[FIC] Good Things Do Happen (PG) 2/2 for Moonlettuce
Gift type: Fanfic
Title: Good Things Do Happen (2 of 2)
Recipient:moonlettuce
Author: trinityofone
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Through 5x10
Summary: A Winchester Family Christmas, 2010. AKA, Best zombie Christmas ever!
Author notes: Huge thanks to my uber-patient and talented betas, without whom this story would be dead in the water-as would I, probably. *smish*
Continued from here
The news that an angel walks among them is taken by everyone pretty calmly, although Dad and Samuel seem a little suspicious of Cas. Of course, they’re like that with everyone, so the revelation is actually pretty low-impact. Having gotten the basic rundown of the apocalypse from Dean or Bobby or Sam himself, everyone present was already aware that heavenly powers are (or were) as real as demonic ones; in the face of everything else that had happened, meeting Cas-especially Cas at his most friendly, unassuming, and Holy Tax Accountant-like-was probably mostly underwhelming.
Much more drama, for example, seems to go into the issue of who should slice the Christmas ham: Samuel or Dad. Sam is so sick of this alpha male bullshit (especially now that he’s bigger than both of them and could probably take them both, too) but in this context, with Dean laughing and exchanging significant looks with Castiel at the other end of the table and Jessica beside him, biting her lip...well, okay-it’s actually kind of hilarious.
“Oh for- Dad, give me the knife.” Mom’s voice is level but firm. Samuel looks up in surprise, but hands her the knife. “John, sit down.”
Dad sits. Mom slices the ham. Sam gets a big, juicy piece. His mom is officially his hero.
Dean must have expressed a similar sentiment, because over the soft clink of the china plates being passed around, Castiel says, a little too loudly, “Yes, your mother is awesome.”
Jess lets go of her lip and snorts quietly into her napkin.
Sam grins, grins even as he looks across the table into Samuel’s sour lemon expression. And to his surprise, after a moment, his grandfather’s face shifts: his lips spreading, the corners turning up in a sly smile.
It’s a little less awkward after that.
A little. The conversation is still weird, a mix of them all trying to behave like a normal family-which they suck at, and which they are not-and the usual hunter talk, which in this setting seems wildly inappropriate. Or it does until Dean starts telling the story of the Christmas they took down those creepy-ass pagan gods, and Sam finds himself getting sucked into the tale: they killed the evil Cleavers with a Christmas tree. They are badass. And the theological ramifications of modern pagan idolatry are fascinating, too.
Sam is nodding along as Dean, in response to a question from Deanna, details the ingredients in the ritual they stopped the deities from completing when he becomes newly conscious of Jessica at his side. He is apparently smiling at the memory of an interrupted ritual sacrifice and getting his fingernail bloodily ripped out and stabbing a couple of people-shaped things through the heart with a tree branch-and Jess is right there. He feels his spine stiffen; he is almost afraid to look over. So when Jess takes his hand he nearly jumps out of his skin-yeah, he’s badass all right. He flushes and glances down. She’s running her thumb over his fingers, gently stroking them-a cool, reassuring touch. His shoulders relax almost as if they’re afraid to. When he finally brings himself to look at her face, there is none of the judgement he was terrified he’d find in her eyes. “Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey.” He manages not to sound too choked.
“I’m glad I know you,” Jess says.
Sam can’t stop himself from shifting their hands, from squeezing hers so tightly. His heart feels like it’s being squeezed too.
It’s the best feeling ever.
At some point during the dessert course, Sam remembers that there was that bit of banshee lore that he’d wanted to ask Dean about. “Dean,” he calls down to the other end of the table, cutting through a very odd conversation Jess and Samuel are having about Albert Camus. (Seriously?) “Dean?”
Dean doesn’t answer. Deanna is leaning so far forward to participate in whatever boisterous conversation she and Sam’s parents are having that Sam has to crane his neck a bit to see around her. Dean’s own neck appears to be bent; at first Sam thinks that the reason he’s oblivious to Sam’s prodding is that he’s simply too involved with his pie. But then Sam sees that his hands are empty: his fork rests, forgotten, on the edge of his mostly-full plate. The curve of his neck is reflected by the answering curve of Castiel’s. At a table of eight people, they seem to have carved out a space where it’s just the two of them.
Sam feels his eyebrows arch up to hang out with his bangs. It’s not what it looks like, he knows-after all these months, Dean is just happy to see his friend again. Cas is his friend. The fact that Dean invited his friend to a family dinner-a family dinner that’s otherwise all couples-just means that Dean is socially inept, and not...anything else. Right.
Sam stares at the private little smile on his brother’s face, at the crow’s feet dancing merrily at the corners of his eyes. He’s pretty sure, anyway.
As if in response, Dean immediately decides to add a check mark to the “socially inept” column. His cell phone-which he has apparently brought to the table, for Christmas dinner-goes off loudly, and rather than looking sheepish and swiftly shutting it off, he actually answers it. “Hey, Bobby! Feliz Navidad! ... You bet I’m multilingual, I’ve even been called a cunning...wait a second, I’m sitting next to my grandma.”
As Sam puts his face in his hands and Deanna throws back her head and laughs, Dean gets up and walks just outside the door, where he is almost equally audible. “Yeah, very nice, I already knew you spoke Japanese. Bet you can’t say it in Enochian, though ... Hey Cas, how do you say ‘Merry Christmas’ in Enochian?” Cas’ mouth quirks as he intones something both impressive and vaguely goofy sounding. Dean repeats it into the phone-judging from Cas’ expression, not quite correctly. “Yeah, Cas is back,” Dean tells Bobby, and even across the room, in profile, Sam can see his whole face light up.
His expression falls somewhat at whatever Bobby says next. He turns so that his back’s toward them, and for the first time during this little performance, Sam has to strain to hear Dean’s side of the conversation. “No, I don’t think so. He’s kind of...grounded. I’m sorry, Bobby.”
Bobby talks for a while. Mom and Deanna glance at each other like they’re not sure whether or not they should start up a fake, covering conversation-one of those ones that begins with a falsely bright, “So!”
Sam’s still much more interested in the telephone call, however. “How’s Pamela?” Dean asks. “She told me she had this whole regimen worked out, she’s not riding you too hard is- Gross, Bobby!”
Sam laughs. A bit louder than he intended to.
“Yeah, that was Sam,” Dean says, turning around. “He wants to talk to you,” he adds, reaching out with the phone.
Dad intercepts it. “You’re interrupting my family dinner, you son of a bitch,” he growls into Dean’s cell, but he follows it with a laugh that Sam still finds alarming, seeing as it isn’t drowning in bitterness.
John takes the phone a much more polite distance away from the table, so Sam can’t hear much more than the occasionally bark of not-depressive laughter punctuated by swearing. Belatedly he notices that Deanna’s on her feet, collecting the dirty dishes. Sam rises hastily and takes the stack of plates from her. “Let me.”
