SPN FIC - Christmas, According to Miss Donahue
December, 2009. Lucifer's out of the box and the world's turning to crap -- but it's still almost Christmas, and there's a little girl demanding Dean's attention.
"Hey," says She Who Not Be Ignored. "HEY."
CHARACTERS: Dean and Lizzie
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
CHRISTMAS, ACCORDING TO MISS DONAHUE
By Carol Davis
"Hey," says She Who Will Not Be Ignored. "HEY."
When Dean looks down, she's got a solid clutch on the hem of his jacket with one hand and is flapping a picture at him with the other. After seven hours of driving, he can't summon the ambition to pick her up, so he maneuvers the two of them over to the couch and sinks slowly and gratefully down onto the cushions.
"I got my picher," she announces, shoving the picture up into his line of sight. "With Samma Claus."
Trying to get hold of the flapping picture brings back memories of chasing fireflies when he and Sam were kids. He manages to grab it as she's scrambling up into his lap, and sure enough, it's a 5x7 of her perched on the red velvet knee of a department store Santa. Not much of the Jolly Old Elf's face is visible behind the billowing white beard, but if Dean's any judge of that kind of thing (and he definitely is), this particular Santa is younger than Sam.
"Huh," he says.
"You don't got one. Groamups don't get their picher with Samma."
"That's true."
She squirms and wiggles. Settles in for the duration, then retrieves her picture and holds it in both hands, at arm's length, so she can admire it. He's caught off guard when she whips her head back, aiming for eye contact and succeeding only at whacking his chin with the back of her skull. "Lily gots one too," she whispers. "'Cause she SAID."
"Did she."
"She said she's a kid. She's not a limmle kid. But they let her."
"Awesome."
"Samma gots the biggest tree EVER," she chatters. "All the elfs put the stuff on it. They gots a big ladder 'cause they're short. And when they put the lights on, Samma can see it from up there." She flaps a hand at the picture window. Indicating the sky, Dean figures. Or possibly, low lunar orbit. "That's how comes he knows where his house is. An' ALL the houses. If you don't gots a tree, then you're Jewish. Or Boodiss."
"Or the Grinch," Dean offers.
"NO. The Grinch gots a tree. But he stoled it. Wif Max. How do you make a tree go up in the chimley?"
And she's off: scrambling down from his lap and across the great room to the tree, some six feet away from the fireplace. Like a TV spokesmodel showing off a matching set of kitchen appliances, she flaps her picture at the tree, then at the noticeably inadequate firebox. "That don't go in there, unless you cut it."
"Magic?" Dean suggests.
She ponders that, frowning. "The Grinch does magics?"
"Had to. How do you figure that little dog got an eighty thousand pound sleigh up the side of that mountain?"
"Snow tires," she says.
"Snow tires?"
"That's how we go up the hill. An' gears. Are you stayin'? Mom said ask you. 'Cause you might gotta go someplace else."
"Kinda do, kiddo."
There've been reports of a Black Dog up near Rutland, and a poltergeist in Manchester. A couple people disappeared mysteriously a few miles outside of Newport; there's crazy crap happening all over New England, too much of it to justify taking time off. Thompson Lake was on the way, more or less, and he had a trunkful of gifts to drop off, but that's taken care of, and he and Sam have a job to do.
Not to mention the… bigger stuff that's going on.
Stuff he needs to protect this little girl - and the rest of the world - from, if it takes the last breath he's got in him.
Her lower lip slides out, in much the way Sam's used to.
"I'll be back," he says.
"On Crimmus?"
"Maybe later on."
"You gonna be where Samma can see your tree?"
That's a lance to the heart, that look on her face - same as it always was when Sam wore it. If she starts to cry, he's done for, and there's no time to indulge something like that, not when he and Sam let friggin' Lucifer out of the box. Luckily, he's always been good at thinking on his feet. He's awake just enough to be able to string the right thoughts together.
There's mistletoe on the mantle, part of the long garland of evergreen that tops the stone shelf. Smiling, he plucks off a chunk of it and twirls it between his fingers. "Know what this is, don'tcha?" he challenges.
The small head shifts, a silent no.
"Mistletoe," he whispers. "The rule is, you gotta give me a kiss."
"I do?"
"That's the rule."
"That's kissin' stuff?"
"Yes, ma'am."
When he kneels, they're close (well, close enough) to being the same height. Still pouting, she shuffles across the braided rug toward him, stopping just beyond arm's reach. "You gonna come back?" she mutters, hand tightening on her now somewhat battered picture.
"Always."
She shuffles a little closer.
He wants to think that look on her face is comical. That would help: deciding she's just playing a game. That he's not hurting her by driving off to do a job that keeps her safe; that, with any luck, will eventually undo the mess he and Sam helped make. She's not aware that that mess exists, of course, and with any luck, he'll never need to confess his part in it to her - at least, not until it's thousands of miles in his rearview mirror, and she's old enough to understand, and forgive.
Her small hand comes up, once again extending the picture in his direction.
"I can have that?" he guesses.
She nods.
Then, quickly, she's in his arms, the picture crushed between them, holding tight, lips pressed to his cheek. She's warm, and fierce, and smells of strawberries and little-kid sweat.
He'd give anything to stay here, with her.
