gwendolyngrace (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gwendolyngrace) wrote2007-12-27 06:31 pm
gwendolyngrace) wrote2007-12-27 06:31 pm
Entry tags:
Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (Chapter 2/?)
Title: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 2/at least 8)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gwendolyngrace
Recipient:celtic_cookie
Request terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 4,215
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: As luck would have it, 1990’s Thanksgiving and Christmas fell on the same dates – and days of the week – as this year’s. Helpful! This fic started as a small casefile and it’s grown like whoa, so look for additional chapters between now and the January 31 deadline. Thanks toetakyma who took time from her busy Christmas schedule to beta.
THEN
NOW:
The next morning, John stumbled to the kitchen to set up his coffee. He walked down to their mailbox for the paper, then back upstairs and into the kitchen to assemble bowls of instant oatmeal for Dean and Sam. Since he worked starting as early as 9 AM and ending anywhere up to 11 PM, John liked to see the boys off before school. Otherwise, he’d only lay eyes on them while they slept.
Dean generally showed his face first, coming out to eat while Sam took his turn in the bathroom. Either he or John would eventually have to roust Sam out to the kitchen, since he tended to be sluggish about getting dressed. But first, Dean and John both liked to read the paper over breakfast—John for headlines and leads, Dean for sports scores, and both of them for comics. John still chuckled about the day when Dean, who couldn’t have been more than six at the time, announced to his father that reading the paper in one’s pajamas was a man’s “prerogative.”
“Did Jeff tell you that?” John guessed, noting the ten-cent word and attributing it to the last place the boys had been staying.
“Mr. Jefferson says a man ain’t a man if he can’t enjoy a paper an’ a pipe ’fore getting dressed,” Dean replied. “Dad, d’you think I’m old enough to smoke a pipe?”
“No.”
“How old do I have to be before I can?”
“Fifty,” John said immediately. “That goes double for cigarettes,” he added. “In fact, anything that people smoke.”
Dean had shrugged and told John solemnly, “That’s okay, Daddy. Uncle Bobby let me try a cigarette when I asked, an’ it was gross.”
John had gritted his teeth over that one and reminded himself that alternate parenting strategies were a hazard when one left one’s kids with friends. Well, colleagues.
Friends.
This morning, Dean pulled out the comics section to read “Garfield” and plunked himself into his chair while John poured the hot water into his oatmeal. Dean grunted his thanks and reached for one of the sugar packets, pilfered from their last meal out. He tore open the wrapper and sprinkled the contents into his oatmeal, stirring without even really looking.
“How was school yesterday?” John asked, pouring himself more coffee after setting the kettle back on the burner for Sam’s breakfast. He came and sat with Dean at the counter. It was designed as a bar, with high chairs around a peninsula that opened onto the entryway and living room. Underneath were the silverware drawer, the drawer where John stashed all the condiment packets, and the cabinet where he stored the second-hand pots and pans he’d brought in with them when they moved. The curved end could fit three chairs and had just enough flat space for them all to eat together.
“Fine.”
“Anything big today?”
“Nope.”
“Do your homework?”
“Yup.”
“Sammy have any homework?”
“A little. He did it before supper.”
“Okay.” The conversation was easy, familiar, dare he even think, routine.
“Are you working today?”
“Yeah. I’ll be late again. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Only I think we’re out of Chef Boyardee.”
“Hm.” John opened the cupboard between the sink and the fridge. “There’s Ramen.”
“It’s the shrimp kind. Sammy’ll only eat the chicken or beef flavors.”
John rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said, “hang on.” He went down the hall. The bathroom door was still closed. He pounded on it. “Get a move on, Sam,” he called. Hearing a muffled affirmative, he moved on to his bedroom and picked up his wallet from the nightstand.
Back in the kitchen, Dean had finished the comics and was pulling the sports section out of the paper. “Here,” John said, handing Dean a $20 note from his billfold. “I’ll try to get to the store before I go to work, but just in case I don’t, you can order a pizza.”
Dean grinned at Jackson’s etching. “Can we order pizza anyway?”
John ruffled his hair, turning it halfway through to a head bobble. “No, but I’ll tell you what: if you don’t have to, you and Sammy can split the money for your Christmas fund.”
Dean’s face expanded in all directions at once: eyes widened, eyebrows sprang upward, and his jaw dropped a fraction of an inch; a second later his muscles settled themselves into an expression of affected boredom. “Cool, thanks,” he said, trying to sound as urbane as possible.
“Hmph. Finish your oatmeal.”
Sam wandered in. He had dressed, but his hair stuck out in every direction. “It’s called a hairbrush, Sam,” John said when he regarded his son’s lack of grooming. “I know you’ve got one.”
