Christmas Fic: If the Fates Allow

[norgbelulah]

On December 24, Dean and the Impala drove agonizingly slow down a snow-covered road into Blue Earth.  The snowfall was light but steady and there was a strong wind.  By silent consensus, Dad had taken the lead in the pick-up so that he could make the way clearer for his baby.

They pulled into the rectory driveway almost on top of each other and huddled in their completely inadequate coats until Pastor Jim turned on the porch light and opened the door.  The man of God was in flannel pajamas, looking bleary eyed.  He had always been an early to bed kind of guy, so Dean felt bad he hadn’t pressed Dad to decide to take the detour to Blue Earth sooner.  They could have arrived hours earlier.

“Hey, Jim,” John said, hissing through his teeth at the cold.  “Got room to spare?”

This was always how Dad greeted Jim.  It was a weird ritual that Dean supposed started with the knowledge that Jim put up lots of travelling hunters.  Because of his responsibilities in Blue Earth, he rarely went on far away jobs, but he was an excellent weapons supplier and manufacturer and he usually had a clean, empty bed lying around.

“There’s always room in heaven, John,” Pastor Jim pushed the door further open and he yawned his answer.  “But for tonight I’ve got a cot and a couch for you.”

Dean and John followed Jim into the foyer, stamping their boots loudly on the mat, trying to shake off the snow.  As Dean turned to shut the door against the cold, Jim called from the kitchen, “Dean, you’ve got some mail here!”

Dean’s chest constricted in his usual bout of nervousness when he heard there was mail for him.  It could only have come from one source.  It was just the anticipation of finding out what they had sent him this time.

Dean bypassed a steaming cup of cocoa and went immediately to the kitchen table, where he found a brown package with a post card heavily scotch-taped to it.  Dad was sitting at the table with an already half-drained mug, giving his son a considering look.

“Your friends again?”  He asked.

It annoyed the hell out of Dean, the way Dad said the word “friends”.  He wasn’t really surprised that his father couldn’t understand why these people were at all involved in his life.  To be fair, Dean had never had any real friends before, except for Sam.  And friends were not exactly the same as family, not by Winchester standards.

More than a year had passed since Dean spent the night with Neal and Kate in the motel room outside Chicago and they had struck up this weird pen pal/fuck buddy three-way relationship,  yet the subject of these friends he had made was still a touchy one.  Dad had never asked Dean to explain the situation and he was always glaring and grunting about it whenever Neal and Kate came up in conversation.  Dean had learned to say as little as possible, just to avoid a fight or an extended silent treatment.

“Yeah,” Dean answered curtly and picked up the smallish package.

On the postcard, taped securely to the front of the box, someone had drawn the words “NEW NUMBER” and ten digits inside a ridiculously intricate snowflake pattern next to Pastor Jim’s address.

The package was wrapped in brown butcher paper, and each side was inscribed with small Christmas time scenes of exceedingly well-drawn stick figures.  One figure was presumably female, by her longer sharpie-filled in hair and two were male, by their short but differently styled hair.  They were labeled “Kate,” “Neal,” and “Dean <3.”

In one scene the three were unwrapping presents under a tree, Kate smiling over a jewelry box, Neal popping a bottle of champagne and Dean tearing through the wrapping of a decidedly gun shaped package.  In another scene the three were sledding and in another they were curled up together on an overstuffed sofa in front of a roaring fire.  The rest of the paper was covered in neatly spaced out winter scenes, populated by cartoon forest creatures in scarves and hats and Christmas trees.  It was all rather adorable and Dean couldn’t help but smile.

The smile faded when he caught his father’s upraised eyebrows.  “What’d you send them?”  He asked, knowing perfectly well Dean had not had the time, or really the money to put together a care package.

Dean’s face burned with anger and embarrassment, and he felt a wrenching guilt.  Why hadn’t he thought to send them something?  It was far too late now.

He looked over to Pastor Jim, who still had a mug in his hand for Dean.  He knew Jim could tell he was upset.  He wished Sam was there to change the subject.  The two of them were so good at that, distracting Dad when they knew a conversation was going down an uncomfortable or dangerous road.

