard, in Kansas, in the midst of snowball fighting with his father. Everything seemed to be moving abnormally fast, but at the same time every detail of the memory was completely clear. His father, laughing as he took in a handful of snow to the face…his own shrieks as he slipped and slid on the frozen ground…his mother smiling happily as she watched…

 

And then there was just the fire, and the snow was melting, and his father was shouting, and his mother was screaming…

 

And then the snow, the yard, the house, and Mary were all gone, and Dean was in a small room decorated with two beds, a small table, and a tiny bathroom—and nothing else. He was sitting on one of the beds, Sammy in his lap, and John was sitting on the other, scribbling in what Dean recognized as his journal. Dean looked out the window, and saw only an endless expanse of dirt and arid desert. It was as if someone had just plunked a whole building in the middle of the desert, and they were the only people in the world. And somehow, Dean knew that this was their first Christmas after Mary's death, and that they were in Texas. He remembered this—remembered that they were going to spend the entire Christmas Eve this way, and remembered that the next day, Christmas Day, would be spent in the car, and then in waiting for John to kill…whatever.

 

He went to California next, and Sammy was about two, big enough that Dean's Christmas Eve basically consisted of running after him through the room while John did his work. Christmas was pretty much the same as Texas, though.

 

The next two years in a row were spent in Florida, and for those Dean and Sam actually got to go out a little, mostly to a nearby park or just down to the motel's tiny lobby.

 

Each time, as he relived the past Christmases, Dean felt a quiet restlessness, a sense of…waiting. Of expectation. For something…and for someone.

 

And then he was back at Jim's still stretched out on the couch with Sam curled up next to him, the fire crackling in the grate, the tree glowing brightly. Everything felt real, and yet he had the sense that he was still asleep.

 

And then he looked up, and saw her sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire. She was just watching him, smiling face framed with curling blond hair, hands folded in her lap.

 

Mommy…

 

She opened her mouth to speak…

 

And he woke up, with only the faint echo of her words following him.

 

“It won't always be like this, baby.”

 

XXX

 

The fire was still going, so not too much time had passed, but it felt like all the years he'd dreamed had gone by. He lay there, and didn't move, just thinking. He'd dreamed, he was sure of it…and his face was wet and his throat sore, so apparently he'd been crying. But…he didn't feel sad. Certainly not sad enough to cry, anyway.

 

In fact, he felt…happy?

 

So why was he still crying? He shouldn't cry, anyway—he was ten, and didn't Dad say that ten was old enough to stop crying?

 

Sammy fidgeted next to him, and he adjusted his position to match—and as he did, he looked down at his brother.

 

Sam was still fast asleep, and he looked even younger than six years old. There was a look of peace on his face that matched what Dean felt, and even as Dean watched, his mouth twitched in a smile. And for no reason at all, a picture of his mother exploded into the forefront of his mind.

 

He was much too young to realize that Sam looked like their mother. Likewise, he was too young to know why the image affected him the way it did—why his hands began to shake and the tears broke out anew. And this time, though there was still a feeling of happiness, it was mixed with a terrible sorrow.

 

And yet, when he stopped crying, when he had no more tears, he felt…better. Like something that had to be done had at last been finished—though, of course, he couldn't put the feeling into those words at the time. At the time, he only knew that he felt truly wonderful right now, and that, finally, he could sleep…and maybe—just maybe—wake up to an actual Christmas. And with that thought, Dean hugged his little brother to him, and closed his eyes.

 

He never saw the snow begin to fall.

 

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AN: Okay, so I have no idea what the point of this was. I don't even know if it had a plot. I don't think it did, though. But regardless, I wrote it, and now I'm going to post it, because otherwise I'd just have to scrap it, and that would suck.

 

Anyways, I hoped you liked it, and if you didn't…well, I'm sorry. But could you at least review and tell me why? Thanks…

 

Happiest of holidays, everyone!