“My hair’s too wet to brush,” Sam said defensively.
“It’s too long not to brush,” John argued. “You know the drill, dude. Keep it tidy or we get it cut.”
“I like mine short,” Dean volunteered.
John sighed. He knew Dean was trying to help, the way he used to when Sam wouldn’t eat something, or when it seemed only he could unlock the secret of what would make Sam stop crying. Still, the notion that sometimes Dean was a more effective influence on Sam than the boy’s own father grated on John. “Yes, thank you, Dean,” he said too loudly. He poured water over the oatmeal.
“Not too much!” Sam shrieked.
John pulled up on the kettle in exasperation. “Sam.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
John resisted the urge to point out that he’d been subject to Sam’s preferences for longer than Sam himself had been aware of them, had had to figure them out the hard way, by trial and error. He remembered that Dean, his human vacuum cleaner, had gone through a picky stage, too, cured only by patience that John frankly considered should qualify him for sainthood. And if Dean had needed John’s superhuman tolerance to push him through not eating, Sam—stubborn, bull-headed, authority-questioning Sam—would need John’s absolute indefatigable fortitude.
So instead of making a comment that would only make John sound at least as pissy as his seven-year-old, he asked, “How was school yesterday?”
“Okay,” Sam replied. He looked over at Dean. Dean met his brother’s eyes. Was it John’s imagination or did Dean shake his head ever so slightly before rolling his eyes and setting down the paper?
“Was yesterday a music day? Or an art day?” John pressed. He could never remember the kids’ schedules, was usually impressed that the boys did as well at re-learning each school’s routine as they did at keeping his profession a secret.
“Music,” Sam said, blushing. “We’re learning a dumb song.”
“Dumb?”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What do you mean?” John sipped his coffee and picked up the comics page. The paper here had “Sally Forth,” which had been a welcome surprise.
“The words are all gibberish,” Sam explained, stirring his oatmeal and tasting an experimental spoonful. “Do we have any more sugar?”
Dean opened the drawer and tossed Sam more packets, keeping another for himself and dumping it on top of his congealing oatmeal.
“Are they in another language?” John asked.
“Oh.” Sam sat back in his chair as if he hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe. Not Latin, though. I’d know if it was Latin.”
“Yeah, I guess you would,” John agreed. He’d been proud and a little shocked when Sam had first shown him that he could read by pulling out Jim’s big Latin psalter and reciting “Dominus pascit me” in a high-pitched but steady rhythm. “Do you remember any of the words? Maybe I can tell you if they mean anything.” Big maybe, he thought, but he remembered a smattering of high school German and French. And how hard could a song be if it was being taught to second-graders?
Dean spooned his oatmeal, watching Sam closely. Sam swallowed a mouthful of oatmeal that otherwise could be used as Spackle and gave it a shot.
“Well, the main part goes, ‘Oat, On, and Balm.’ They say that a lot.”
“Oat, On…. O Tannenbaum?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, Sam: O Tannenbaum,” John repeated. “It’s German. It means Christmas tree.”
Dean and Sam both looked at him with renewed awe. John glanced back and forth between them. “What?”
Sam recovered first. “I didn’t know you could speak German, Dad,” he said slowly.
“Don’t really, but I took a little of it in school. Anyway, it’s a Christmas carol. If you think about it, I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”
Dean scraped his bowl with his spoon for the last mouthful. “Must be old fogey music,” he said dryly.
Sam snorted. So did John, covering it up by sipping the coffee. “Rinse your bowl; I’ll wash up before work.”
As Dean got up and crossed to the sink, John noticed Dean’s pajama cuffs. “Dean? Are your PJ’s up above your ankles?”
Dean looked down. The pajama cuffs hugged the base of his calf. “I guess,” he said cautiously.
“Are they hiked up?” John probed.
Dean swiped his left pajama leg with his right foot. The cuff descended about a quarter inch. “Um, no?”
John scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, did they shrink in the wash? Or are you really growing that fast?”
Dean bit his lip, thinking. He pulled at the front of his pants, then looked up. “I don’t think I shrank them. Sam?”
“We did laundry on Sunday,” Sam recited through his last spoonful of gluey oatmeal. “One load of whites and one load of other stuff. We did the other stuff on cold.”
“Shouldn’t have shrunk then,” John mused. “Damn. Well, okay, I guess I know what’s going under the tree for you.”
Sam came to Dean’s defense quickly. “Clothes don’t count!”
John crossed his arms. “Clothes count, Sammy. They just never count as the only present.”