Dean opened his mouth to answer, not even sure what he was going to say, but Jim came to his rescue.  “The spare room is free, Dean.  Blankets are in the drawer, you remember.  You look done in.  Why don’t you go on to bed?”  The pastor said quietly, keeping his eyes on John.

Dean tightened his fingers around the package.  It was wide and long enough to accommodate a postcard, but it was only about three or four inches high, so Dean’s fingers dug into the sides of the box, straining the edges.

"Yeah, sure," Dean said and left the room without saying goodnight.

As he walked away, he heard Jim's hushed voice carry from behind him, "And what purpose, exactly, did that serve, John?"

He didn't wait for his father's answer.

Dean sat on the unmade cot and pulled out his pocket knife.  He carefully cut the post card away and set it on the rickety bedside table that Jim always pulled out for guests.  He sliced open the few pieces of tape that held the wrapping together and pulled it away from the cardboard box.  He spread the paper out and took the whole thing in, wondering at the time that Neal must have put in to make it so special, so personal.

He felt his eyebrows knitting in guilt, a scowl pulling at his lips.  How could he have forgotten?  Well, that was actually an easy question.  Why should he remember to send Christmas presents to friends when he had never had any before?  But he could have remembered that’s what people do.  Normal people send Christmas cards or fruitcakes or whatever.  They behave like human beings.  Sam would have remembered.  Sam was always all about Christmas.

He remembered the time he tried to steal presents for Sam; the fucking Barbie and the sparkly baton, what a waste.   And Sam had cried that night because monsters were real and Dad was never gonna care more about Christmas than he did about hunting.  Dean had felt like the worst brother in the world.  He could never get Christmas right, even when he wanted to.

Dean was suddenly filled with an intense desire to be out of this stuffy little room and away from the lowered voices he could barely hear arguing in the kitchen.  He stuffed the postcard in his back pocket, folded the wrapping paper, swiftly but carefully, stuffed that in his jacket pocket, and grabbed the box off the bed.

Both Jim and Dad looked up when he emerged from the bedroom and he scarcely glanced at them as he marched towards the door.  “I’m going to the bar,” he said almost viciously.

“Dean-“ Both Jim and Dad began at once, and broke off when they realized they were talking over each other.

Dean glanced over his shoulder, and tried to smile reassuringly.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not driving.  Just goin’ down to Double Play for a couple.  Dad,” he finally forced himself to look at John as he spoke.  “You can have the cot.”

Dean was two shots and two and a half beers in, and looking forward to ordering some good old fashioned bar food when he realized it was Christmas Eve, the kitchen was closed, and the waitress and bartender were shooting evil glances at him from across the room.

He thanked God every time he was in Blue Earth that the five block radius that seemed to somehow contain every denomination of church Dean could name off the top of his head, also held a bar within walking distance.  Jim hated for him to drink and drive, so it was always a tidy solution.  And they had fabulous wings, you know, when the kitchen was open.

Dean glanced at the package he’d set on the table just to the right of his now nearly empty glass and frowned again.  The bartender started banging a tray full of clean glassware around and the waitress was furiously sweeping the snow from the entry way.

The TVs, which were hung along each wall with several directly over the bar, had been turned off, so Dean glanced at his watch and wondered how he had been there so long.  It was seriously pushing two in the morning and he had left Jim’s shortly before eleven.  He thought for a moment about the size of the shot glasses and groaned aloud.  He hadn’t eaten since that slice of pie for lunch.

The now visibly peeved waitress came over with a receipt in her hand and a too polite smile on her lips.  “If that’ll be all, sir,” she said with some bite and Dean, forgetting how he should not be any more drunk than he was, chugged the rest of his beer, threw twenty-five bucks on the table, and tried not to stagger out into the cold, brown package in hand.

He was hit with the shock of a dry, bone-chilling, Minnesota wind, setting his jaw to clench painfully and his eyeballs to sting.  After a minute, he somehow got used to it; not thinking even for a moment that it was that extra alcohol pumping through his veins and that it would be a terrible idea to sit down on the bus stop bench.