“You don’t have to-” Deanna protests, reaching to reclaim the plates, and for a few seconds they move back and forth like they are sparring. “No, I insist,” Sam says finally, definitively. “You cooked.”
Deanna demurs, and Sam, who has busboy experience he’s currently excluding from his semi-faked resumé, loads himself up. When he tries to sneak Dean’s plate away from him, he gets his hand slapped for his trouble. Sam rolls his eyes and starts toward the kitchen. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Dean did not take his eyes away from Castiel the entire time.
In the kitchen, Sam deposits his load and fills the sink. Despite Samuel’s much-bragged-about “investments”-he’d had eleven different bank accounts under various false names, all accruing interest for the thirty-plus years he’d been dead (there had originally been fourteen, but Mom had known about three of them and cleaned them out before Sam was born)-when he and Deanna bought this house, they had apparently not bothered to spring for a dishwasher. Sam looks at the mess in front of him and begins to wonder what he’s gotten himself into. Still, he rolls up his sleeves and is just sinking his hands into the warm water (which actually feels kind of good), when he hears the creak of a board being depressed. He looks over his shoulder and is surprised to see Castiel standing in the doorway. Cas is carrying a tower of cups and knives and forks and spoons, looking down at his feet with an expression of soft surprise on his face. Sam smiles. “Even ninjas have their off days,” he says.
Cas brings his stack of glass and silverware the rest of the way into the room and sets it all carefully on the counter. “I would imagine,” he says. “To err is human, after all.”
Sam looks at him. His expression is mild, his eyes curious. He looks...lighter, Sam supposes-no longer weighed down by everything that had happened and was happening. It’s a good look on him: not so gloom and doomy, or so oppressively serious. Sam had never understood why Dean had seemingly liked spending so much time with him when, aside from the occasional flash of levity, Castiel was so dour, so unlike Dean. But then Sam thinks maybe he just never saw the right moments.
Like now, Cas leaning forward, tie dangerously close to dipping into the suds. “May I help?”
“Sure,” Sam says, though he’s a bit curious why Cas is in here, with him, when he could be back out there, with Dean. And, you know, other people. “Thanks. But whoa-first take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves.”
“Oh.” Castiel complies, his movements occasionally over-precise. Sam remembers, during dinner, looking down the table and seeing him carefully slicing his ham into bite-sized baby pieces, Dean next to him cutting off huge slopping chunks and grinning around them as he chewed. In the process of rolling his eyes, Sam had caught Mary’s: her expression fond and a little sad. Sam wondered if she was thinking about everything she had missed, or about everything she now had.
Cas’ forearms are slim and lightly tanned. He plunges them into the sink, blinking a little at the heat. The damn tie nearly takes another dunking. “Tuck that over your shoulder,” Sam says. He wonders if Cas is going to be more of a hindrance than a help.
But besides thinking that uncomfortably damp clothing is something that happens to other people, Cas seems to grasp the dish-washing concept fairly well. He and Sam attend to their work quietly for a little while, standing shoulder to shoulder, elbows occasionally navigating around each other as they work on a particularly soap-resistant pan or dish. It’s not unpleasant. Sam had forgotten that there was something about Cas that was, on its most basic level, quietly reassuring. It’s good that he’s back.
Sam realizes that he hasn’t yet gotten that full story, though. He could ask Dean, but... He leans over, slipping a plate into place on the drying rack. “So you’re back,” Sam says, glancing at Cas before returning his attention to the suds. “For good?”
The steam has sent a pale pink flush to blossom across Castiel’s cheeks. “I believe so, yes.”
Sam nods. He scrubs hard at the big pan Deanna had cooked the ham in. “Where were you all these months?”
“I was in Heaven.” Cas picks at a piece of baked-on grit. “Much has changed. I think it unlikely that angels will continue to meddle in the affairs of men.”
“Oh,” Sam says. Part of him still wishes that the angels would turn themselves around and be angels-the type of angels he used to pray to. But mostly he can’t say he’s sorry they’re gone. “That’s good, I guess.”
Cas nods. “It is necessary, I think. But it means that the gates have been closed, and shall remain closed for the foreseeable future.”
Sam asks the obvious question: “So then how did you get out?”
Castiel looks at him with one of those deep, probing stares that have always made Sam uncomfortable, made him squirm. “I believe I have you to thank for that.”
Sam drops his sponge. “Me?”
Another quiet incline of his head. “My Father-” He says the word with reverence, like a human would say the name of, well, God. “My Father told me that when given your choice of reward, you asked that I be allowed to return to Earth.” Castiel regards him: curious, a little shy, perhaps also a little confused. “Thank you, Sam.”
Sam is flabbergasted. He knows for a fact that he didn’t ask for any such thing. He didn’t ask for anything. He just stood there, slack-jawed, while Dean got all up in God’s face and got them Mom and Dad back, got him Jess back, got them Ellen and Jo and Samuel and Deanna and Pamela and Victor and Ash and Ava and Andy and everyone else. But Sam did nothing. Not to call God a liar or anything, but- Sam did nothing.
“Okay,” says Sam, because the truth is just too confusing right now. “As long as you’re really glad to be here.”
Cas’ cheeks are pink as he scrubs scrubs scrubs with the enthusiastic vigor of someone who apparently really would rather be doing dishes on Earth than reclining on a cloud somewhere in Heaven. “I am,” he says. “I truly am.”
Jess comes and finds him as he’s drying his hands and whispers that she’s going to bring the presents in from the car. “Let me help,” he insists, and they dash outside without their jackets, breath steaming white against the night sky. Sam pops the trunk and Jess grabs the bags of wrapped gifts. He takes the heavier one from her, gentlemanlike. They stroll, shivering but slower-paced, up the walk. “How’re you holding up?” he asks.
She stops where she is, frowning a little. “I’m more concerned about you.”
“Huh? No, I mean.” He shifts his bag from hand to hand, needlessly. “With my family and all.”
She tosses her head back, hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I like your family.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He pauses with his hand on the door. “They’re not...”
“Weird?” She reaches out and turns the knob, and his hand with it. “Of course they’re weird. All families are weird. It’s kind of nice, though, right?”
There’s a hint of nostalgia in her voice that makes Sam feel like a bastard, pressing the point. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Just...” Their cheeks are red as they stand whispering in the entryway. “When I used to, you know. About dinners like this. I never thought...”
Jess grins. “That your grandma would answer the door wielding a knife or that your brother would show up an hour late because he got distracted by his cute angel boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I mean, wait. What?”
Jessica’s eyes have gone wide like she’s just realized she’s put her foot somewhere it wasn’t supposed to go, but before they can talk any further, Dean leans his head around the door. “It’s too late, guys. If you got crappy presents you’ll never be able to swap ’em out now. My gifts will totally win.”