“Or the main present,” Sam stipulated.
“Or the main present,” John affirmed. This was what Sammy had taken to calling the one gift John always gave each boy “from Santa,” which he took care to make something, if not specifically on their list, at least more frivolous than the other presents. Some years, Santa was more frivolous than others, but he never brought them socks or even books; the “boring” presents landed squarely in John’s domain.
“Dad, they’re fine,” Dean said. “They fit, they’re just short. So what?”
John sighed with tight lips. “Okay. But if they blow out, don’t be a martyr about it, dude. They’re just PJs, it’s not going to break the bank.”
“Yessir.”
“You better get dressed or you’ll be late.”
Dean hurried off to comply. “What about you, anything exciting on tap today?” John asked Sam.
Sam shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Dean said you did your homework. Want me to check it for you?”
“No. It’s right.”
“What was it?”
“Addition. A couple fractions. Easy. And I had to copy out a spelling list, but I did that at school.”
“That’s it? No term papers? No book report on War and Peace?”
“Dad, I’m in second grade,” Sam said, his tone somewhere between haughty and indignant. “They don’t make you do stuff like that until at least fifth.”
“Oh, okay,” John gave in with an assessing frown. “How about any art projects? No volcanoes or cardboard dioramas?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you about the volcano model that one time. I won’t do it again, okay?”
“Relax, Sammy,” John said, putting a hand on his boy’s shoulder. Dean tended to give John’s teasing right back to him, but he always forgot how it agitated Sam. Somehow John’s brand of humor was lost on the kid. “I’m just checking in on you. I’m allowed, you know, I am your dad.”
Sam scuffed his foot against the floor. “Yeah, I know, sir. M’sorry.”
“It’s okay, sport. But you know, holidays are around the corner. Seems to me they’re gonna ask for some kind of project before the break.” He scrubbed his chin with his fingers. “You gotta let me know if we need to prepare anything ahead of time, right?”
Sam’s eyes bugged out and his face grew red. “I said I know,” he said defensively.
“Hey, this is important stuff, dude,” John said as gently as he could, even though he could feel his gorge rising. “I’m not saying this to get on your case, Sam. I just don’t want you to get caught flat-footed again. So anything going on, stuff to bring for class, or whatever, you tell me. Got that?”
Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek and nodded.
“Can’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said, meeting John’s chin with his eyes.
“Okay,” John said, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. “Go brush your hair and get your books.” He sent the boy off with a light swat toward his butt.
Dean returned, now dressed for school. “There’s one thing I’m wondering,” he said, leaning against the kitchen wall, where it joined the hallway.
“What’s that?”
“Are we actually getting a tree?”
John rolled his eyes. “We’ll make it a Charlie Brown Christmas, kiddo. Find a sincere shrub and we’ll talk.”
Dean laughed.
John picked up Sam’s bowl and put it in the sink, added a little water. “Sam! Move it, mister.”
Sam trotted to the living room with his bookbag and the pair of snow pants that John had bought along with the down coats for both boys. Sam sat on the couch to pull the pants on over his jeans. Dean looked down at him. “Gotta go before you put all that on?”
“No.”
“I’m just saying. You put on the snow pants and next thing you know….”
“Screw off, Dean.” He crossed to the coat hooks by the apartment door and pulled down his jacket.
Dean cackled. “Look, Dad, Sammy’s trying to swear. ‘Screw off,’ how cute.” Dean reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair, and Sam got his hand up to block just in time, followed through with the counterpunch. Dean caught his arm and twisted it. Sam walked into the twist, resulting in the two of them rotating on the axis of Sam’s wrist for half a turn.
“Training later. School now, boys.”
They dropped their hands. Dean reached for his scarf while John crouched in front of Sam to zip his down jacket. Sam sighed. “Now I gotta go,” he revealed glumly.
~*~
Snow had blanketed the ground outside. Little hillocks ran along the sides of the walkways where the plow had been. It left a scraped layer, grooved with the treads of the blade. Sam turned around, walking backward.
“Quit it,” Dean ordered.
“I’m making my tracks go backward, Dean,” Sam explained.
“You’re slowing us down, and we’re already late because of your extra pee break.”
Sam ran to catch up. He gripped the hood of his coat awkwardly with his mittens. “Do you sometimes think Dad’s psychic?”
Dean frowned. “Whaddaya mean?”
“Well…it was like he knew about the pageant.”
“Sam, everyone has concerts and plays and stuff around this time of year. Dad doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that. Anyway, you almost gave it away.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. Hold my hand,” Dean added before they crossed the busy intersection at Vermont and Elm. The light changed and they hurried to the other side. “You told him about the song. Think about it, Sammy. Why would you be learning a song if you aren’t in some kind of concert or a pageant or something, huh?”
