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spnmysteryyearsGo here for Part III.
The house smells better than Dean’s favorite diner (in Washington state), air warm and heavy with spices and sweetness. His mouth waters and stomach rumbles simultaneously.
It doesn’t seem possible that in the short time they were gone, Sammy and Mrs. Reicher could have done so much baking. Every available surface is covered in cookies: chocolate chip, frosting-decorated sugar cookies, gingerbread, even—
“Peanut butter kiss cookies!”
They’d had them once, a few years ago, at some lady’s house in Mississippi…or maybe it was Missouri…Dean forgets. Anyway, Dean has never met a good cookie he’s forgotten, and these are like that Washington diner’s cherry pie—rare and wondrous.
Sammy hands him one with a broad, proud smile. “I made this one myself.”
The kiss is lopsided, half melted, the edge of the cookie crumbling, but it smells divine and tastes perfect, the flavors better than he remembered, and as Dean licks soft chocolate off of his lips, he catches Pastor Jim giving him and his brother one of those unguarded looks, like when adults don’t know the kids can see them.
The look is happy and sad at the same time, and it makes Dean’s stomach flip, makes him no longer interested in cookies.
But Sam’s enthusiasm for baking, his eagerness to slip off in secret to see if Jim had gotten Dean’s gift for Sam to give, the way he seems to be feeling so much better—all of that balances the sick, scared sinking in his belly and he lets it go, pushes it off for later, when Sammy doesn’t want to show him how he made cut-outs in the shape of Santa Claus.
Dean wraps his present for Sammy with paper the Pastor gives him, puts it under the little artificial tree in the living room, which is half decorated, and spends some time finishing it with Sammy, who mostly offers Dean advice on where to put the “up high” ones rather than getting any of the work done himself.
Once that’s finished, Dean whispers to Sammy his idea for their Dad’s gift, and they spend some time after lunch working on it.
Mrs. Reicher has retreated to the church proper, where Pastor Jim had likewise gone after giving Dean what he needed to put together the gift, so it’s just the two of them there as the sky outside darkens and light fades from the living room.
Sammy has taken to checking the window at the front of the room that looks out onto the street, getting up every few minutes to peer outside and then return to the couch with a serious expression.
Dean knows why his little brother’s doing it and doesn’t have the guts to bring it up. He can’t have that conversation again.
“It’s snowing,” Sammy says the sixth or seventh time he approaches the window. “Really hard.”
Dean joins him to see that the ground is already coated, the houses across the way obscured by heavy snow, a driving wind blowing it almost horizontally.
“Will Dad be able to find us?” Sammy asks.
It occurs to Dean that the usual question on a snowy Christmas Eve should be about Santa and his reindeer, not a missing dad. Somehow, he doesn’t think Sammy will accept an explanation that involves Rudolph.
“He’ll be here, Sammy. You’ll see.”
But looking out at the encroaching grey, at the way the snow is already fierce, blinding them in white curtains, Dean feels doubt grow to certainty.
He turns away from the window abruptly, distracts Sam for a solid ten minutes over a debate about what should go at the top of the tree—star or angel—and then hams it up for Sammy climbing the three-step ladder to put it there.
A flurry of voices from the kitchen interrupts an impromptu wrestling match—Dean letting Sam have an advantage because his little brother’s still weak (and besides, it’s almost Christmas).
They hesitate in the doorway of the kitchen, finding the room full of strange women bustling about with pans and tins and dishes.
Mrs. Reicher catches them, pauses with a roll of plastic wrap in one hand and a plate of sugar cookies in the other. “We’re preparing plates for the elderly and shut-ins. We’ll go Christmas caroling and then hand out the goodies. Would you like to come, Dean?”
Dean shakes his head even as he feels Sammy’s hand slide into his. He squeezes it as he says aloud, “No, thank you, ma’am. I think I’ll stay here and watch ‘Charlie Brown’ with my brother.”
“My kids love that show,” another woman says, this one younger, with brown hair and big green eyes and a gold cookie tin with a red bow on top in her two mittened hands.
“We’ll leave you some, don’t you worry,” a third woman assures them with a big smile.
“Aren’t you just the cutest boys,” an old woman chimes in.