This woe is a familiar woe. “Christmas is not a contest, Dean.”
“We’ll see,” Dean says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He darts back into the living room. Jessica shoots Sam a guilty look, Sam sighs, and they follow.
Mom and Cas appear to have already commandeered the couch; they’re talking to each other quietly, Mom’s face wide-eyed and earnest. Dean-oblivious, unconcerned, or just plain rude-plops down between them. After a few seconds’ pause, Mary appears to succumb to some deep-seated impulse, reaching out and ruffling Dean’s hair. “Mom!” he says, appalled, ducking away, actually blushing. Sam, who’d been about to kneel by the tree to scatter his and Jess’ gifts around, has to grip the edge of the fireplace to stop himself from falling over; he’s laughing without sound, so hard that tears spring to his eyes. Jess pats his shoulder and catches a shiny glass ball that one of his flailing limbs nearly knocks over.
“Sorry,” Mom says, completely unapologetic. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“Yes,” Cas murmurs, “I can understand the temptation.”
“Oh, don’t you start too,” Dean grouses. He gets up and goes to perch on the arm of the couch, on Cas’ other side, the angel-or former angel, or whatever he is-following his movements with wide blue eyes.
Kneeling beside Sam at the foot of the tree, Jessica folds her arms and looks smug.
“All right, everyone find a seat,” Deanna says, coming into the room with a tray of hot cocoa and fixings-marshmallows and whipped cream and whiskey. “Samuel’s going to play Santa.”
Samuel, fortunately, has not fitted himself out with any sort of costume for this role. Instead he simply shoos Sam and Jess away from the base of the tree and starts selecting gifts and passing them to their recipients. Dean takes a break from trying to fit as many marshmallows as possible into his mouth to accept a carefully wrapped present Sam recognizes as his own. Uh-oh.
Dean was right, though: it is too late. Within seconds his brother has torn away the wrapping to reveal Sam’s gift in all its glory. Say hello to Prom Night Barbie.
“Aww, Sammy, you shouldn’t have!” Dean says, with good humor and marshmallow. But Sam’s thinking he really maybe shouldn’t. When he’d bought the gift it had seemed funny, even sort of sweet, maybe. But now, glancing around the room, he can’t help but worry that his present might be seen as having other, unmeant connotations. But no one else seems all that concerned. “Do I want to know?” Dad asks.
“No,” says Samuel. He hands John a present that is clearly from him. It’s a knife with a bow on it.
“Dad,” Mary sighs.
“Nice,” says John, testing the edge.
“Old favorite of mine,” is Samuel’s sole elaboration.
“Thanks.”
Sam figures this is them bonding.
Cas has opened Dean’s Barbie and is turning it this way and that. “I don’t understand,” he says. “How does she stand up?”
Dean’s hand brushes against Cas’ shoulder, but otherwise he ignores him. “Hey, old man,” he calls to Samuel. “I think it’s your turn to open one.” He points at a particular gift, recognizable as Dean’s because it’s wrapped in the comics section of the newspaper.
It’s Van Halen’s early hits. On cassette. Samuel looks at the shiny new entertainment center at the far end of the room, then back at the outdated technology in his hand, then back at Dean. “Thanks,” he says. Dean beams.
Crumpled paper multiplies across the floor like tribbles. Sam gets a really nice laptop bag and a selection of socks from his parents, which is apparently his mom’s idea of a joke, as Dean gets socks too. (There is something seriously wrong with the sense of humor in this family.) Dean also gets a surprisingly handsome leatherbound edition of The Sirens of Titan. Sam’s not sure how Mom even knew about that-and then he sees Dad catching Dean’s eye, his expression quietly proud. Huh.
Dean gives Sam a copy of The Threesome Handbook with the comment, “Gonna want to keep things spicy,” which makes Sam feel not so sorry about the Barbie anymore. Though the protective bracelet he’s made for Jessica is nice.
When all the gift-giving’s done and Deanna’s starting to feed the discarded paper into the fireplace with a bit too much enthusiasm, Dean says, “Oh!” like he’s just thought of something and reaches into his pocket. “I got you something, too.” He hands a small, hastily wrapped gift to Castiel.
Cas looks up at him, astonished. “When did you find time...?”
Dean flushes a little. “Remember when we stopped for gas?” Of course, Sam thinks: it wouldn’t be a Winchester family Christmas without presents from the Texaco. “Go on, open it,” Dean insists.
Cas slips a finger under the tape, revealing a selection of Virgin Mobile top-up cards. “I don’t want you running out of minutes,” Dean explains, needlessly.
“Thank you,” Cas says, clutching the plastic cards tight. “But Dean...I didn’t get you anything.”
Dean shrugs. The words slip out of his mouth: “I’m just glad you’re here. I mean.” He coughs, and reaches out to top his cocoa up with scotch. For the first time all night, he seems aware of his family’s eyes on him. “Yeah.”
Cas is apparently still oblivious. “Wait,” he says. He slips a hand under his collar and slowly works an object free. “I do have something for you.”
A familiar glint of gold catches Sam’s eye. Cas stretches the leather cord between his hands and Dean bends his neck, lets Cas slip it over the crown of his head and smooth it down over Dean’s chest. “I don’t need it anymore,” he says with a smile.
Dean touches the small metal charm; Sam wonders if it is warm in his hands. “It’s nice to have it back,” he says, glancing briefly at Sam before returning his smile to its true target. Cas beams back at him, and for a second... But no, no, not here, not yet. But soon, Sam figures. Real soon.
Samuel coughs and turns his head, seemingly newly entranced by his Van Halen tape’s liner notes. Mom and Deanna exchange significant looks. Then Mom elbows Dad in the ribs.
“I didn’t say anything!” he protests.
“I know,” says Mom, sweetly.
Sam turns to Jessica. “Okay, I concede the point,” he whispers.
“Ha,” says Jess. “Lawyered.”
Sam has just finished loading up the car when Dean stumbles out, laden with his own bags of gifts and leftovers. “Hey,” he calls, opening the Impala’s trunk and carefully spreading everything out atop his cache of weaponry. “Best zombie Christmas ever or what?”
“Excuse me?” says Sam. If there are plans to finish off the festivities with a family zombie hunt, he is going to be pissed.
“I just mean, for a bunch of corpses, we throw a damn good party.” Dean’s grinning as the trunk clicks shut.
“Oh,” says Sam. He hadn’t thought about it that way. It’s true, though: most of his favorite people number among the undead. Himself, too, actually. And Dean. Even Cas.
“That’s kind of messed up.”
“Nah,” says Dean, leaning back against his baby. Sam walks over and joins him. “We’re lucky,” Dean says. “We’re really, really lucky.”