Sam blanched, despite the cold making his cheeks glow. “He asked about music. I thought he’d think it was for music class.”
“Yeah. Well, you’re lucky. But that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. You raised his suspicions.”
“Will you get in trouble?”
“You mean if he finds out? Maybe. So he’s not gonna, right?”
“Right.”
Dean let go of Sam’s hand well before they rounded the corner and came within sight of Jerome’s front yard. There was always a crossing guard on duty here, which Dean found typically jacked up, because apart from parents dropping off their kids in their cars, there really wasn’t any traffic on this corner. But Elm was a main drag and only a block away, yet there was never a crossing guard stationed there where it would have been useful. It was what Dad would have called SNAFU.
The only good thing about it was that Dean didn’t have to be seen in public holding his brother’s hand.
“It’s s’posed to snow again tonight,” Dean told Sam before letting him run into the building. “Wait inside the doors, but watch for me so you can come out as soon as I get here. I’m not standing around in the cold again. Got that, shrimp?”
“Okay, Dean, jeez, stop acting like such a jerk.”
“M’just saying. Not like you’re gonna be busy singing.” Dean smirked. His nose was running again from the cold. “See you later, geek-boy.”
He kept walking, hearing Sam call, “Bye, Dean!” but not waiting for it. He swiped his nose with his knit cuff.
Dean increased his pace, aware that he was running late. He was sweating by the time he reached South, but he made it ahead of the first bell.
“You may remember, class, that today is the day we’re drawing for our secret holiday gift exchange,” Mrs. Fontana said after the morning announcements. “We’ll exchange gifts on the last day of term—that’s Friday, the 21st. Now, I know that not everyone can participate in the exchange—yes, Chenaya, I know—but I’ve put the names of those who can into this.” She held up an opaque cookie jar in the shape of a penguin. “Please form a line on the left side of the classroom, draw a name from the jar, and if it isn’t your own, resume your seat. Yes, Dean?”
“I can’t, ma’am,” Dean said quickly, putting his hand back down. He didn’t want to squander his Christmas fund on a stranger. He figured if the lie had worked for Sam, it would do for him as well.
Mrs. Fontana regarded him suspiciously over the rims of her reading glasses. They were small and rectangular and looked like they’d come from another century. “Please approach, Dean,” she said. Dean had already learned this was her way of calling him up for a private conversation, like a judge asking for a sidebar. Several of the kids tittered or whispered as he walked to the desk.
“There’s nothing in your records about a legitimate reason not to participate in school holiday festivities, Dean,” she said softly.
“I’m not surprised,” Dean replied, ready for the objection. “It’s happened before. Sometimes the records don’t all arrive, um, intact.”
Mrs. Fontana looked like she didn’t believe him. “I don’t have time to go digging through the slips for your name now. Kindly draw a name anyway, for the time being, and then you and I can work out what to do during your study hall.” She raised her voice to address the class. “Everyone, get in line, please.”
Dean stayed in front of the desk while everyone snapped to Mrs. Fontana’s directions. She lifted an eyebrow, her gaze clearly telling Dean not to challenge her authority in front of the others. Dean held her eyes just long enough to make it clear, in return, that he was capitulating not because he feared her, but because he chose to comply. He was doing her a favor, not the other way around. When he was sure she got the message, but before she could accuse him of insubordination, Dean spun on his heel and marched over to join the line.
Dad said ninety percent of any confrontation was won by establishing one’s dominance right off the bat.
He brought his slip of paper back to Mrs. Fontana during Study Hall. “Thank you,” Mrs. Fontana said crisply. “But you have yet to explain to my satisfaction why you ought to be excluded from the exercise.”
“Huh? Oh. You mean you want to know why I want out?”
“Are you in some doubt as to what I said, Dean?”
Either Mrs. Fontana was more annoyed than Dean had figured, or she delighted in being as pompous as possible. Maybe both. “No, ma’am. We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses,” he supplied quickly.
“Your records include nothing to indicate that.”
“I know. Like I said, sometimes they don’t catch everything.”