But he's tried that once already: giving up everything. The best he can offer this time is his word.
* * * * *
"Hey," says She Who Not Be Ignored. "HEY."
CHARACTERS: Dean and Lizzie
GENRE: Gen
RATING: G
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1000 words
CHRISTMAS, ACCORDING TO MISS DONAHUE
By Carol Davis
"Hey," says She Who Will Not Be Ignored. "HEY."
When Dean looks down, she's got a solid clutch on the hem of his jacket with one hand and is flapping a picture at him with the other. After seven hours of driving, he can't summon the ambition to pick her up, so he maneuvers the two of them over to the couch and sinks slowly and gratefully down onto the cushions.
"I got my picher," she announces, shoving the picture up into his line of sight. "With Samma Claus."
Trying to get hold of the flapping picture brings back memories of chasing fireflies when he and Sam were kids. He manages to grab it as she's scrambling up into his lap, and sure enough, it's a 5x7 of her perched on the red velvet knee of a department store Santa. Not much of the Jolly Old Elf's face is visible behind the billowing white beard, but if Dean's any judge of that kind of thing (and he definitely is), this particular Santa is younger than Sam.
"Huh," he says.
"You don't got one. Groamups don't get their picher with Samma."
"That's true."
She squirms and wiggles. Settles in for the duration, then retrieves her picture and holds it in both hands, at arm's length, so she can admire it. He's caught off guard when she whips her head back, aiming for eye contact and succeeding only at whacking his chin with the back of her skull. "Lily gots one too," she whispers. "'Cause she SAID."
"Did she."
"She said she's a kid. She's not a limmle kid. But they let her."
"Awesome."
"Samma gots the biggest tree EVER," she chatters. "All the elfs put the stuff on it. They gots a big ladder 'cause they're short. And when they put the lights on, Samma can see it from up there." She flaps a hand at the picture window. Indicating the sky, Dean figures. Or possibly, low lunar orbit. "That's how comes he knows where his house is. An' ALL the houses. If you don't gots a tree, then you're Jewish. Or Boodiss."
"Or the Grinch," Dean offers.
"NO. The Grinch gots a tree. But he stoled it. Wif Max. How do you make a tree go up in the chimley?"
And she's off: scrambling down from his lap and across the great room to the tree, some six feet away from the fireplace. Like a TV spokesmodel showing off a matching set of kitchen appliances, she flaps her picture at the tree, then at the noticeably inadequate firebox. "That don't go in there, unless you cut it."
"Magic?" Dean suggests.
She ponders that, frowning. "The Grinch does magics?"
"Had to. How do you figure that little dog got an eighty thousand pound sleigh up the side of that mountain?"
"Snow tires," she says.
"Snow tires?"
"That's how we go up the hill. An' gears. Are you stayin'? Mom said ask you. 'Cause you might gotta go someplace else."
"Kinda do, kiddo."
There've been reports of a Black Dog up near Rutland, and a poltergeist in Manchester. A couple people disappeared mysteriously a few miles outside of Newport; there's crazy crap happening all over New England, too much of it to justify taking time off. Thompson Lake was on the way, more or less, and he had a trunkful of gifts to drop off, but that's taken care of, and he and Sam have a job to do.
Not to mention the… bigger stuff that's going on.
Stuff he needs to protect this little girl - and the rest of the world - from, if it takes the last breath he's got in him.
Her lower lip slides out, in much the way Sam's used to.
"I'll be back," he says.
"On Crimmus?"
"Maybe later on."
"You gonna be where Samma can see your tree?"
That's a lance to the heart, that look on her face - same as it always was when Sam wore it. If she starts to cry, he's done for, and there's no time to indulge something like that, not when he and Sam let friggin' Lucifer out of the box. Luckily, he's always been good at thinking on his feet. He's awake just enough to be able to string the right thoughts together.
There's mistletoe on the mantle, part of the long garland of evergreen that tops the stone shelf. Smiling, he plucks off a chunk of it and twirls it between his fingers. "Know what this is, don'tcha?" he challenges.
The small head shifts, a silent no.
"Mistletoe," he whispers. "The rule is, you gotta give me a kiss."
"I do?"
"That's the rule."
"That's kissin' stuff?"
"Yes, ma'am."
When he kneels, they're close (well, close enough) to being the same height. Still pouting, she shuffles across the braided rug toward him, stopping just beyond arm's reach. "You gonna come back?" she mutters, hand tightening on her now somewhat battered picture.
"Always."
She shuffles a little closer.
He wants to think that look on her face is comical. That would help: deciding she's just playing a game. That he's not hurting her by driving off to do a job that keeps her safe; that, with any luck, will eventually undo the mess he and Sam helped make. She's not aware that that mess exists, of course, and with any luck, he'll never need to confess his part in it to her - at least, not until it's thousands of miles in his rearview mirror, and she's old enough to understand, and forgive.
Her small hand comes up, once again extending the picture in his direction.
"I can have that?" he guesses.
She nods.
Then, quickly, she's in his arms, the picture crushed between them, holding tight, lips pressed to his cheek. She's warm, and fierce, and smells of strawberries and little-kid sweat.
He'd give anything to stay here, with her.
But he's tried that once already: giving up everything. The best he can offer this time is his word.
* * * * *