Dean decides its time for a strategic retreat. They only get as far as the bottom of the stairs, however, when Pastor Jim calls them back.
He’s just in from the outdoors, his uncovered head shaggy with melting snow, shoulders of his black coat piled with it.
“I’m going to be taking the ladies caroling, but Mrs. Marciano, who lives next door, promised to keep an eye on you. Dinner’s in the refrigerator. The instructions are on the plates.”
Dean nods. “Okay, sir.”
“You can’t mean to leave them here without supervision?” The big-eyed woman says, eyes growing bigger still with the implications.
“Dean is a very responsible young man, Kathy. And Mrs. Marciano will be over after she finishes her own dinner. They’ll be fine, I assure you.”
Kathy doesn’t seem convinced, but she defers, giving the other ladies a look of befuddlement that some of them return.
“Don’t eat all the cookies in one sitting,” Mrs. Reicher cautions cheerfully, clearly not concerned about the Pastor’s would-be parenting skills or lack thereof.
“Yes, you have to save some for Santa,” another woman says.
Dean smiles and starts to say, “Thank you,” when Sammy pipes up, “My dad says Santa’s a myth.”
The kitchen falls awfully quiet.
Dean closes his eyes against his brother’s blunder and when he opens them, he sees a dozen identical looks of pity on the faces of the women ranged around the kitchen.
Anger, sudden and gutting, roars up in his chest, and Dean opens his mouth to let these women have it, to explain to them how the things they don’t believe in are actually a lot more real, unlike the stupid stories they make up to lie to their kids.
Something must show on his face, though, because Pastor Jim says, overly loud in the still too-quiet room, “Well, we’d better get going. It’s snowing something fierce out there, and we want to have time to visit every house on the list.”
The women file out, some of them casting worried or curious glances back at the boys as they go.
Jim is the last at the door. He turns back as if he’s going to say something, but he seems to give it up, says only, “We’ll be back by 8:00,” and gives a little half-wave before stepping out into the snow that swarms in the porch light there.
“Hungry?” He asks Sammy, who’s leaning against the door frame, looking a little tired.
“Yeah!”
Dinner turns out to be a big plate of mac-and-cheese each, which Dean heats up while Sammy struggles to fill two glasses with milk.
The hot, rich meal—obviously home-made—makes Dean logy, and by the end, he’s got one elbow on the table, head leaning on his hand, eyes swimming in and out of focus.
“Can we have cookies?”
Sammy’s appetite always amazes Dean, but he appreciates it now, when there’s plenty to go around, so he says, “Sure,” and smiles as Sam scrambles out of his chair to the counter where the cookie tin Mrs. Reicher left them is sitting.
Sammy takes the top off with a clatter and comes back to the table, but he stops next to Dean’s chair first, offering. “Want some?”
Inside, Dean sees a generous helping of every assortment. It takes him a little too long to choose, and Sammy moves back to his seat with the tin while Dean’s still considering the merits of untried snickerdoodles over the sure thing of peanut butter kisses.
He stretches across the table to snatch the tin away from Sammy, who’s already got three cookies lined up on his napkin.
“That’s enough, Sam. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?” He answers through a mouthful of cookie.
“Are we going right home when Dad gets here, or are we gonna stay a little while more?”
The cookie tastes like ashes in his mouth as he manages a terse, “’sup to Dad, Sammy.”
“But do you want to stay awhile? I like it here. Maybe we could stay here if Dad has to go on another business trip. Do you think Pastor Jim would let us?”
Dean’s pretty sure that Pastor Jim has nothing at all to say about it. Dad’s the one who makes those choices, and Dean already knows what their father would say about them living here.
“I think Pastor Jim is too busy to take care of a couple of kids,” he answers, soft-selling the truth of it.
“But he wouldn’t have to take care of us. You do that already. And we could be real good and real quiet. And maybe Mrs. Reicher could bring us cookies sometimes.”
The light dawns, and Dean smiles with relief. “We can have cookies sometimes, too, even if we’re not living here, you know.”
“I know, but…”
The hesitation makes Dean look at his brother, really look at him. Sammy’s still pale, with dark circles under his eyes. His hair is a mess, combed but not clean, and he’s got crumbs and cheese on his shirt.