“I highly doubt that they made an omission, Dean.” Mrs. Fontana pulled out a manila file and tapped it with one manicured nail. Dean could see a neatly printed label on the tab: “Winchester, D.” it read, with a sequence of numbers underneath it. “These are the records from your previous school. They include your transcripts, the number of days you were absent, the number of times you were seen by the principal, your school photograph, and even selected physical characteristics, such as your lack of known allergies and the date of your most recent tetanus shot.” She pursed her lips, giving her whole face a pinched look that accentuated her wrinkles. “So the fact that they could successfully transfer all this information, and yet somehow neglect to mention a religious affiliation that would affect your participation in school-sponsored solemnities is something I find highly suspicious. In fact, if I didn’t know better I might arrive at the conclusion that you are deliberately misrepresenting your family’s spiritual status in an effort to abstain from proceedings you find personally distasteful.” She paused to let that sink in—or at least, to give Dean a chance to figure out what she meant behind all the fancy words.
“You’re calling me a liar,” Dean complained.
“Certainly not,” Mrs. Fontana said primly. “I’m merely offering you an opportunity to reconsider your allegation.”
Dean squinted at her.
“To change your story, Dean,” she clarified. Her eyes were sharp and bead-like over the rims of her glasses.
“Oh. Well…maybe my family aren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Dean said. At her look of satisfaction, he continued quickly, “But I am.”
“Really? You willingly want to forego presents, decorations, candy in your stocking? You would rather attend church than wake up on Christmas morning to a wrapped box under your tree?”
“We don’t have a tree,” Dean pointed out, glad that he was absolutely telling the truth.
Mrs. Fontana wasn’t impressed. “Dean. Are you honestly telling me that you harbor a religious conviction that prohibits you from observing Christmas?”
Dean captured his lips between his teeth, jaw shifting to one side. If he ducked the Secret Santa, he could also duck other things, like whatever holiday assemblies or other stuff they had planned. But…he’d also miss out on the fun stuff. He wouldn’t have to waste money on someone’s present…but he wouldn’t get a present, either.
On the other hand, if he changed his story now, Mrs. Fontana would know he’d been lying. And she’d win.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Dean said carefully. “Christmas really doesn’t mean a whole lot to our family.”
“There’s more to religion than liking or not liking a single holiday, Dean,” Mrs. Fontana said softly. For once, her customary pretension was absent. She spoke like a real person.
“I never said I didn’t like it, Mrs. Fontana,” Dean pointed out politely. “It’s just not much different for us. Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t do anything different either, so….”
“So you thought you’d trick me into letting you sit out on the festivities?”
She was so frank about it that the comment actually stung Dean a little. “It wasn’t a trick,” he lied. “Honest. I just…I was trying it. Being one, I mean.”
Mrs. Fontana took off her glasses. Without them, she looked younger, softer. Her eyes were bright blue, Dean noticed. She tapped his records again. “I’m not sure what conditions were in your previous school…or previous schools, I should say…but I think you’re used to being able to tell your teachers stories. And because they’re plausible stories and because you’re an affable young man, no doubt, they believe you. Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to have anything to say about religion, or the lack thereof, in one of my students. So I’m not going to discuss with you the intricacies of any religious conversion, except to caution you not to take such a decision lightly. Your religious beliefs are your own business, Dean, but they’re also an intensely personal decision, and they should be meaningful. Not based on whether or not you have enough money for a Secret Santa present. Hm?”
Dean had been scowling when she started lecturing him again, but as he looked up to answer, he saw something on her face that was so out of place, Dean wondered how it had come to rest there: She was smiling. Not a condescending smile, nor an indulgent one, but a straightforward, genuine smile. Seeing it surprised Dean enough to return the gesture. Unfortunately, she took this for confirmation.
“If you’re worried about spending your Christmas budget on this gift, there are things you can do that don’t cost anything. You’re bright, Dean. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Mrs. Fontana put her glasses back on and the approachable, kind version of Mrs. Fontana disappeared behind the frames. “I suggest you take a look at your recipient’s name, Mr. Winchester, back at your desk.”
Continue to Chapter 3
Author:
gwendolyngraceRecipient:
celtic_cookieRequest terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 4,215
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: As luck would have it, 1990’s Thanksgiving and Christmas fell on the same dates – and days of the week – as this year’s. Helpful! This fic started as a small casefile and it’s grown like whoa, so look for additional chapters between now and the January 31 deadline. Thanks to
etakyma who took time from her busy Christmas schedule to beta.THEN
NOW:
The next morning, John stumbled to the kitchen to set up his coffee. He walked down to their mailbox for the paper, then back upstairs and into the kitchen to assemble bowls of instant oatmeal for Dean and Sam. Since he worked starting as early as 9 AM and ending anywhere up to 11 PM, John liked to see the boys off before school. Otherwise, he’d only lay eyes on them while they slept.