Dean fished the post card out of his back pocket and his phone from his jacket.  He didn’t want to go back to Jim’s just yet, and he needed to make a phone call.

Neal loved Christmas.  He loved everything about it; cold weather, warm drinks, silver and gold ornaments, green and red everything else, giving and receiving presents.  He especially loved Christmas carols and he loved them best when Frankie sang them.

“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” began with just Old Blue Eyes’ fabulous croon, like it was a personal message from Sinatra himself, and then the music came in a few measures later, soft and somber, like it wanted to make sure everyone understood.

This was Neal’s favorite Christmas song, not only because it was one of those old standards that was fucking beautiful no matter who sang it, nor because Frank sang the song with a waver in his voice like he was really worried about you, but because it made him long for people and things he had never had and it made him feel that much more grateful for what he did.  He would be the first person in line to call himself a sap, and he would never lie about the pleasure he took in the holiday season.

He smiled as Kate came over and handed him a mug of cider, curling next to him in front of the Yule Log, happy to finally be back in New York and happier that it was this time of year.  She was wearing red and white snowflake flannel PJs and she looked adorable.  He tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ears and asked, “Did you put this one on just for me?”

“I know how much you like it,” she replied.  “It’s on random after this.  Three disks, Frank, Dean and Bing.”

“What about Mariah Carey?” Neal said, trying not to make a face.

Kate grinned, tucking her feet under her legs and snuggling close to him.  “I made you listen to that all last week.  Anyway, Christmas Eve is for the classics, like you so eloquently argued last year, at length.”

He let the conversation pause as Frank sang one last time through the chorus,

“Through the years, we all will be together

if the fates allow

hang a shining star upon the highest bough

and have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”

As the ladies’ choir came in again humming and “oohing” with the violins, Neal’s arm came around Kate’s narrow shoulders and he said, “That’s my girl,” then almost spilled his cider everywhere when his phone vibrated in the pocket of his robe.

Kate started too and leaned against the opposite arm of the sofa, letting Neal move to take out the device.  “Is it…” She didn’t finish asking.

“Wait a second,” Neal murmured and grinned when he saw the number.  A mirror image of his expression played across Kate’s face and Neal looked directly into her eyes when he spoke into the phone, “Dean.”

“Hey, Neal.”

“So I gather the package came and you made it to Pastor Jim’s.”

“Yeah, yeah I got it.”  His voice sounded strained somehow and there was a weird noise in the background.

Neal waited for a moment and then frowned, prompting, “And?”

A half a beat, a little too long, “And what?”

Kate’s brows were furrowed; the speaker was loud enough that she could hear too.  “Well,” Neal said, “Did you like it?”

“Oh, the paper…I wanted to say the paper was good.  I really liked it.”

“Dean,” Neal was starting to get a little exasperated.  “Did you even open it yet?”

“Oh, well, I mean I didn’t know if I should wait for like, real Christmas, or…”

He trailed off but Neal could sense there was something else he wanted to say.

Kate tugged on his arm and he glanced at her again, from where his attention had wandered to the fire as he strained to understand.  “Is he drunk?”  She mouthed.  And Neal’s eyes widened.  He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t realized immediately from the stilted conversation, the strange tone in his voice.

“And?”

“Well, I didn’t…”

“You didn’t what?  Dean?”

“I didn’t get you anything…I mean, I could just send it back, and you could keep whatever it is, I’m sure it’s really really nice…but I, man, I just didn’t even think-“

Dean’s voice was filled with guilt that was carried over the line too fast, almost desperate.

“Dean,” Neal said, fighting for the kid’s attention, “Dean, shut up.  It doesn’t work like that.”

“What?”

“You didn’t have to send us anything, we didn’t expect you to.  We wanted you to have what’s in that box.”  Neal almost finished by asking, haven’t you ever been sent a Christmas present before?  But he immediately thought better of it.  Maybe Dean hadn’t.  He swallowed and met Kate’s pitiful expression.

“Why don’t you open it now?”