“But what, Sammy?” Dean thinks he knows what Sam was going to say. It’s not like he hasn’t sometimes thought it himself.
“But it’s nice here.”
“Yeah, Sammy, it is nice here. But don’t you want to be with Dad?”
“I guess.”
“Hey, Sammy, let’s get you cleaned up. How about a bath?”
Unlike Dean, who had to be dragged, kicking and screaming into the bathtub at Sammy’s age, his little brother has no such issue with hot water and soap.
“Okay,” he says agreeably, getting up to put the tin back on the counter and cover it and to help Dean clear the table.
He pulls a chair to the sink so Sammy can stand next to him on it and dry the dishes, and soon they’re in the upstairs bathroom, Sam stripping out of his clothes while Dean draws the bath, testing it to make sure it’s not too hot.
Pastor Jim doesn’t have any bubble bath, but the soap is silky and smells good, and the towels are way softer than motel towels, and Sammy seems content to splash around and suffer Dean to shampoo his hair and help him wash up.
“Get into your sleep clothes,” Dean says when Sammy is clean and dry once more, his hair a damp mess around his face. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”
“Okay. I’ll work on Dad’s present some more.”
“Good, Sammy. You do that.”
“Can we watch ‘Charlie Brown’ then?”
“Sure.”
Like Dad’s presence on Christmas Eve, their annual viewing of ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ is one of the few things they might call a tradition. They’d go to a diner if there was one around that served ham and order Chinese if there wasn’t and then watch Charlie Brown and his friends have their Christmas fun.
Dean never much liked the whole baby Jesus thing, but he appreciated how cool Snoopy was and the way that Charlie Brown stuck by that sad little tree even when everyone laughed at him.
Sammy always giggled when the kids at the pageant danced to Schroeder’s piano instead of listening to Lucy.
Dad would usually be pouring bullets or stropping knives or loading shells with salt, but sometimes he’d look up and listen for a minute, sharing a smile with Dean over Sammy’s head.
Dean shivers even though the water in the shower is plenty warm and gets busy getting clean.
A few minutes later, they’re at the cookies again, side by side on the couch, Sammy smelling of shampoo and soap, Dean nudging his little brother to move a little away from him while secretly appreciating the proximity. Sammy is bath-warm and giggling, and it makes Dean feel both happy and terrified. His brother’s such a little kid.
The Christmas special doesn’t disappoint, and neither does Sammy, whose giggling turns to laughter turns to rolling on the sofa and then over the edge still laughing.
Dean can’t help but join in.
The kids on television are just about to learn the true meaning of Christmas when Pastor Jim comes through the kitchen door, arms laden with brightly wrapped, snow-damp packages.
“Help me out?” He asks, and Dean gets up right away, telling Sammy to stay there, since his hair’s still wet, and there’s probably a draft from the door.
Dean helps the minister with the packages, setting them on the table and blotting them with a dishtowel while Pastor Jim goes back for a second load.
“What’re all these?” Dean asks.
“Oh, the people we visit always give the church little things,” he answers, moving a stack of mostly dry gifts to the base of the Christmas tree.
“You guys have a good time while I was gone?”
“Yeah!” Sammy calls from a commercial break.
“Yes, sir. Thank you for dinner. And thank Mrs. Reicher again for the cookies.”
“They’re really good!” Sammy adds just as the music swells to signal that the cartoon is back on.
“Go ahead, Dean. Watch with Sammy. I’ve got a few things to take care of in my study before I have to go over for the midnight service.”
When the show ends, Dean looks over to find Sammy’s eyes listing to half-mast. “C’mon, kid, let’s get you to bed.”
“Nuh-uh. I wanna stay up to see Dad.”
Dean brushes cookie crumbs off of Sam’s shirt and offers his hand to haul him off the couch.
“I’ll wake you up when Dad gets here.” He leaves off the “if” he feels like saying. No sense alarming Sam.
“But, Dean—“
“C’mon, Sammy, you’re still sick. You’ve gotta get some sleep for tomorrow. Don’t want to run out of steam halfway through the day, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Every syllable sounds reluctant, but Sam lets Dean get him up and trudges slowly but surely toward the stairs.