Dean generally showed his face first, coming out to eat while Sam took his turn in the bathroom. Either he or John would eventually have to roust Sam out to the kitchen, since he tended to be sluggish about getting dressed. But first, Dean and John both liked to read the paper over breakfast—John for headlines and leads, Dean for sports scores, and both of them for comics. John still chuckled about the day when Dean, who couldn’t have been more than six at the time, announced to his father that reading the paper in one’s pajamas was a man’s “prerogative.”
“Did Jeff tell you that?” John guessed, noting the ten-cent word and attributing it to the last place the boys had been staying.
“Mr. Jefferson says a man ain’t a man if he can’t enjoy a paper an’ a pipe ’fore getting dressed,” Dean replied. “Dad, d’you think I’m old enough to smoke a pipe?”
“No.”
“How old do I have to be before I can?”
“Fifty,” John said immediately. “That goes double for cigarettes,” he added. “In fact, anything that people smoke.”
Dean had shrugged and told John solemnly, “That’s okay, Daddy. Uncle Bobby let me try a cigarette when I asked, an’ it was gross.”
John had gritted his teeth over that one and reminded himself that alternate parenting strategies were a hazard when one left one’s kids with friends. Well, colleagues.
Friends.
This morning, Dean pulled out the comics section to read “Garfield” and plunked himself into his chair while John poured the hot water into his oatmeal. Dean grunted his thanks and reached for one of the sugar packets, pilfered from their last meal out. He tore open the wrapper and sprinkled the contents into his oatmeal, stirring without even really looking.
“How was school yesterday?” John asked, pouring himself more coffee after setting the kettle back on the burner for Sam’s breakfast. He came and sat with Dean at the counter. It was designed as a bar, with high chairs around a peninsula that opened onto the entryway and living room. Underneath were the silverware drawer, the drawer where John stashed all the condiment packets, and the cabinet where he stored the second-hand pots and pans he’d brought in with them when they moved. The curved end could fit three chairs and had just enough flat space for them all to eat together.
“Fine.”
“Anything big today?”
“Nope.”
“Do your homework?”
“Yup.”
“Sammy have any homework?”
“A little. He did it before supper.”
“Okay.” The conversation was easy, familiar, dare he even think, routine.
“Are you working today?”
“Yeah. I’ll be late again. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. Only I think we’re out of Chef Boyardee.”
“Hm.” John opened the cupboard between the sink and the fridge. “There’s Ramen.”
“It’s the shrimp kind. Sammy’ll only eat the chicken or beef flavors.”
John rolled his eyes. “Okay,” he said, “hang on.” He went down the hall. The bathroom door was still closed. He pounded on it. “Get a move on, Sam,” he called. Hearing a muffled affirmative, he moved on to his bedroom and picked up his wallet from the nightstand.
Back in the kitchen, Dean had finished the comics and was pulling the sports section out of the paper. “Here,” John said, handing Dean a $20 note from his billfold. “I’ll try to get to the store before I go to work, but just in case I don’t, you can order a pizza.”
Dean grinned at Jackson’s etching. “Can we order pizza anyway?”
John ruffled his hair, turning it halfway through to a head bobble. “No, but I’ll tell you what: if you don’t have to, you and Sammy can split the money for your Christmas fund.”
Dean’s face expanded in all directions at once: eyes widened, eyebrows sprang upward, and his jaw dropped a fraction of an inch; a second later his muscles settled themselves into an expression of affected boredom. “Cool, thanks,” he said, trying to sound as urbane as possible.
“Hmph. Finish your oatmeal.”
Sam wandered in. He had dressed, but his hair stuck out in every direction. “It’s called a hairbrush, Sam,” John said when he regarded his son’s lack of grooming. “I know you’ve got one.”
“My hair’s too wet to brush,” Sam said defensively.
“It’s too long not to brush,” John argued. “You know the drill, dude. Keep it tidy or we get it cut.”
“I like mine short,” Dean volunteered.
John sighed. He knew Dean was trying to help, the way he used to when Sam wouldn’t eat something, or when it seemed only he could unlock the secret of what would make Sam stop crying. Still, the notion that sometimes Dean was a more effective influence on Sam than the boy’s own father grated on John. “Yes, thank you, Dean,” he said too loudly. He poured water over the oatmeal.
“Not too much!” Sam shrieked.
John pulled up on the kettle in exasperation. “Sam.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
John resisted the urge to point out that he’d been subject to Sam’s preferences for longer than Sam himself had been aware of them, had had to figure them out the hard way, by trial and error. He remembered that Dean, his human vacuum cleaner, had gone through a picky stage, too, cured only by patience that John frankly considered should qualify him for sainthood. And if Dean had needed John’s superhuman tolerance to push him through not eating, Sam—stubborn, bull-headed, authority-questioning Sam—would need John’s absolute indefatigable fortitude.