“Um, okay.”  Neal heard some fumbling and a rustle of paper, probably from the stuffing in the box, surrounding the smaller box.  “It’s a box,” Dean said, apparently confused.

“Open it, dummy!”  Kate shouted into the phone then opened her mouth and shook Neal’s arm in a helpless and worried gesture.

“Oh, man, this is…” Dean stopped talking again and Neal grimaced.

“We’re on the phone, Dean.  You have to tell us what you think.”

Neal pictured him taking it out of the box, the silver double-banded ring he and Kate had found in a street market in Prague.  Neal knew how to judge jewelry, so he knew it wasn’t master craftsmanship, and there were probably some impurities in the metal.  But it was a strong design, utilitarian enough that Dean would wear it.  The ring would suit him, he’d find a way to make it a part of his life and Neal loved the idea of that.  They’d over-paid for the thing too.

Dean huffed immediately, in an ‘I know’ sort of fashion, before he finally said reverently, “Neal, this is really nice.  Too nice.  You guys…” he trailed off.

Neal couldn’t help but smile at his predictable reaction.  “Don’t worry about ‘too nice.’  It fits, right?”

Kate rolled her eyes.  Neal knew how to size a ring or a watch or a necklace like he knew how to pick a lock or forge a signature, but he had worried ridiculously over the correct size of this particular ring.  The night before they’d mailed the thing, she’d hit him with a pillow when he voiced his concern one final time.

Suddenly a thump came across the line and a muffled curse, then Dean’s voice was back and muttering, a more pronounced slur finding its way into his speech, “Goddammit, ugh now it’s all snowy…Sorry I dropped the phone…puttin’ on the ring.  It totally fits though, uh, thanks guys.”

“You’re welcome,” Neal said, simultaneously realizing that the strange sound he had heard in the background could have been wind blowing through trees.  “Dean, where are you?”

“Blue Earth.”

“Yes, but, are you…you’re not outside are you?”

A grudging pause.  “They kicked me outta the bar.”

“What?” Neal cried, barely registering Kate’s own incredulous outburst, “Have you been sitting outside this whole time?  Why didn’t you go home and call us?”  He tried to calculate how long they had been talking.  Way too long to be sitting outside in a fucking Minnesota winter with probably nothing but a leather jacket as shield against the elements.

Dean’s voice was getting slower, “Dad’s an asshole…I didn’t wanto.  He-“

“All right,” Neal cut him off.  “It doesn’t matter.  Listen to me, Dean.  I want you to give me Pastor Jim’s phone number.”

“Why?  I can get back fine.  ‘M gonna walk home…just a minute.”

“Dean, you’re really not.  You’re drunk and you’re rapidly approaching hypothermia.  You’re going to fall into a snow bank and freeze to death.  Give me the number.”

Dean made some disbelieving noises but still rattled off the digits and Neal crossed the room swiftly, dialing it from Kate’s phone on the table near the door.  He tossed it to her, wondering if he looked as white as she did when she raised it to her ear.

He only heard bits and pieces of what she said, “…name is Kate Moreau…so sorry to call so late…he’s outside some bar…think you should go and…no, not at all…really really worried about him…”

When Kate hung up the phone, she gave him a wan smile and a nod and Neal resumed his explanation of why the classics were the best Christmas songs, pausing every once in a while to make sure Dean was listening.

Under five minutes later, Dean interrupted him.  “Hey, there’s a car here.  Why’re they stopping?”

“It’s Pastor Jim, Dean,” Neal said, relieved.

“Hey, it is.  How’d y’know that?”

Neal smiled.  “In addition to being a thief, a forger, a conman, and a secret gymnast, I’m also a psychic.  I’ll charge you twenty bucks for your New Year’s horoscope.”

Dean snorted loudly into the phone.  “No you’re not.  And you’re over-charging.  I’ll tell you for free what I’m gonna be doin’ next year…an for the res-“

“Merry Christmas, Dean,” Neal said simply, not allowing him to finish that terrible thought.  Neal had known that Dean thought of his future as decided, himself as caught irrevocably in his father’s seemingly endless quest.  But it was a different story for Neal to hear those words spoken aloud.  “Get warm, and we’ll see you soon.”