Pastor Jim meets them at the bottom.
“Goin’ to bed, kiddo?”
Sammy nods a little petulantly.
“Want me to tuck you in, help you with your prayers?”
Sam nods again, less unhappily. Uneasiness filters through Dean, but he stops himself from clenching his fist.
Dean is several steps behind them on the way up, feeling misplaced and strangely lonely, even though Sammy’s just a few feet ahead of him.
Sammy’s been taking care of his bedtime ritual without help for years now, but Dean can’t help but hover in the hallway halfway between the bedroom and the bathroom.
Pastor Jim is leaning on the dresser in the room where they sleep. He smiles at Dean. “You want to join us tonight for the service?”
“What if Dad comes?”
It’s not his strongest argument.
The likelihood of his father showing up at that precise time when he hasn’t called or otherwise indicated his intentions in almost two weeks is slim and fading fast. Dean knows this.
From the look on the pastor’s face, he does, too.
“I think he’d come to find you in the church.”
Dean shakes his head, not so much denying the validity of the minister’s words as refusing to discuss church at all.
“Okay. Well, if you change your mind, you know where I’ll be at midnight.”
“Thanks,” he says, relieved to hear the bathroom door open behind him.
“G’night, Dean.”
“Good night, Sammy. Sleep tight.”
“Are you comin’ to bed, Dean?”
“In a little while. I want to work on Dad’s present a little bit more.”
“Okay. ‘night.”
“’night.”
Feeling like an intruder as Pastor Jim crouches by the bottom bunk and starts the singsong prayer with his brother, Dean makes his way down the stairs to the front window.
He clears away the condensation only to find that he can’t see anything anyway. The world is a curtain of white, snow swirling in blinding sheets, and they might be at the very end of the earth for the way the rest of the world seems to have disappeared.
Behind him, he hears Pastor Jim come down, hears the man pause at the bottom of the stairs. Dean keeps his back turned and holds his breath.
“I’m going out to the church. If you need anything, you know where I’ll be.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dean—“
Dean’s good at being able to tell what people are going to say after merely by the way they say his name to begin with. His stomach swoops and flutters at the tone of Pastor Jim’s voice.
“Your Dad…”
Dean interrupts him before the pastor has to lie. “He isn’t coming.”
Still he doesn’t turn, though Jim’s footsteps tell Dean that the minister has crossed the room to stand behind him.
“Have faith, Dean. Your dad’s never let you down before, right?”
Dean starts to answer the way he always does when it comes to his father, starts to say, ‘No, sir,’ knee-jerk and without hesitation.
Then he stops to think.
Has he?
It feels like a betrayal, that breath between automatic assertion and damning silence.
It feels like the snow, the world, his heart has stopped.
A violent gust bursts against the window like buckshot and Dean startles, turns his eyes out to the fury flinging itself madly at them from inches away.
“It’s not his fault,” Dean says instead, making excuses. “The weather’s bad.”
Your father could’ve left earlier to avoid the storm. Could’ve called. Could’ve made sure you and Sam were okay.
These are things the pastor doesn’t say.
Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest like he’s just run three miles in the storm outside.
He feels wetness in his eyes and stares unseeing out the window. He’s not going to think about this anymore.
“Why don’t you come to the service? The music’s nice and it’s almost magical, the way candles light up the church. You don’t have to say any of the prayers, you know.”
Swallowing to clear the tightness in his throat that’s making the back of his eyes ache, Dean shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the weather.
“Thanks, Pastor Jim, but I want to stay here in case Sam needs me.”
They both know it’s a lamer excuse than the one he just made for his father, but the minister has the good manners not to call Dean on it, and he hears the man’s heavy tread move into the kitchen a moment later.
A minute after that, the door opens, the cold fingers of a draft tickling the small hairs on the back of his neck. Then it closes, and silence falls over the house’s snug interior. Outside, the wind shrieks and batters at the window, throwing itself against the panes like it wants to get in.
Go here for Part V.
Peace,
SW
The house smells better than Dean’s favorite diner (in Washington state), air warm and heavy with spices and sweetness. His mouth waters and stomach rumbles simultaneously.