“I know.” And Sam does know. He’s even starting to feel it, more and more: he’s truly blessed. And, you know: you’d think meeting God would have been kind of a clue, but Sam can be slow like that sometimes.
“I can’t believe that this is our life,” Sam says. “I mean, a year ago-”
But Dean shakes his head. He’s right-why even go there, that dark bad place: Ellen and Jo newly fallen; Lucifer breathing down the back of his neck; everyone he loved, it seemed, dead or dying. And all of it his fault.
Now they’re all alive, and safe, and (relatively) happy, and though it’s real, and Sam knows it, half the time he still expects that bastard Gabriel to pop up from somewhere and say, “Haha, gotcha!”
But Gabriel’s back in Heaven with all the other angels. Well, all the other angels, save one.
“So,” Sam says. Is he really going to talk about this? Apparently. “Cas came back.”
Dean’s face breaks out into an expression of pure, naked joy. It says a lot that Dean doesn’t even bother to hide it, though after a few seconds he does tone it down a bit.
“Yeah. He did.” Dean pats his car absently. “I knew I’d talked him around to our way of thinking.”
“Our way?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, you know. Humanity. Cas is way too cool to be happy up there with all those stodgy old angels.”
Of course, of course Dean thinks Cas only returned to Earth because he thought he was too cool for Heavenly school. Sam shakes his head. “Well, I’m glad he’s back,” he says. “For your sake.”
Dean glances at him; he can clearly tell Sam’s driving at something, even though he’s not sure what. “Well, yeah,” he says, and with only some minor hesitance, “Cas is my friend.”
Sam can’t help it: he barks out a laugh. “Dean!”
“What?” His brother’s annoyed now. Sam doesn’t want to kill the camaraderie of the moment, but with certain things, he knows, Dean will never take a step forward unless he’s given a strong, hard push.
“Dean,” he says slowly, carefully. “Victor is your friend. Ash and Ellen and Jo and Bobby and Pamela are your friends. Cas is not your friend.”
Dean’s easy posture has vanished; his shoulders are stiff, angry. “What the hell, Sam?”
“No, Dean, really.” He holds up two placating palms. “I’m not saying anything bad about you or him. But think about it, okay? Just think about it.”
And Sam decides to leave it at that, because if he has to spell it out for Dean, he thinks he may die. Again.
Merry Zombie Christmas.
“I’m going inside now,” Sam says.
Dean nods. He’s turned around, his hands flat on the Impala’s trunk. Sam’s not sure if he’s mad anymore, or if so, who at.
He’s almost at the front door when Dean calls out. “Sam,” he says, voice rough. “Send Cas out, will you?”
And Sam knew, but it still rocks him somewhat, roots him to the ground in front of his grandparents’ house when he sees the sort of peaceful longing in his brother’s eyes.
“Thanks, Sammy.”
Sam whispers, “You bet.”
Cas is standing with Jessica in front of the fire. “Hey,” Sam says, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He gestures back toward the front door. “Dean wants you.”
His choice of words subsequently makes Sam blush. But Cas’ eyes light up at the mere mention of Dean’s name. This is, Sam realizes, possibly the most redundant case of romantic meddling ever. But what the hell. Call it a bonus Christmas gift.
Jess watches Cas leave, then turns to him with a sly smile. “You might want to save some of this yenta-ing for the Hanukkah party.”
Sam sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders. “I just want Dean to be happy,” he says.
Then he starts, the memory opening in his mind like a flower. God, standing before them in his somewhat inescapably anticlimactic glory. Granting them each a gift. And Dean, pushing forward and making his outrageous demands while Sam stood back and simply thought: I want my brother to be happy.
Cut to seven months later and the rather less-than-prompt angel delivery.
“Oh my-” Sam bites back on the blasphemy at the last second. He puts his hand to his mouth, as if he can somehow keep this tumble of confused emotion inside.
“What is it?” Jess asks.
“Nothing.” Sam shakes his head. A laugh slips out, easy and light. He drops his hand, twines his fingers with Jessica’s. “Just realizing that I am an idiot.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Jess says, squeezing his hand. “We all already knew that.”
The front door bangs open like it’s been swept in by a gale. Actually it’s just Dean. Cas is at his heels as Dean ducks into the living room; they both seem out of breath, cheeks flushed possibly from the cold, their lips swollen and tender.
“Okay, sorry to break up the party, but Cas and I gotta go,” Dean announces. “Thank you so much, it was great, let’s see each other soon!” He’s striding backward toward the front door as he talks, a slightly manic look in his eyes-one Sam is the only one who’s spent enough time around Dean to recognize.
Deanna stands up. “Is everything all right?”
“Yup, everything’s fine, everything’s good, just gotta...something came up.” Dean is nodding way too much.
“Anything we can help with?” Samuel asks.
“No,” says Dean, emphatically. “Okay, thanks again, Merry Christmas, bye!”
“It was nice meeting you, Cas,” Mom calls to Castiel, who’s floating somewhat dizzily in Dean’s wake. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
“I hope so, Mary. And thank you, Deanna, for your wonderful cooking and your hospi-” Dean grabs his sleeve and jerks him bodily out the door. “Happy Christmas!” he calls instead, stumbling down the steps, bumping into Dean, laughing and holding each other up as they sprint toward the car and everything that’s waiting for them.
Into the quiet that follows their departure, Deanna tisks. “That wasn’t even subtle.”
Mary laughs. “Mom, were you about to say, ‘Kids these days’?”
“No!” says Deanna, mock-offended. “I was going to let Samuel say it.”
“I’m under strict instructions not to say anything,” Samuel grouses, but without any real heat. He tops up his glass, then pours Dad another drink. They toast...something or other. Their manly, but not terribly begrudging, dignity in the face of such enthusiastically blossoming gayness, maybe. Sam rolls his eyes.
Jessica steps between them and pours herself her own glass of whiskey, neat. “I don’t want to be presumptuous,” she says. “I’m so thankful that you’ve included me.”
“Of course,” whispers Deanna, but Jessica’s not done yet.
“I just wanted to say, I hope we can make this a tradition,” she says, raising a glass. After a moment, Dad and Samuel mimic her, silently. Mom says, “Hear, hear.”
Jess turns and glances up at him. There’s a look on her face, that familiar smile. But it’s not apprehensive at all, Sam realizes. It’s hopeful.
Arm around her back, he takes the glass from her hand and raises it to his own lips. He thinks about doing this next year-this crazy awkward family pageant: Deanna with her knives, Samuel and Dad with their rivalry, Dean and Cas probably graduating to making out inappropriately in public before too long. Doing it next year, and the year after that. And all the rest of the years hereafter.
If Sam’s crying a little, it’s only because Dean’s not here to. Someone’s got to pick up the slack.
He hugs Jess tight and looks around at the faces of his family.
“God bless us,” Sam says, “every one.”
