The First Five Holidays... 1/5
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The Five First Holidays at John’s House
By Enola Jones and San Antonio Rose
Chapter 1
Thanksgiving
It was a normal Thursday for John Winchester-except that he didn’t have to go to work. He got out of bed, showered and dressed, shaved and put on a pot of coffee. While it was brewing, he noted that it was nearly 11 AM-he’d overslept.
So, he went to the phone and dialed the number he dialed every morning. He punched in the ‘I’m at home’ code and hung up after the validation beeps. He made himself a cup of coffee and fired up the computer. Might as well get some research done while he was looking at a long day by himself.
And then the phone rang.
Frowning, he picked it up. He had one of the wall-mounted landlines. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dad,” said Daphne’s chipper voice. “We’ll be over in half an hour or so-the turkey’s just about done.”
John’s eyes went huge in surprise. “... over?”
“We’re having Thanksgiving at your place, remember?”
“I....” thought you’d changed your mind... “...forgot.”
“Riiight.” Daphne chuckled. “We’ll take care of the table and everything. See you in a bit!”
John hung up, feeling a little dazed. He’d never expected them to follow through with their plans. He’d expected them to spend it all together and leave him alone.
It seemed he wasn’t used to being part of a real family again.
Half an hour later, there were two knocks at the door, a pause, and two more knocks.
Dean, John thought, sliding the door open.
But it wasn’t just Dean-it was all four of them, their arms piled high with... stuff. Stuff that smelled really, really good.
“You forgot, Dad? Seriously?!” Dean said as he led the others inside.
“Seriously. Been a while since I’ve been part of a real family again,” he admitted, closing and locking the door behind them. No need to redo the salt lines - all four had stepped over them.
“Never fear, the Winchesters are here!” cried Tricia merrily.
Sam laughed and kissed her. She yelped and he laughed again. He’d used the kiss to liberate her arms of the food she’d been carrying.
While the boys started unpacking the food, the girls made short work of the table. They’d brought linens, nice dishes, real silver silverware, serving dishes... all the kinds of things John had never thought he’d need.
And the boys unpacked turkey, cornbread dressing, REAL cranberry sauce-the kind with cranberries and bread-and four flavors of vegetables. Then Dean went to the stove and put a cast iron skillet on. He poured something hot and liquid and rich-smelling into it and signed.
Sam nodded and brought him butter and flour and milk and a can of chicken broth, all from the stores he’d unpacked.
“Gravy ain’t gravy unless it’s fresh-made,” Tricia smiled at John.
There was fruit salad. There was a huge bowl of mashed potatoes. There were three kinds of pie, and Cool Whip to go on it.
“Surprised Dean didn’t get to the pie first,” John muttered.
“I did,” Dean replied. “That one’s at home.”
There was more food than five people could eat. But the sight of it all made John both ridiculously hungry and not a little wistful... he suddenly realized he hadn’t had a proper Thanksgiving dinner since 1982.
Piping hot gravy was poured into a boat, and Dean put the sizzling skillet into the sink to soak. They sat around the table and automatically four people linked hands. Dean and Sam’s free hands reached for John’s.
John froze. “What?”
“It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” Sam said softly. “Grace.”
John still hesitated. He wasn’t a believer... should he join in or not?
Dean smiled at him. “It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” he repeated Sam’s words. “You’re family. You don’t have to say a thing-just take our hands and listen.”
John swallowed hard and took his boys’ hands... hands that he’d barely touched in over ten years.
And-in unison-both of them squeezed his lightly. Then one gold and one ebony and two chestnut heads bowed and Dean began a simple but heartfelt prayer of thanks.
Aloud.
John thought back to that horrible moment in ’01 when he’d convinced himself he’d never hear Dean’s voice again, that both boys had gone mute by choice. It was all he could do not to weep in gratitude that he’d been wrong.
Daphne said a few words, then Tricia. Then Sam ended and all four chorused “Amen,” with another squeeze to hands.