It doesn’t seem possible that in the short time they were gone, Sammy and Mrs. Reicher could have done so much baking. Every available surface is covered in cookies: chocolate chip, frosting-decorated sugar cookies, gingerbread, even—
“Peanut butter kiss cookies!”
They’d had them once, a few years ago, at some lady’s house in Mississippi…or maybe it was Missouri…Dean forgets. Anyway, Dean has never met a good cookie he’s forgotten, and these are like that Washington diner’s cherry pie—rare and wondrous.
Sammy hands him one with a broad, proud smile. “I made this one myself.”
The kiss is lopsided, half melted, the edge of the cookie crumbling, but it smells divine and tastes perfect, the flavors better than he remembered, and as Dean licks soft chocolate off of his lips, he catches Pastor Jim giving him and his brother one of those unguarded looks, like when adults don’t know the kids can see them.
The look is happy and sad at the same time, and it makes Dean’s stomach flip, makes him no longer interested in cookies.
But Sam’s enthusiasm for baking, his eagerness to slip off in secret to see if Jim had gotten Dean’s gift for Sam to give, the way he seems to be feeling so much better—all of that balances the sick, scared sinking in his belly and he lets it go, pushes it off for later, when Sammy doesn’t want to show him how he made cut-outs in the shape of Santa Claus.
Dean wraps his present for Sammy with paper the Pastor gives him, puts it under the little artificial tree in the living room, which is half decorated, and spends some time finishing it with Sammy, who mostly offers Dean advice on where to put the “up high” ones rather than getting any of the work done himself.
Once that’s finished, Dean whispers to Sammy his idea for their Dad’s gift, and they spend some time after lunch working on it.
Mrs. Reicher has retreated to the church proper, where Pastor Jim had likewise gone after giving Dean what he needed to put together the gift, so it’s just the two of them there as the sky outside darkens and light fades from the living room.
Sammy has taken to checking the window at the front of the room that looks out onto the street, getting up every few minutes to peer outside and then return to the couch with a serious expression.
Dean knows why his little brother’s doing it and doesn’t have the guts to bring it up. He can’t have that conversation again.
“It’s snowing,” Sammy says the sixth or seventh time he approaches the window. “Really hard.”
Dean joins him to see that the ground is already coated, the houses across the way obscured by heavy snow, a driving wind blowing it almost horizontally.
“Will Dad be able to find us?” Sammy asks.
It occurs to Dean that the usual question on a snowy Christmas Eve should be about Santa and his reindeer, not a missing dad. Somehow, he doesn’t think Sammy will accept an explanation that involves Rudolph.
“He’ll be here, Sammy. You’ll see.”
But looking out at the encroaching grey, at the way the snow is already fierce, blinding them in white curtains, Dean feels doubt grow to certainty.
He turns away from the window abruptly, distracts Sam for a solid ten minutes over a debate about what should go at the top of the tree—star or angel—and then hams it up for Sammy climbing the three-step ladder to put it there.
A flurry of voices from the kitchen interrupts an impromptu wrestling match—Dean letting Sam have an advantage because his little brother’s still weak (and besides, it’s almost Christmas).
They hesitate in the doorway of the kitchen, finding the room full of strange women bustling about with pans and tins and dishes.
Mrs. Reicher catches them, pauses with a roll of plastic wrap in one hand and a plate of sugar cookies in the other. “We’re preparing plates for the elderly and shut-ins. We’ll go Christmas caroling and then hand out the goodies. Would you like to come, Dean?”
Dean shakes his head even as he feels Sammy’s hand slide into his. He squeezes it as he says aloud, “No, thank you, ma’am. I think I’ll stay here and watch ‘Charlie Brown’ with my brother.”
“My kids love that show,” another woman says, this one younger, with brown hair and big green eyes and a gold cookie tin with a red bow on top in her two mittened hands.
“We’ll leave you some, don’t you worry,” a third woman assures them with a big smile.
“Aren’t you just the cutest boys,” an old woman chimes in.
Dean decides its time for a strategic retreat. They only get as far as the bottom of the stairs, however, when Pastor Jim calls them back.
He’s just in from the outdoors, his uncovered head shaggy with melting snow, shoulders of his black coat piled with it.