Title: Good Things Do Happen (2 of 2)
Recipient:moonlettuce
Author: trinityofone
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Spoilers: Through 5x10
Summary: A Winchester Family Christmas, 2010. AKA, Best zombie Christmas ever!
Author notes: Huge thanks to my uber-patient and talented betas, without whom this story would be dead in the water-as would I, probably. *smish*
Continued from here
The news that an angel walks among them is taken by everyone pretty calmly, although Dad and Samuel seem a little suspicious of Cas. Of course, they’re like that with everyone, so the revelation is actually pretty low-impact. Having gotten the basic rundown of the apocalypse from Dean or Bobby or Sam himself, everyone present was already aware that heavenly powers are (or were) as real as demonic ones; in the face of everything else that had happened, meeting Cas-especially Cas at his most friendly, unassuming, and Holy Tax Accountant-like-was probably mostly underwhelming.
Much more drama, for example, seems to go into the issue of who should slice the Christmas ham: Samuel or Dad. Sam is so sick of this alpha male bullshit (especially now that he’s bigger than both of them and could probably take them both, too) but in this context, with Dean laughing and exchanging significant looks with Castiel at the other end of the table and Jessica beside him, biting her lip...well, okay-it’s actually kind of hilarious.
“Oh for- Dad, give me the knife.” Mom’s voice is level but firm. Samuel looks up in surprise, but hands her the knife. “John, sit down.”
Dad sits. Mom slices the ham. Sam gets a big, juicy piece. His mom is officially his hero.
Dean must have expressed a similar sentiment, because over the soft clink of the china plates being passed around, Castiel says, a little too loudly, “Yes, your mother is awesome.”
Jess lets go of her lip and snorts quietly into her napkin.
Sam grins, grins even as he looks across the table into Samuel’s sour lemon expression. And to his surprise, after a moment, his grandfather’s face shifts: his lips spreading, the corners turning up in a sly smile.
It’s a little less awkward after that.
A little. The conversation is still weird, a mix of them all trying to behave like a normal family-which they suck at, and which they are not-and the usual hunter talk, which in this setting seems wildly inappropriate. Or it does until Dean starts telling the story of the Christmas they took down those creepy-ass pagan gods, and Sam finds himself getting sucked into the tale: they killed the evil Cleavers with a Christmas tree. They are badass. And the theological ramifications of modern pagan idolatry are fascinating, too.
Sam is nodding along as Dean, in response to a question from Deanna, details the ingredients in the ritual they stopped the deities from completing when he becomes newly conscious of Jessica at his side. He is apparently smiling at the memory of an interrupted ritual sacrifice and getting his fingernail bloodily ripped out and stabbing a couple of people-shaped things through the heart with a tree branch-and Jess is right there. He feels his spine stiffen; he is almost afraid to look over. So when Jess takes his hand he nearly jumps out of his skin-yeah, he’s badass all right. He flushes and glances down. She’s running her thumb over his fingers, gently stroking them-a cool, reassuring touch. His shoulders relax almost as if they’re afraid to. When he finally brings himself to look at her face, there is none of the judgement he was terrified he’d find in her eyes. “Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey.” He manages not to sound too choked.
“I’m glad I know you,” Jess says.
Sam can’t stop himself from shifting their hands, from squeezing hers so tightly. His heart feels like it’s being squeezed too.
It’s the best feeling ever.
At some point during the dessert course, Sam remembers that there was that bit of banshee lore that he’d wanted to ask Dean about. “Dean,” he calls down to the other end of the table, cutting through a very odd conversation Jess and Samuel are having about Albert Camus. (Seriously?) “Dean?”
Dean doesn’t answer. Deanna is leaning so far forward to participate in whatever boisterous conversation she and Sam’s parents are having that Sam has to crane his neck a bit to see around her. Dean’s own neck appears to be bent; at first Sam thinks that the reason he’s oblivious to Sam’s prodding is that he’s simply too involved with his pie. But then Sam sees that his hands are empty: his fork rests, forgotten, on the edge of his mostly-full plate. The curve of his neck is reflected by the answering curve of Castiel’s. At a table of eight people, they seem to have carved out a space where it’s just the two of them.
Sam feels his eyebrows arch up to hang out with his bangs. It’s not what it looks like, he knows-after all these months, Dean is just happy to see his friend again. Cas is his friend. The fact that Dean invited his friend to a family dinner-a family dinner that’s otherwise all couples-just means that Dean is socially inept, and not...anything else. Right.
Sam stares at the private little smile on his brother’s face, at the crow’s feet dancing merrily at the corners of his eyes. He’s pretty sure, anyway.
As if in response, Dean immediately decides to add a check mark to the “socially inept” column. His cell phone-which he has apparently brought to the table, for Christmas dinner-goes off loudly, and rather than looking sheepish and swiftly shutting it off, he actually answers it. “Hey, Bobby! Feliz Navidad! ... You bet I’m multilingual, I’ve even been called a cunning...wait a second, I’m sitting next to my grandma.”
As Sam puts his face in his hands and Deanna throws back her head and laughs, Dean gets up and walks just outside the door, where he is almost equally audible. “Yeah, very nice, I already knew you spoke Japanese. Bet you can’t say it in Enochian, though ... Hey Cas, how do you say ‘Merry Christmas’ in Enochian?” Cas’ mouth quirks as he intones something both impressive and vaguely goofy sounding. Dean repeats it into the phone-judging from Cas’ expression, not quite correctly. “Yeah, Cas is back,” Dean tells Bobby, and even across the room, in profile, Sam can see his whole face light up.
His expression falls somewhat at whatever Bobby says next. He turns so that his back’s toward them, and for the first time during this little performance, Sam has to strain to hear Dean’s side of the conversation. “No, I don’t think so. He’s kind of...grounded. I’m sorry, Bobby.”
Bobby talks for a while. Mom and Deanna glance at each other like they’re not sure whether or not they should start up a fake, covering conversation-one of those ones that begins with a falsely bright, “So!”
Sam’s still much more interested in the telephone call, however. “How’s Pamela?” Dean asks. “She told me she had this whole regimen worked out, she’s not riding you too hard is- Gross, Bobby!”
Sam laughs. A bit louder than he intended to.
“Yeah, that was Sam,” Dean says, turning around. “He wants to talk to you,” he adds, reaching out with the phone.
Dad intercepts it. “You’re interrupting my family dinner, you son of a bitch,” he growls into Dean’s cell, but he follows it with a laugh that Sam still finds alarming, seeing as it isn’t drowning in bitterness.
John takes the phone a much more polite distance away from the table, so Sam can’t hear much more than the occasionally bark of not-depressive laughter punctuated by swearing. Belatedly he notices that Deanna’s on her feet, collecting the dirty dishes. Sam rises hastily and takes the stack of plates from her. “Let me.”