So instead of making a comment that would only make John sound at least as pissy as his seven-year-old, he asked, “How was school yesterday?”
“Okay,” Sam replied. He looked over at Dean. Dean met his brother’s eyes. Was it John’s imagination or did Dean shake his head ever so slightly before rolling his eyes and setting down the paper?
“Was yesterday a music day? Or an art day?” John pressed. He could never remember the kids’ schedules, was usually impressed that the boys did as well at re-learning each school’s routine as they did at keeping his profession a secret.
“Music,” Sam said, blushing. “We’re learning a dumb song.”
“Dumb?”
“It doesn’t make any sense.”
“What do you mean?” John sipped his coffee and picked up the comics page. The paper here had “Sally Forth,” which had been a welcome surprise.
“The words are all gibberish,” Sam explained, stirring his oatmeal and tasting an experimental spoonful. “Do we have any more sugar?”
Dean opened the drawer and tossed Sam more packets, keeping another for himself and dumping it on top of his congealing oatmeal.
“Are they in another language?” John asked.
“Oh.” Sam sat back in his chair as if he hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe. Not Latin, though. I’d know if it was Latin.”
“Yeah, I guess you would,” John agreed. He’d been proud and a little shocked when Sam had first shown him that he could read by pulling out Jim’s big Latin psalter and reciting “Dominus pascit me” in a high-pitched but steady rhythm. “Do you remember any of the words? Maybe I can tell you if they mean anything.” Big maybe, he thought, but he remembered a smattering of high school German and French. And how hard could a song be if it was being taught to second-graders?
Dean spooned his oatmeal, watching Sam closely. Sam swallowed a mouthful of oatmeal that otherwise could be used as Spackle and gave it a shot.
“Well, the main part goes, ‘Oat, On, and Balm.’ They say that a lot.”
“Oat, On…. O Tannenbaum?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, Sam: O Tannenbaum,” John repeated. “It’s German. It means Christmas tree.”
Dean and Sam both looked at him with renewed awe. John glanced back and forth between them. “What?”
Sam recovered first. “I didn’t know you could speak German, Dad,” he said slowly.
“Don’t really, but I took a little of it in school. Anyway, it’s a Christmas carol. If you think about it, I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”
Dean scraped his bowl with his spoon for the last mouthful. “Must be old fogey music,” he said dryly.
Sam snorted. So did John, covering it up by sipping the coffee. “Rinse your bowl; I’ll wash up before work.”
As Dean got up and crossed to the sink, John noticed Dean’s pajama cuffs. “Dean? Are your PJ’s up above your ankles?”
Dean looked down. The pajama cuffs hugged the base of his calf. “I guess,” he said cautiously.
“Are they hiked up?” John probed.
Dean swiped his left pajama leg with his right foot. The cuff descended about a quarter inch. “Um, no?”
John scratched his stubbly chin. “Well, did they shrink in the wash? Or are you really growing that fast?”
Dean bit his lip, thinking. He pulled at the front of his pants, then looked up. “I don’t think I shrank them. Sam?”
“We did laundry on Sunday,” Sam recited through his last spoonful of gluey oatmeal. “One load of whites and one load of other stuff. We did the other stuff on cold.”
“Shouldn’t have shrunk then,” John mused. “Damn. Well, okay, I guess I know what’s going under the tree for you.”
Sam came to Dean’s defense quickly. “Clothes don’t count!”
John crossed his arms. “Clothes count, Sammy. They just never count as the only present.”
“Or the main present,” Sam stipulated.
“Or the main present,” John affirmed. This was what Sammy had taken to calling the one gift John always gave each boy “from Santa,” which he took care to make something, if not specifically on their list, at least more frivolous than the other presents. Some years, Santa was more frivolous than others, but he never brought them socks or even books; the “boring” presents landed squarely in John’s domain.
“Dad, they’re fine,” Dean said. “They fit, they’re just short. So what?”
John sighed with tight lips. “Okay. But if they blow out, don’t be a martyr about it, dude. They’re just PJs, it’s not going to break the bank.”
“Yessir.”
“You better get dressed or you’ll be late.”
Dean hurried off to comply. “What about you, anything exciting on tap today?” John asked Sam.
Sam shrugged. “Dunno.”
“Dean said you did your homework. Want me to check it for you?”
“No. It’s right.”
“What was it?”
“Addition. A couple fractions. Easy. And I had to copy out a spelling list, but I did that at school.”
“That’s it? No term papers? No book report on War and Peace?”