“I’m going to be taking the ladies caroling, but Mrs. Marciano, who lives next door, promised to keep an eye on you. Dinner’s in the refrigerator. The instructions are on the plates.”
Dean nods. “Okay, sir.”
“You can’t mean to leave them here without supervision?” The big-eyed woman says, eyes growing bigger still with the implications.
“Dean is a very responsible young man, Kathy. And Mrs. Marciano will be over after she finishes her own dinner. They’ll be fine, I assure you.”
Kathy doesn’t seem convinced, but she defers, giving the other ladies a look of befuddlement that some of them return.
“Don’t eat all the cookies in one sitting,” Mrs. Reicher cautions cheerfully, clearly not concerned about the Pastor’s would-be parenting skills or lack thereof.
“Yes, you have to save some for Santa,” another woman says.
Dean smiles and starts to say, “Thank you,” when Sammy pipes up, “My dad says Santa’s a myth.”
The kitchen falls awfully quiet.
Dean closes his eyes against his brother’s blunder and when he opens them, he sees a dozen identical looks of pity on the faces of the women ranged around the kitchen.
Anger, sudden and gutting, roars up in his chest, and Dean opens his mouth to let these women have it, to explain to them how the things they don’t believe in are actually a lot more real, unlike the stupid stories they make up to lie to their kids.
Something must show on his face, though, because Pastor Jim says, overly loud in the still too-quiet room, “Well, we’d better get going. It’s snowing something fierce out there, and we want to have time to visit every house on the list.”
The women file out, some of them casting worried or curious glances back at the boys as they go.
Jim is the last at the door. He turns back as if he’s going to say something, but he seems to give it up, says only, “We’ll be back by 8:00,” and gives a little half-wave before stepping out into the snow that swarms in the porch light there.
“Hungry?” He asks Sammy, who’s leaning against the door frame, looking a little tired.
“Yeah!”
Dinner turns out to be a big plate of mac-and-cheese each, which Dean heats up while Sammy struggles to fill two glasses with milk.
The hot, rich meal—obviously home-made—makes Dean logy, and by the end, he’s got one elbow on the table, head leaning on his hand, eyes swimming in and out of focus.
“Can we have cookies?”
Sammy’s appetite always amazes Dean, but he appreciates it now, when there’s plenty to go around, so he says, “Sure,” and smiles as Sam scrambles out of his chair to the counter where the cookie tin Mrs. Reicher left them is sitting.
Sammy takes the top off with a clatter and comes back to the table, but he stops next to Dean’s chair first, offering. “Want some?”
Inside, Dean sees a generous helping of every assortment. It takes him a little too long to choose, and Sammy moves back to his seat with the tin while Dean’s still considering the merits of untried snickerdoodles over the sure thing of peanut butter kisses.
He stretches across the table to snatch the tin away from Sammy, who’s already got three cookies lined up on his napkin.
“That’s enough, Sam. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”
“Dean?”
“Yeah, Sammy?” He answers through a mouthful of cookie.
“Are we going right home when Dad gets here, or are we gonna stay a little while more?”
The cookie tastes like ashes in his mouth as he manages a terse, “’sup to Dad, Sammy.”
“But do you want to stay awhile? I like it here. Maybe we could stay here if Dad has to go on another business trip. Do you think Pastor Jim would let us?”
Dean’s pretty sure that Pastor Jim has nothing at all to say about it. Dad’s the one who makes those choices, and Dean already knows what their father would say about them living here.
“I think Pastor Jim is too busy to take care of a couple of kids,” he answers, soft-selling the truth of it.
“But he wouldn’t have to take care of us. You do that already. And we could be real good and real quiet. And maybe Mrs. Reicher could bring us cookies sometimes.”
The light dawns, and Dean smiles with relief. “We can have cookies sometimes, too, even if we’re not living here, you know.”
“I know, but…”
The hesitation makes Dean look at his brother, really look at him. Sammy’s still pale, with dark circles under his eyes. His hair is a mess, combed but not clean, and he’s got crumbs and cheese on his shirt.
“But what, Sammy?” Dean thinks he knows what Sam was going to say. It’s not like he hasn’t sometimes thought it himself.
