[Any muses mentioned herein aren’t binding on any muse. Written as a Christmas gift for extraonions for spn_holiday.]



Christmas sucked.

It wasn’t so much a matter of holiday itself, but the fact that Dean just didn’t want to celebrate it. Sam found that a little odd after the push Dean had made regarding Christmas last year, but he wasn’t going to complain considering that Sam didn’t really feel much like celebrating it, either.

Telling Sam about Hell had been hard enough, he didn’t want to get into what the place was like on Christmas. You’d think for a religious holiday things would get quieter, but things only managed to kick into high gear. For all the piety and heavenly celebration, there was also a fountain of sin and materialism. Gluttony, greed, senselessness—heart attack victims, drunk drivers, occasionally the victims of the drunk drivers—they all piled up and the demons below deck had a field day. Despite the time discrepancy, Dean managed to have a Christmas for every forty years he was in Hell—for the first thirty he listened to the screams of the new souls as they came down below, and for the last ten he tore them apart.

Long story short—no, he did not want to celebrate Christmas this year, thank you. He just wanted to get good and drunk. Sam wasn’t a fan of the drinking, but he was just as willing to pretend Christmas wasn’t happening as Dean was.

At the moment, though, Dean didn’t have any idea where Sam was. He had tried to catch some sleep after their latest hunt, and when he woke up, Sam was gone. His first response was to worry a bit, considering what Sam was doing the last time he wasn’t there when Dean woke up, but he didn’t think about it much, just leaned back against the pillows slightly, and tried to quash the latest nightmare that had slipped it’s way into his mind. He was sitting up, pinching the bridge of his nose lightly, when he heard a voice from the other end of the room.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

Dean’s head snapped up and he glared over at Castiel’s back, shaking his head slightly. “Whatever.” He’d given up on his manners when it came to angels a long time ago. They never really got him anywhere, so he didn’t see what the point was in bothering to use them. He watched as Castiel turned around to face him slowly, raising an eyebrow at the man’s reaction. Dean just ignored him for the most part, before pushing himself to his feet and placing his hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

Castiel paused for a moment, before moving closer. “There’s something I want to show you.”

Dean watched him closely for a moment, crossing his arms in front of his chest until Castiel got a little too close for Dean’s comfort. “Show me what exactly?”

“You’ll see,” Castiel replied, before reaching out two fingers and pressing them to the front of Dean’s forehead. “Consider it a Christmas present.”

And everything went black.

***

“Son, I know it’s cold out there, but ya can’t sleep in here.”

Dean blinked his eyes open after a moment. The voice was familiar, but didn’t make any sense. Because he knew this person was dead. He started to blink his eyes open, rubbing them sleepily as he stared in shock at the man in front of him. A man that had been dead for three years now. A man who shouldn’t be standing over him in the middle of a church, telling him he had to get out.

“Pastor Jim?”

Jim Murphy looked down at the man in front of him, and his face frowned slightly in confusion. “I’m sorry, son—I’m not placing the name at the moment. Are you from the congregation?”

Dean was about to start off with the incredulous ‘It’s me, Dean’ but he caught himself as the sleep cleared from his eyes, and he started to push himself into a sitting position, and he noticed that the man had lost years since he had last seen him. A lot of years. He paused for a moment, and shook his head slightly, before reaching for one of the bulletins that someone had left in the pew, holding it up for him to see. “Read your name. Took a wild guess.”

The man gave him a warm smile, before nodding slightly. “Well, as I was saying—we welcome all, but we’re not exactly a motel. I’m afraid you’ll have to find somewhere else to stay.”

Dean nodded slowly, before starting to push himself to his feet. He was just about to say something else when a small boy came running out of the front of the church. Dean knew him instantly, a small smile crossing his face.

“Pastor Jim,” the boy whined. “Dean stole the shepherds and he won’t give them back.”

Suddenly the memory came back to him in a rush. Dean was eight, Sam was four. Sam was taking to long trying to get the Nativity set Pastor Jim had given them to set up, Dean was bored, and the end result was a quick game of hide the shepherds. It mostly consisted of Dean holding them out of Sam’s reach and taunting his brother until he went running for Jim, but that was nothing new with the two of them. At the end of the day, Dean was still the one comforting his brother when he couldn’t sleep and making sure that he ate all his vegetables and did his homework, but during all the times in between—he was still the kid’s big brother.

“Tattle tale.” The words left Dean’s lips before he could control them, but it wasn’t insulting or accusatory—if anything they were teasing. Warm. Something he would say to Sam now, as oppose to Sam back then. He missed Christmases like this, the ones before Sam found out everything and started hating the holiday more and more. Back when Dean still believed in Santa—though he had a feeling that this was the Christmas where he stopped. Where asking for his mom back got to be too much, and it hurt more than anything else to keep hoping.

Sam looked up at him with wide eyes, and Dean shook his head slightly, before giving the kid a small smile. “I say you take him. Throw your weight into his legs—that’s his weak point, he’ll topple like a baby trying to get his balance.”

Pastor Jim clearly disapproved. “Or, you could ask Dean nicely.”

“But Pastor Jim, I did—”

“Violence never solves anything, Sam. Maybe Dean wants to help, and you didn’t give him a chance.”

“Or he’s just being a jerk,” Sam muttered, crossing his arms in front of his chest, before sighing heavily. “I’ll go ask him.”

Which to Sam’s credit, he did. He asked very nicely. And when Dean continued to be the bastardly big brother he was, Sam took Dean’s advice and tackled his brother like a pro. He may have broken the shepherd’s staff in the process, but he won the brotherly fight, and Dean thought twice before screwing with his brother in that capacity again.

Well, at least for a good week.

Pastor Jim turned back to him after a moment, before giving him a hesitant nod. “Well, I’d be happy to point you in the direction of some of the shelters in the area, if you need one.”

“No, no,” Dean sighed. “Don’t worry about me. I was just passin’ through. But thanks, Father.”

“Thanks for what?” Jim frowned, confused. He could obviously tell from his tone that there was something more to the thank you than reciprocation for the offer of services.

For more than you know was what he wanted to say, but he knew that he would only confuse the man, rather than actually get the response he was looking to see. Dean just slid out of the pew before shrugging slightly. “For waking me up. Those pews are hard as hell.” He gave the man a smirk, before nodding. “You better get back to those boys before they kill each other.”

Jim chuckled slightly. “Boys will be boys, I’m afraid.” He clapped a hand on Dean’s shoulder lightly, with a small smile. “Merry Christmas, son.”

“Yeah, you too,” Dean nodded, watching the man walk away from him with a friendly wave, and sighing slightly as he felt Castiel’s hand on his shoulder again, ready to take him back. “Merry Christmas, Father.”



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