As hard as it had been for John to take the boys’ hands... he found it even harder to let go.
“Dad,” Dean said with a smile on his face. When did he get so many freckles? “Would you like to carve the turkey?”
John chuckled ruefully. “Haven’t done this in a long time, son. Not sure I remember how.”
“I will,” Sam grinned. He stood, tossing bangs out of his eyes, and took the implements.
Dean caught John’s eyes and signed, Always better with blades.
“I caught that,” Sam laughed.
And he carved the turkey with almost medical precision. John was impressed.
“Dean likes the dark meat,” Sam said, handing him half of the huge leg. “Daphne likes the breast... Tricia likes the breast... I like the skin and the dark meat....” He grinned at John. “And I seem to remember someone else liking the dark meat.” He passed his father a slab of it.
John was stunned-it had to have been twelve years, maybe more, since the last time they’d eaten a turkey dinner together, yet Sammy still remembered what John liked.
Mom liked the white meat, Dean signed.
John forced himself not to tear up. “Yeah. She did.”
Then Dean grabbed the cornbread stuffing bowl and began to pass it around. Just like that, the moment was over and it was time to get down to the business of demolishing the feast.
The kids made sure John ate his fill and then some. And his heart feasted on their light-hearted laughter, a sound he never thought he’d hear again-in his own house, no less. And when it was over, the boys washed the dishes while the girls boxed up the food-and left half of the leftovers in John’s fridge. Then, they guided John to his living room and sat him down. And they began to tell him stories of their life growing up in Cazadore.
They began with a road trip their second summer there. Homecomings. Birthdays. Holidays. First dates. Funny stories that had nothing to do with anything. They talked for hours, leaving John knowing his sons and their brides better than he had ever known them.
Finally, reluctantly, they said their farewells and hugged John goodbye on their way out the door. John watched them go, leaning against his jamb with a heart so full he was having trouble naming the emotions.
And the house seemed awfully quiet that night.
Next
The Five First Holidays at John’s House
By Enola Jones and San Antonio Rose
Chapter 1
Thanksgiving
It was a normal Thursday for John Winchester-except that he didn’t have to go to work. He got out of bed, showered and dressed, shaved and put on a pot of coffee. While it was brewing, he noted that it was nearly 11 AM-he’d overslept.
So, he went to the phone and dialed the number he dialed every morning. He punched in the ‘I’m at home’ code and hung up after the validation beeps. He made himself a cup of coffee and fired up the computer. Might as well get some research done while he was looking at a long day by himself.
And then the phone rang.
Frowning, he picked it up. He had one of the wall-mounted landlines. “Hello?”
“Hey, Dad,” said Daphne’s chipper voice. “We’ll be over in half an hour or so-the turkey’s just about done.”
John’s eyes went huge in surprise. “... over?”
“We’re having Thanksgiving at your place, remember?”
“I....” thought you’d changed your mind... “...forgot.”
“Riiight.” Daphne chuckled. “We’ll take care of the table and everything. See you in a bit!”
John hung up, feeling a little dazed. He’d never expected them to follow through with their plans. He’d expected them to spend it all together and leave him alone.
It seemed he wasn’t used to being part of a real family again.
Half an hour later, there were two knocks at the door, a pause, and two more knocks.
Dean, John thought, sliding the door open.
But it wasn’t just Dean-it was all four of them, their arms piled high with... stuff. Stuff that smelled really, really good.
“You forgot, Dad? Seriously?!” Dean said as he led the others inside.
“Seriously. Been a while since I’ve been part of a real family again,” he admitted, closing and locking the door behind them. No need to redo the salt lines - all four had stepped over them.
“Never fear, the Winchesters are here!” cried Tricia merrily.
Sam laughed and kissed her. She yelped and he laughed again. He’d used the kiss to liberate her arms of the food she’d been carrying.
While the boys started unpacking the food, the girls made short work of the table. They’d brought linens, nice dishes, real silver silverware, serving dishes... all the kinds of things John had never thought he’d need.