“You don’t have to-” Deanna protests, reaching to reclaim the plates, and for a few seconds they move back and forth like they are sparring. “No, I insist,” Sam says finally, definitively. “You cooked.”
Deanna demurs, and Sam, who has busboy experience he’s currently excluding from his semi-faked resumé, loads himself up. When he tries to sneak Dean’s plate away from him, he gets his hand slapped for his trouble. Sam rolls his eyes and starts toward the kitchen. It hasn’t escaped his notice that Dean did not take his eyes away from Castiel the entire time.
In the kitchen, Sam deposits his load and fills the sink. Despite Samuel’s much-bragged-about “investments”-he’d had eleven different bank accounts under various false names, all accruing interest for the thirty-plus years he’d been dead (there had originally been fourteen, but Mom had known about three of them and cleaned them out before Sam was born)-when he and Deanna bought this house, they had apparently not bothered to spring for a dishwasher. Sam looks at the mess in front of him and begins to wonder what he’s gotten himself into. Still, he rolls up his sleeves and is just sinking his hands into the warm water (which actually feels kind of good), when he hears the creak of a board being depressed. He looks over his shoulder and is surprised to see Castiel standing in the doorway. Cas is carrying a tower of cups and knives and forks and spoons, looking down at his feet with an expression of soft surprise on his face. Sam smiles. “Even ninjas have their off days,” he says.
Cas brings his stack of glass and silverware the rest of the way into the room and sets it all carefully on the counter. “I would imagine,” he says. “To err is human, after all.”
Sam looks at him. His expression is mild, his eyes curious. He looks...lighter, Sam supposes-no longer weighed down by everything that had happened and was happening. It’s a good look on him: not so gloom and doomy, or so oppressively serious. Sam had never understood why Dean had seemingly liked spending so much time with him when, aside from the occasional flash of levity, Castiel was so dour, so unlike Dean. But then Sam thinks maybe he just never saw the right moments.
Like now, Cas leaning forward, tie dangerously close to dipping into the suds. “May I help?”
“Sure,” Sam says, though he’s a bit curious why Cas is in here, with him, when he could be back out there, with Dean. And, you know, other people. “Thanks. But whoa-first take off your jacket and roll up your sleeves.”
“Oh.” Castiel complies, his movements occasionally over-precise. Sam remembers, during dinner, looking down the table and seeing him carefully slicing his ham into bite-sized baby pieces, Dean next to him cutting off huge slopping chunks and grinning around them as he chewed. In the process of rolling his eyes, Sam had caught Mary’s: her expression fond and a little sad. Sam wondered if she was thinking about everything she had missed, or about everything she now had.
Cas’ forearms are slim and lightly tanned. He plunges them into the sink, blinking a little at the heat. The damn tie nearly takes another dunking. “Tuck that over your shoulder,” Sam says. He wonders if Cas is going to be more of a hindrance than a help.
But besides thinking that uncomfortably damp clothing is something that happens to other people, Cas seems to grasp the dish-washing concept fairly well. He and Sam attend to their work quietly for a little while, standing shoulder to shoulder, elbows occasionally navigating around each other as they work on a particularly soap-resistant pan or dish. It’s not unpleasant. Sam had forgotten that there was something about Cas that was, on its most basic level, quietly reassuring. It’s good that he’s back.
Sam realizes that he hasn’t yet gotten that full story, though. He could ask Dean, but... He leans over, slipping a plate into place on the drying rack. “So you’re back,” Sam says, glancing at Cas before returning his attention to the suds. “For good?”
The steam has sent a pale pink flush to blossom across Castiel’s cheeks. “I believe so, yes.”
Sam nods. He scrubs hard at the big pan Deanna had cooked the ham in. “Where were you all these months?”
“I was in Heaven.” Cas picks at a piece of baked-on grit. “Much has changed. I think it unlikely that angels will continue to meddle in the affairs of men.”
“Oh,” Sam says. Part of him still wishes that the angels would turn themselves around and be angels-the type of angels he used to pray to. But mostly he can’t say he’s sorry they’re gone. “That’s good, I guess.”
Cas nods. “It is necessary, I think. But it means that the gates have been closed, and shall remain closed for the foreseeable future.”
Sam asks the obvious question: “So then how did you get out?”
Castiel looks at him with one of those deep, probing stares that have always made Sam uncomfortable, made him squirm. “I believe I have you to thank for that.”
Sam drops his sponge. “Me?”
Another quiet incline of his head. “My Father-” He says the word with reverence, like a human would say the name of, well, God. “My Father told me that when given your choice of reward, you asked that I be allowed to return to Earth.” Castiel regards him: curious, a little shy, perhaps also a little confused. “Thank you, Sam.”
Sam is flabbergasted. He knows for a fact that he didn’t ask for any such thing. He didn’t ask for anything. He just stood there, slack-jawed, while Dean got all up in God’s face and got them Mom and Dad back, got him Jess back, got them Ellen and Jo and Samuel and Deanna and Pamela and Victor and Ash and Ava and Andy and everyone else. But Sam did nothing. Not to call God a liar or anything, but- Sam did nothing.
“Okay,” says Sam, because the truth is just too confusing right now. “As long as you’re really glad to be here.”
Cas’ cheeks are pink as he scrubs scrubs scrubs with the enthusiastic vigor of someone who apparently really would rather be doing dishes on Earth than reclining on a cloud somewhere in Heaven. “I am,” he says. “I truly am.”
Jess comes and finds him as he’s drying his hands and whispers that she’s going to bring the presents in from the car. “Let me help,” he insists, and they dash outside without their jackets, breath steaming white against the night sky. Sam pops the trunk and Jess grabs the bags of wrapped gifts. He takes the heavier one from her, gentlemanlike. They stroll, shivering but slower-paced, up the walk. “How’re you holding up?” he asks.
She stops where she is, frowning a little. “I’m more concerned about you.”
“Huh? No, I mean.” He shifts his bag from hand to hand, needlessly. “With my family and all.”
She tosses her head back, hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I like your family.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
He pauses with his hand on the door. “They’re not...”
“Weird?” She reaches out and turns the knob, and his hand with it. “Of course they’re weird. All families are weird. It’s kind of nice, though, right?”
There’s a hint of nostalgia in her voice that makes Sam feel like a bastard, pressing the point. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Just...” Their cheeks are red as they stand whispering in the entryway. “When I used to, you know. About dinners like this. I never thought...”
Jess grins. “That your grandma would answer the door wielding a knife or that your brother would show up an hour late because he got distracted by his cute angel boyfriend?”
“Yeah. I mean, wait. What?”
Jessica’s eyes have gone wide like she’s just realized she’s put her foot somewhere it wasn’t supposed to go, but before they can talk any further, Dean leans his head around the door. “It’s too late, guys. If you got crappy presents you’ll never be able to swap ’em out now. My gifts will totally win.”
