The Nativity Scene - SN fic - PG

[tigriswolf]

Title: The Nativity Scene
Fandom: "Supernatural"
Disclaimer: not my characters. just for fun.
Warnings: prepilot
Pairings: none
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 950
Point of view: third
Notes: It's just that time of the year.  
More notes: part of my Dean canon
Dedication: to the darling tigris_lilsis--love ya.

 

There's no paper and no bag, no boxes and no bows.  Dad's off on a hunt; his last call said he was done but a snowstorm is about to tear through the Midwest, so he's not gonna try driving till it's blown through.

Dean spent the last of the money on milk yesterday and everything’s closed today. He can make nothing last for a long time, but even he can’t make the disappointment in Sam’s belly satiation.

There are two presents beneath where the tree would be if they had one. Neither is wrapped. There are two places set at the old, rugged table; Dean stole a loaf of bread and Sam conned one of the old women at church out of some ham. The water tastes metallic but it’s liquid and it wets their throats.

They sit across from each other and eat, talk about everything and anything and nothing at all. This has never been their best holiday, but neither is it their worst. Dean entertains with stories of what doesn’t make it into the legends of Santa(Rudolph actually likes the taste of human flesh and Santa cheats on Mrs. Clause with the Easter bunny) and Sam performs spot-on impersonations of his teachers and some of the parents he’s met at school.

Sam opens his present first. It’s covered in an old shirt of Dean’s, one he hasn’t been able to wear in years. There’s blood staining it, and sweat; if Sam didn’t know it had been white, he wouldn’t be able to tell. It's a book he's been wanting for awhile, White Fang. It's third- or fourth-hand, but still in good shape. He thanks Dean with a sincere smile and flips through it, caressing the worn pages.

Dean pulls his present to him, turns it over in his hands. It's swaddled in a towel that's seen better decades. It's a walkman, when he pulls the towel off, beat-up and wounded with time, but when Sam says, "You can fix it, right?" he realizes just what Sam has given him.

"Yeah," he answers, inspecting it, and then looks up to meet Sam's gaze. "I can fix this." He glances back down and adds, "I can make it even better."

Sam reads that night and Dean tinkers around with something most anyone else would have given up on as a lost cause. Dad calls the next morning and says he's on his way, and he's got good news--the victims were so grateful, they paid. It's not much, just a few hundred dollars, but together, Dean and Dad can make it stretch for months. Dean can't stop smiling after the call and he looks around the apartment, trying to find some way to make it better, make it worth coming back to.

Sam watches as Dean cleans the stained floor, washes the chipped plates, scrubs the worn-out counters. He helps straighten up the living quarters, the den and two bedrooms each small enough to be a closet. They don't talk, just move around each other, unneeding of words.

It's just after eight, the morning after Christmas, when Dad unlocks the door and steps through. He's beat-up and tired, and he's got grocery bags hanging off him.

"Geez, Dad," Dean says, taking all but three from him. "You buy out the store?"

"Something like that," Dad answers. He sends Sam out to the car, where there's even more.

It's enough food for a month and there is still money left over. In the last bag, there's three books Sam's been wanting--Call of the Wild, King of the Wind, and a non-fiction book about Greek myths. Bundled up tight next to the books is a knife, honed sharp and biting, glinting silver as light hits it.

"I know it's not much," John says, as Sam sets the books in front of him and Dean traces the edge of the knife.

"Thank you, Dad," Sam replies, looking up. His eyes flick to Dean, who nods. Sam's up like a shot, bounding through the apartment. Dad watches him go with a raised eyebrow and glances at Dean, who only smiles.

Sam hurries back in, a parcel in his hands. It's wrapped neatly, with a beautiful bow and everything. He holds it out to Dad and Dad takes it, looking first at Sam then Dean. Dean smiles again, and Dad turns it over, says, "Boys, you didn't have to."

They share a look and Mom's smile. "We know," Dean answers. "We wanted to," Sam adds.

John slowly and carefully unwraps it, not tearing the paper at all. He folds it back from the book--because that's what it is, an old, worn photo-album--and has to blink back tears. "Oh, boys," he breathes.

Dean ducks his head and Sam runs his hand through his hair. John stands, still holding the album with one hand, and reaches out, squeezes Dean's shoulder. "I called Pastor Jim," Dean explains to the floor. "I followed the trail back, far as I could, gathered all the pictures I could find." He glances up, meets Dad's gaze. "Is that alright?"

Dad can only nod and then he looks at Sam. "Thank you," he says to them both and sinks back into his chair, starts looking through the pictures.

Dean closes his eyes and breathes deeply, exhales. Sam settles in the chair next to Dad, studies the pictures intently. He asks Dad about some because the people aren't anyone he's ever met, and Dad softly tells about them, voice sad and low.

Walking over to the counter, Dean takes out what's needed to make pancakes. He looks over his shoulder, at Sam and Dad, huddled together going through a photo-album. He smiles.

---

Comments

[smilla02.livejournal.com]

This is perfect. I think I love it to piece. Dean and Sam quietly working around the house, exchanging presents, to John coming back and the present they give him, all neatly wrapped up. It's sad, but Winchesters-happy at the same time.

[tigriswolf]

Thank you for reading!