And the boys unpacked turkey, cornbread dressing, REAL cranberry sauce-the kind with cranberries and bread-and four flavors of vegetables. Then Dean went to the stove and put a cast iron skillet on. He poured something hot and liquid and rich-smelling into it and signed.
Sam nodded and brought him butter and flour and milk and a can of chicken broth, all from the stores he’d unpacked.
“Gravy ain’t gravy unless it’s fresh-made,” Tricia smiled at John.
There was fruit salad. There was a huge bowl of mashed potatoes. There were three kinds of pie, and Cool Whip to go on it.
“Surprised Dean didn’t get to the pie first,” John muttered.
“I did,” Dean replied. “That one’s at home.”
There was more food than five people could eat. But the sight of it all made John both ridiculously hungry and not a little wistful... he suddenly realized he hadn’t had a proper Thanksgiving dinner since 1982.
Piping hot gravy was poured into a boat, and Dean put the sizzling skillet into the sink to soak. They sat around the table and automatically four people linked hands. Dean and Sam’s free hands reached for John’s.
John froze. “What?”
“It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” Sam said softly. “Grace.”
John still hesitated. He wasn’t a believer... should he join in or not?
Dean smiled at him. “It’s Thanksgiving, Dad,” he repeated Sam’s words. “You’re family. You don’t have to say a thing-just take our hands and listen.”
John swallowed hard and took his boys’ hands... hands that he’d barely touched in over ten years.
And-in unison-both of them squeezed his lightly. Then one gold and one ebony and two chestnut heads bowed and Dean began a simple but heartfelt prayer of thanks.
Aloud.
John thought back to that horrible moment in ’01 when he’d convinced himself he’d never hear Dean’s voice again, that both boys had gone mute by choice. It was all he could do not to weep in gratitude that he’d been wrong.
Daphne said a few words, then Tricia. Then Sam ended and all four chorused “Amen,” with another squeeze to hands.
As hard as it had been for John to take the boys’ hands... he found it even harder to let go.
“Dad,” Dean said with a smile on his face. When did he get so many freckles? “Would you like to carve the turkey?”
John chuckled ruefully. “Haven’t done this in a long time, son. Not sure I remember how.”
“I will,” Sam grinned. He stood, tossing bangs out of his eyes, and took the implements.
Dean caught John’s eyes and signed, Always better with blades.
“I caught that,” Sam laughed.
And he carved the turkey with almost medical precision. John was impressed.
“Dean likes the dark meat,” Sam said, handing him half of the huge leg. “Daphne likes the breast... Tricia likes the breast... I like the skin and the dark meat....” He grinned at John. “And I seem to remember someone else liking the dark meat.” He passed his father a slab of it.
John was stunned-it had to have been twelve years, maybe more, since the last time they’d eaten a turkey dinner together, yet Sammy still remembered what John liked.
Mom liked the white meat, Dean signed.
John forced himself not to tear up. “Yeah. She did.”
Then Dean grabbed the cornbread stuffing bowl and began to pass it around. Just like that, the moment was over and it was time to get down to the business of demolishing the feast.
The kids made sure John ate his fill and then some. And his heart feasted on their light-hearted laughter, a sound he never thought he’d hear again-in his own house, no less. And when it was over, the boys washed the dishes while the girls boxed up the food-and left half of the leftovers in John’s fridge. Then, they guided John to his living room and sat him down. And they began to tell him stories of their life growing up in Cazadore.
They began with a road trip their second summer there. Homecomings. Birthdays. Holidays. First dates. Funny stories that had nothing to do with anything. They talked for hours, leaving John knowing his sons and their brides better than he had ever known them.
Finally, reluctantly, they said their farewells and hugged John goodbye on their way out the door. John watched them go, leaning against his jamb with a heart so full he was having trouble naming the emotions.
And the house seemed awfully quiet that night.
Next