This woe is a familiar woe. “Christmas is not a contest, Dean.”
“We’ll see,” Dean says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He darts back into the living room. Jessica shoots Sam a guilty look, Sam sighs, and they follow.
Mom and Cas appear to have already commandeered the couch; they’re talking to each other quietly, Mom’s face wide-eyed and earnest. Dean-oblivious, unconcerned, or just plain rude-plops down between them. After a few seconds’ pause, Mary appears to succumb to some deep-seated impulse, reaching out and ruffling Dean’s hair. “Mom!” he says, appalled, ducking away, actually blushing. Sam, who’d been about to kneel by the tree to scatter his and Jess’ gifts around, has to grip the edge of the fireplace to stop himself from falling over; he’s laughing without sound, so hard that tears spring to his eyes. Jess pats his shoulder and catches a shiny glass ball that one of his flailing limbs nearly knocks over.
“Sorry,” Mom says, completely unapologetic. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“Yes,” Cas murmurs, “I can understand the temptation.”
“Oh, don’t you start too,” Dean grouses. He gets up and goes to perch on the arm of the couch, on Cas’ other side, the angel-or former angel, or whatever he is-following his movements with wide blue eyes.
Kneeling beside Sam at the foot of the tree, Jessica folds her arms and looks smug.
“All right, everyone find a seat,” Deanna says, coming into the room with a tray of hot cocoa and fixings-marshmallows and whipped cream and whiskey. “Samuel’s going to play Santa.”
Samuel, fortunately, has not fitted himself out with any sort of costume for this role. Instead he simply shoos Sam and Jess away from the base of the tree and starts selecting gifts and passing them to their recipients. Dean takes a break from trying to fit as many marshmallows as possible into his mouth to accept a carefully wrapped present Sam recognizes as his own. Uh-oh.
Dean was right, though: it is too late. Within seconds his brother has torn away the wrapping to reveal Sam’s gift in all its glory. Say hello to Prom Night Barbie.
“Aww, Sammy, you shouldn’t have!” Dean says, with good humor and marshmallow. But Sam’s thinking he really maybe shouldn’t. When he’d bought the gift it had seemed funny, even sort of sweet, maybe. But now, glancing around the room, he can’t help but worry that his present might be seen as having other, unmeant connotations. But no one else seems all that concerned. “Do I want to know?” Dad asks.
“No,” says Samuel. He hands John a present that is clearly from him. It’s a knife with a bow on it.
“Dad,” Mary sighs.
“Nice,” says John, testing the edge.
“Old favorite of mine,” is Samuel’s sole elaboration.
“Thanks.”
Sam figures this is them bonding.
Cas has opened Dean’s Barbie and is turning it this way and that. “I don’t understand,” he says. “How does she stand up?”
Dean’s hand brushes against Cas’ shoulder, but otherwise he ignores him. “Hey, old man,” he calls to Samuel. “I think it’s your turn to open one.” He points at a particular gift, recognizable as Dean’s because it’s wrapped in the comics section of the newspaper.
It’s Van Halen’s early hits. On cassette. Samuel looks at the shiny new entertainment center at the far end of the room, then back at the outdated technology in his hand, then back at Dean. “Thanks,” he says. Dean beams.
Crumpled paper multiplies across the floor like tribbles. Sam gets a really nice laptop bag and a selection of socks from his parents, which is apparently his mom’s idea of a joke, as Dean gets socks too. (There is something seriously wrong with the sense of humor in this family.) Dean also gets a surprisingly handsome leatherbound edition of The Sirens of Titan. Sam’s not sure how Mom even knew about that-and then he sees Dad catching Dean’s eye, his expression quietly proud. Huh.
Dean gives Sam a copy of The Threesome Handbook with the comment, “Gonna want to keep things spicy,” which makes Sam feel not so sorry about the Barbie anymore. Though the protective bracelet he’s made for Jessica is nice.
When all the gift-giving’s done and Deanna’s starting to feed the discarded paper into the fireplace with a bit too much enthusiasm, Dean says, “Oh!” like he’s just thought of something and reaches into his pocket. “I got you something, too.” He hands a small, hastily wrapped gift to Castiel.
Cas looks up at him, astonished. “When did you find time...?”
Dean flushes a little. “Remember when we stopped for gas?” Of course, Sam thinks: it wouldn’t be a Winchester family Christmas without presents from the Texaco. “Go on, open it,” Dean insists.
Cas slips a finger under the tape, revealing a selection of Virgin Mobile top-up cards. “I don’t want you running out of minutes,” Dean explains, needlessly.
“Thank you,” Cas says, clutching the plastic cards tight. “But Dean...I didn’t get you anything.”
Dean shrugs. The words slip out of his mouth: “I’m just glad you’re here. I mean.” He coughs, and reaches out to top his cocoa up with scotch. For the first time all night, he seems aware of his family’s eyes on him. “Yeah.”
Cas is apparently still oblivious. “Wait,” he says. He slips a hand under his collar and slowly works an object free. “I do have something for you.”
A familiar glint of gold catches Sam’s eye. Cas stretches the leather cord between his hands and Dean bends his neck, lets Cas slip it over the crown of his head and smooth it down over Dean’s chest. “I don’t need it anymore,” he says with a smile.
Dean touches the small metal charm; Sam wonders if it is warm in his hands. “It’s nice to have it back,” he says, glancing briefly at Sam before returning his smile to its true target. Cas beams back at him, and for a second... But no, no, not here, not yet. But soon, Sam figures. Real soon.
Samuel coughs and turns his head, seemingly newly entranced by his Van Halen tape’s liner notes. Mom and Deanna exchange significant looks. Then Mom elbows Dad in the ribs.
“I didn’t say anything!” he protests.
“I know,” says Mom, sweetly.
Sam turns to Jessica. “Okay, I concede the point,” he whispers.
“Ha,” says Jess. “Lawyered.”
Sam has just finished loading up the car when Dean stumbles out, laden with his own bags of gifts and leftovers. “Hey,” he calls, opening the Impala’s trunk and carefully spreading everything out atop his cache of weaponry. “Best zombie Christmas ever or what?”
“Excuse me?” says Sam. If there are plans to finish off the festivities with a family zombie hunt, he is going to be pissed.
“I just mean, for a bunch of corpses, we throw a damn good party.” Dean’s grinning as the trunk clicks shut.
“Oh,” says Sam. He hadn’t thought about it that way. It’s true, though: most of his favorite people number among the undead. Himself, too, actually. And Dean. Even Cas.
“That’s kind of messed up.”
“Nah,” says Dean, leaning back against his baby. Sam walks over and joins him. “We’re lucky,” Dean says. “We’re really, really lucky.”
“I know.” And Sam does know. He’s even starting to feel it, more and more: he’s truly blessed. And, you know: you’d think meeting God would have been kind of a clue, but Sam can be slow like that sometimes.