“But it’s nice here.”
“Yeah, Sammy, it is nice here. But don’t you want to be with Dad?”
“I guess.”
“Hey, Sammy, let’s get you cleaned up. How about a bath?”
Unlike Dean, who had to be dragged, kicking and screaming into the bathtub at Sammy’s age, his little brother has no such issue with hot water and soap.
“Okay,” he says agreeably, getting up to put the tin back on the counter and cover it and to help Dean clear the table.
He pulls a chair to the sink so Sammy can stand next to him on it and dry the dishes, and soon they’re in the upstairs bathroom, Sam stripping out of his clothes while Dean draws the bath, testing it to make sure it’s not too hot.
Pastor Jim doesn’t have any bubble bath, but the soap is silky and smells good, and the towels are way softer than motel towels, and Sammy seems content to splash around and suffer Dean to shampoo his hair and help him wash up.
“Get into your sleep clothes,” Dean says when Sammy is clean and dry once more, his hair a damp mess around his face. “I’ve gotta take a shower.”
“Okay. I’ll work on Dad’s present some more.”
“Good, Sammy. You do that.”
“Can we watch ‘Charlie Brown’ then?”
“Sure.”
Like Dad’s presence on Christmas Eve, their annual viewing of ‘A Charlie Brown Christmas’ is one of the few things they might call a tradition. They’d go to a diner if there was one around that served ham and order Chinese if there wasn’t and then watch Charlie Brown and his friends have their Christmas fun.
Dean never much liked the whole baby Jesus thing, but he appreciated how cool Snoopy was and the way that Charlie Brown stuck by that sad little tree even when everyone laughed at him.
Sammy always giggled when the kids at the pageant danced to Schroeder’s piano instead of listening to Lucy.
Dad would usually be pouring bullets or stropping knives or loading shells with salt, but sometimes he’d look up and listen for a minute, sharing a smile with Dean over Sammy’s head.
Dean shivers even though the water in the shower is plenty warm and gets busy getting clean.
A few minutes later, they’re at the cookies again, side by side on the couch, Sammy smelling of shampoo and soap, Dean nudging his little brother to move a little away from him while secretly appreciating the proximity. Sammy is bath-warm and giggling, and it makes Dean feel both happy and terrified. His brother’s such a little kid.
The Christmas special doesn’t disappoint, and neither does Sammy, whose giggling turns to laughter turns to rolling on the sofa and then over the edge still laughing.
Dean can’t help but join in.
The kids on television are just about to learn the true meaning of Christmas when Pastor Jim comes through the kitchen door, arms laden with brightly wrapped, snow-damp packages.
“Help me out?” He asks, and Dean gets up right away, telling Sammy to stay there, since his hair’s still wet, and there’s probably a draft from the door.
Dean helps the minister with the packages, setting them on the table and blotting them with a dishtowel while Pastor Jim goes back for a second load.
“What’re all these?” Dean asks.
“Oh, the people we visit always give the church little things,” he answers, moving a stack of mostly dry gifts to the base of the Christmas tree.
“You guys have a good time while I was gone?”
“Yeah!” Sammy calls from a commercial break.
“Yes, sir. Thank you for dinner. And thank Mrs. Reicher again for the cookies.”
“They’re really good!” Sammy adds just as the music swells to signal that the cartoon is back on.
“Go ahead, Dean. Watch with Sammy. I’ve got a few things to take care of in my study before I have to go over for the midnight service.”
When the show ends, Dean looks over to find Sammy’s eyes listing to half-mast. “C’mon, kid, let’s get you to bed.”
“Nuh-uh. I wanna stay up to see Dad.”
Dean brushes cookie crumbs off of Sam’s shirt and offers his hand to haul him off the couch.
“I’ll wake you up when Dad gets here.” He leaves off the “if” he feels like saying. No sense alarming Sam.
“But, Dean—“
“C’mon, Sammy, you’re still sick. You’ve gotta get some sleep for tomorrow. Don’t want to run out of steam halfway through the day, right?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Every syllable sounds reluctant, but Sam lets Dean get him up and trudges slowly but surely toward the stairs.
Pastor Jim meets them at the bottom.
“Goin’ to bed, kiddo?”