He heard Dean smile, the bleakness of a moment ago already forgotten.  “Not if I see you first,” he said and hung up.

Neal met Kate’s eyes and was immediately aware of how far away she was, and how much he wanted her near him.  They both crossed the room swiftly and held each other for a long moment.  Kate’s face was still pressed against his shoulder when she mumbled, “That idiot boy…I can’t even…”

“I know,” Neal replied stroking her hair.

“Next year,” She said, raising her head.  “We do Christmas together.  If we can.”

Neal couldn’t quite manage a smile, thinking of all the things that could get in the way.  But he lifted her chin with his knuckles and passed his thumb lightly across her cheek.  “If we can, baby.  I promise you.”

Dean watched the car pull up and the front side door swing open with a weird fascination.

“You get in this car right now, you lunatic,” Pastor Jim said, leaning out of the passenger seat of his beat up, rusted-out Pontiac Sunbird and looking more pissed than Dean had ever seen him.

Dean shuffled and stumbled into the vehicle and climbed into the back seat, slamming the door hard against the wind.  He lay down across the seat, his vision spinning and head throbbing at the same time.  His hands were feeling tingly, like they were hot instead of freezing and he suspected that was bad.

He looked past Jim’s half-angry, half-concerned stare and saw his father’s white knuckles steering the car away from the curb, pulling a slow U-ie in the deserted, snow-covered street. Of course Jim would wake Dad; their truck had been parked behind the rectory’s garage door.  He couldn’t have picked Dean up without letting his father know.   Shit.

No one said a word until Dean mumbled, “Sorry,” a few times into the upholstery and started sniffling when his nose began to thaw and run like a leaky faucet.

“It’s all right, Dean,” Jim replied quietly.  “We’re just glad you’re safe.”

Dean sort of sensed an unsaid, “Right, John?” in Pastor Jim’s statement, but no one said anything else.  Or if they did, Dean didn’t hear them.

He was shivering now, though the air in the car was warm and the heater was on full blast.  His jeans were still half-frozen from sitting on the snowy bench and his shoes were not quite as waterproof as they could have been.  He tried to curl up into as small a ball as he could manage.  He pressed his stiff and shaking hands to his lips, blowing his breath on them.

Surprisingly, the new ring was the warmest thing currently on Dean’s body and he drifted off with that thought in his mind.

Dean couldn’t have been out for very long, since the bar was only two blocks from Jim’s.  But he was roused by a soft, but firm command of, “Come on, son.”

He might have babbled something either incoherent or desperately pathetic as Dad pulled him out of the car, but later Dean would only remember the way John’s hands wrapped even more tightly around him and the sound of his voice when he said, “I know, Dean.”

The walk into the house was a complete blank and Dean woke up again, embarrassingly enough, tucked into bed with only his undershirt and boxers on.  All his appendages were warm and heavy with exhaustion.  Dad sat next to the cot in a chair that had been dragged from the kitchen.

The room was dark and Dean was too tired to discern the expression on his father’s face when John asked, “Is that a ring on your finger, son?”

Dean must have been really out of it, because he flippantly replied in a sleepy voice, not really thinking about what he was saying, “Don’t worry, Dad.  No one proposes over the phone.  It’s just a regular Christmas gift.”  Dean smiled and closed his eyes again; feeling a different warmth spreading out from his chest as he repeated Neal’s words to his father, even though he could barely believe them himself, “They wanted me to have it.”

There was a long pause before Dad spoke again, and when he did it was in the resigned tone he used to save for caving to one of Sammy’s stubborn demands.  “Well, you’ll have to remember to send them something real nice next year.”

Dean only gave a low hum of agreement before slipping back towards unconsciousness.

He thought perhaps he heard his father murmur, “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

~~~
Note: The ring in question is this one.  Thanks to Supernatural wiki for being a place I can troll for gift ideas.  :P

The song in question can be heard here.  Thanks to Sinatra for being awesome and youtube for existing.