“I can’t believe that this is our life,” Sam says. “I mean, a year ago-”
But Dean shakes his head. He’s right-why even go there, that dark bad place: Ellen and Jo newly fallen; Lucifer breathing down the back of his neck; everyone he loved, it seemed, dead or dying. And all of it his fault.
Now they’re all alive, and safe, and (relatively) happy, and though it’s real, and Sam knows it, half the time he still expects that bastard Gabriel to pop up from somewhere and say, “Haha, gotcha!”
But Gabriel’s back in Heaven with all the other angels. Well, all the other angels, save one.
“So,” Sam says. Is he really going to talk about this? Apparently. “Cas came back.”
Dean’s face breaks out into an expression of pure, naked joy. It says a lot that Dean doesn’t even bother to hide it, though after a few seconds he does tone it down a bit.
“Yeah. He did.” Dean pats his car absently. “I knew I’d talked him around to our way of thinking.”
“Our way?” Sam asks.
“Yeah, you know. Humanity. Cas is way too cool to be happy up there with all those stodgy old angels.”
Of course, of course Dean thinks Cas only returned to Earth because he thought he was too cool for Heavenly school. Sam shakes his head. “Well, I’m glad he’s back,” he says. “For your sake.”
Dean glances at him; he can clearly tell Sam’s driving at something, even though he’s not sure what. “Well, yeah,” he says, and with only some minor hesitance, “Cas is my friend.”
Sam can’t help it: he barks out a laugh. “Dean!”
“What?” His brother’s annoyed now. Sam doesn’t want to kill the camaraderie of the moment, but with certain things, he knows, Dean will never take a step forward unless he’s given a strong, hard push.
“Dean,” he says slowly, carefully. “Victor is your friend. Ash and Ellen and Jo and Bobby and Pamela are your friends. Cas is not your friend.”
Dean’s easy posture has vanished; his shoulders are stiff, angry. “What the hell, Sam?”
“No, Dean, really.” He holds up two placating palms. “I’m not saying anything bad about you or him. But think about it, okay? Just think about it.”
And Sam decides to leave it at that, because if he has to spell it out for Dean, he thinks he may die. Again.
Merry Zombie Christmas.
“I’m going inside now,” Sam says.
Dean nods. He’s turned around, his hands flat on the Impala’s trunk. Sam’s not sure if he’s mad anymore, or if so, who at.
He’s almost at the front door when Dean calls out. “Sam,” he says, voice rough. “Send Cas out, will you?”
And Sam knew, but it still rocks him somewhat, roots him to the ground in front of his grandparents’ house when he sees the sort of peaceful longing in his brother’s eyes.
“Thanks, Sammy.”
Sam whispers, “You bet.”
Cas is standing with Jessica in front of the fire. “Hey,” Sam says, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. He gestures back toward the front door. “Dean wants you.”
His choice of words subsequently makes Sam blush. But Cas’ eyes light up at the mere mention of Dean’s name. This is, Sam realizes, possibly the most redundant case of romantic meddling ever. But what the hell. Call it a bonus Christmas gift.
Jess watches Cas leave, then turns to him with a sly smile. “You might want to save some of this yenta-ing for the Hanukkah party.”
Sam sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs his shoulders. “I just want Dean to be happy,” he says.
Then he starts, the memory opening in his mind like a flower. God, standing before them in his somewhat inescapably anticlimactic glory. Granting them each a gift. And Dean, pushing forward and making his outrageous demands while Sam stood back and simply thought: I want my brother to be happy.
Cut to seven months later and the rather less-than-prompt angel delivery.
“Oh my-” Sam bites back on the blasphemy at the last second. He puts his hand to his mouth, as if he can somehow keep this tumble of confused emotion inside.
“What is it?” Jess asks.
“Nothing.” Sam shakes his head. A laugh slips out, easy and light. He drops his hand, twines his fingers with Jessica’s. “Just realizing that I am an idiot.”
“Oh, sweetie,” Jess says, squeezing his hand. “We all already knew that.”
The front door bangs open like it’s been swept in by a gale. Actually it’s just Dean. Cas is at his heels as Dean ducks into the living room; they both seem out of breath, cheeks flushed possibly from the cold, their lips swollen and tender.
“Okay, sorry to break up the party, but Cas and I gotta go,” Dean announces. “Thank you so much, it was great, let’s see each other soon!” He’s striding backward toward the front door as he talks, a slightly manic look in his eyes-one Sam is the only one who’s spent enough time around Dean to recognize.
Deanna stands up. “Is everything all right?”
“Yup, everything’s fine, everything’s good, just gotta...something came up.” Dean is nodding way too much.
“Anything we can help with?” Samuel asks.
“No,” says Dean, emphatically. “Okay, thanks again, Merry Christmas, bye!”
“It was nice meeting you, Cas,” Mom calls to Castiel, who’s floating somewhat dizzily in Dean’s wake. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
“I hope so, Mary. And thank you, Deanna, for your wonderful cooking and your hospi-” Dean grabs his sleeve and jerks him bodily out the door. “Happy Christmas!” he calls instead, stumbling down the steps, bumping into Dean, laughing and holding each other up as they sprint toward the car and everything that’s waiting for them.
Into the quiet that follows their departure, Deanna tisks. “That wasn’t even subtle.”
Mary laughs. “Mom, were you about to say, ‘Kids these days’?”
“No!” says Deanna, mock-offended. “I was going to let Samuel say it.”
“I’m under strict instructions not to say anything,” Samuel grouses, but without any real heat. He tops up his glass, then pours Dad another drink. They toast...something or other. Their manly, but not terribly begrudging, dignity in the face of such enthusiastically blossoming gayness, maybe. Sam rolls his eyes.
Jessica steps between them and pours herself her own glass of whiskey, neat. “I don’t want to be presumptuous,” she says. “I’m so thankful that you’ve included me.”
“Of course,” whispers Deanna, but Jessica’s not done yet.
“I just wanted to say, I hope we can make this a tradition,” she says, raising a glass. After a moment, Dad and Samuel mimic her, silently. Mom says, “Hear, hear.”
Jess turns and glances up at him. There’s a look on her face, that familiar smile. But it’s not apprehensive at all, Sam realizes. It’s hopeful.
Arm around her back, he takes the glass from her hand and raises it to his own lips. He thinks about doing this next year-this crazy awkward family pageant: Deanna with her knives, Samuel and Dad with their rivalry, Dean and Cas probably graduating to making out inappropriately in public before too long. Doing it next year, and the year after that. And all the rest of the years hereafter.
If Sam’s crying a little, it’s only because Dean’s not here to. Someone’s got to pick up the slack.
He hugs Jess tight and looks around at the faces of his family.
“God bless us,” Sam says, “every one.”