Sammy nods a little petulantly.
“Want me to tuck you in, help you with your prayers?”
Sam nods again, less unhappily. Uneasiness filters through Dean, but he stops himself from clenching his fist.
Dean is several steps behind them on the way up, feeling misplaced and strangely lonely, even though Sammy’s just a few feet ahead of him.
Sammy’s been taking care of his bedtime ritual without help for years now, but Dean can’t help but hover in the hallway halfway between the bedroom and the bathroom.
Pastor Jim is leaning on the dresser in the room where they sleep. He smiles at Dean. “You want to join us tonight for the service?”
“What if Dad comes?”
It’s not his strongest argument.
The likelihood of his father showing up at that precise time when he hasn’t called or otherwise indicated his intentions in almost two weeks is slim and fading fast. Dean knows this.
From the look on the pastor’s face, he does, too.
“I think he’d come to find you in the church.”
Dean shakes his head, not so much denying the validity of the minister’s words as refusing to discuss church at all.
“Okay. Well, if you change your mind, you know where I’ll be at midnight.”
“Thanks,” he says, relieved to hear the bathroom door open behind him.
“G’night, Dean.”
“Good night, Sammy. Sleep tight.”
“Are you comin’ to bed, Dean?”
“In a little while. I want to work on Dad’s present a little bit more.”
“Okay. ‘night.”
“’night.”
Feeling like an intruder as Pastor Jim crouches by the bottom bunk and starts the singsong prayer with his brother, Dean makes his way down the stairs to the front window.
He clears away the condensation only to find that he can’t see anything anyway. The world is a curtain of white, snow swirling in blinding sheets, and they might be at the very end of the earth for the way the rest of the world seems to have disappeared.
Behind him, he hears Pastor Jim come down, hears the man pause at the bottom of the stairs. Dean keeps his back turned and holds his breath.
“I’m going out to the church. If you need anything, you know where I’ll be.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dean—“
Dean’s good at being able to tell what people are going to say after merely by the way they say his name to begin with. His stomach swoops and flutters at the tone of Pastor Jim’s voice.
“Your Dad…”
Dean interrupts him before the pastor has to lie. “He isn’t coming.”
Still he doesn’t turn, though Jim’s footsteps tell Dean that the minister has crossed the room to stand behind him.
“Have faith, Dean. Your dad’s never let you down before, right?”
Dean starts to answer the way he always does when it comes to his father, starts to say, ‘No, sir,’ knee-jerk and without hesitation.
Then he stops to think.
Has he?
It feels like a betrayal, that breath between automatic assertion and damning silence.
It feels like the snow, the world, his heart has stopped.
A violent gust bursts against the window like buckshot and Dean startles, turns his eyes out to the fury flinging itself madly at them from inches away.
“It’s not his fault,” Dean says instead, making excuses. “The weather’s bad.”
Your father could’ve left earlier to avoid the storm. Could’ve called. Could’ve made sure you and Sam were okay.
These are things the pastor doesn’t say.
Dean’s heart is hammering in his chest like he’s just run three miles in the storm outside.
He feels wetness in his eyes and stares unseeing out the window. He’s not going to think about this anymore.
“Why don’t you come to the service? The music’s nice and it’s almost magical, the way candles light up the church. You don’t have to say any of the prayers, you know.”
Swallowing to clear the tightness in his throat that’s making the back of his eyes ache, Dean shakes his head and keeps his eyes on the weather.
“Thanks, Pastor Jim, but I want to stay here in case Sam needs me.”
They both know it’s a lamer excuse than the one he just made for his father, but the minister has the good manners not to call Dean on it, and he hears the man’s heavy tread move into the kitchen a moment later.
A minute after that, the door opens, the cold fingers of a draft tickling the small hairs on the back of his neck. Then it closes, and silence falls over the house’s snug interior. Outside, the wind shrieks and batters at the window, throwing itself against the panes like it wants to get in.
Go here for Part V.
Peace,
SW
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Date: 2009-12-10 02:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-10 02:24 pm (UTC)I am very pleased that Dean's fear comes through here because I wanted it to be apparent without beating people over the head with it. I'm glad this worked for you. Thank you!