“Dad, I’m in second grade,” Sam said, his tone somewhere between haughty and indignant. “They don’t make you do stuff like that until at least fifth.”
“Oh, okay,” John gave in with an assessing frown. “How about any art projects? No volcanoes or cardboard dioramas?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry I forgot to tell you about the volcano model that one time. I won’t do it again, okay?”
“Relax, Sammy,” John said, putting a hand on his boy’s shoulder. Dean tended to give John’s teasing right back to him, but he always forgot how it agitated Sam. Somehow John’s brand of humor was lost on the kid. “I’m just checking in on you. I’m allowed, you know, I am your dad.”
Sam scuffed his foot against the floor. “Yeah, I know, sir. M’sorry.”
“It’s okay, sport. But you know, holidays are around the corner. Seems to me they’re gonna ask for some kind of project before the break.” He scrubbed his chin with his fingers. “You gotta let me know if we need to prepare anything ahead of time, right?”
Sam’s eyes bugged out and his face grew red. “I said I know,” he said defensively.
“Hey, this is important stuff, dude,” John said as gently as he could, even though he could feel his gorge rising. “I’m not saying this to get on your case, Sam. I just don’t want you to get caught flat-footed again. So anything going on, stuff to bring for class, or whatever, you tell me. Got that?”
Sam chewed on the inside of his cheek and nodded.
“Can’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir,” Sam said, meeting John’s chin with his eyes.
“Okay,” John said, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. “Go brush your hair and get your books.” He sent the boy off with a light swat toward his butt.
Dean returned, now dressed for school. “There’s one thing I’m wondering,” he said, leaning against the kitchen wall, where it joined the hallway.
“What’s that?”
“Are we actually getting a tree?”
John rolled his eyes. “We’ll make it a Charlie Brown Christmas, kiddo. Find a sincere shrub and we’ll talk.”
Dean laughed.
John picked up Sam’s bowl and put it in the sink, added a little water. “Sam! Move it, mister.”
Sam trotted to the living room with his bookbag and the pair of snow pants that John had bought along with the down coats for both boys. Sam sat on the couch to pull the pants on over his jeans. Dean looked down at him. “Gotta go before you put all that on?”
“No.”
“I’m just saying. You put on the snow pants and next thing you know….”
“Screw off, Dean.” He crossed to the coat hooks by the apartment door and pulled down his jacket.
Dean cackled. “Look, Dad, Sammy’s trying to swear. ‘Screw off,’ how cute.” Dean reached out to ruffle Sam’s hair, and Sam got his hand up to block just in time, followed through with the counterpunch. Dean caught his arm and twisted it. Sam walked into the twist, resulting in the two of them rotating on the axis of Sam’s wrist for half a turn.
“Training later. School now, boys.”
They dropped their hands. Dean reached for his scarf while John crouched in front of Sam to zip his down jacket. Sam sighed. “Now I gotta go,” he revealed glumly.
~*~
Snow had blanketed the ground outside. Little hillocks ran along the sides of the walkways where the plow had been. It left a scraped layer, grooved with the treads of the blade. Sam turned around, walking backward.
“Quit it,” Dean ordered.
“I’m making my tracks go backward, Dean,” Sam explained.
“You’re slowing us down, and we’re already late because of your extra pee break.”
Sam ran to catch up. He gripped the hood of his coat awkwardly with his mittens. “Do you sometimes think Dad’s psychic?”
Dean frowned. “Whaddaya mean?”
“Well…it was like he knew about the pageant.”
“Sam, everyone has concerts and plays and stuff around this time of year. Dad doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that. Anyway, you almost gave it away.”
“No, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. Hold my hand,” Dean added before they crossed the busy intersection at Vermont and Elm. The light changed and they hurried to the other side. “You told him about the song. Think about it, Sammy. Why would you be learning a song if you aren’t in some kind of concert or a pageant or something, huh?”
Sam blanched, despite the cold making his cheeks glow. “He asked about music. I thought he’d think it was for music class.”
“Yeah. Well, you’re lucky. But that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. You raised his suspicions.”
“Will you get in trouble?”
“You mean if he finds out? Maybe. So he’s not gonna, right?”
“Right.”
Dean let go of Sam’s hand well before they rounded the corner and came within sight of Jerome’s front yard. There was always a crossing guard on duty here, which Dean found typically jacked up, because apart from parents dropping off their kids in their cars, there really wasn’t any traffic on this corner. But Elm was a main drag and only a block away, yet there was never a crossing guard stationed there where it would have been useful. It was what Dad would have called SNAFU.
The only good thing about it was that Dean didn’t have to be seen in public holding his brother’s hand.
“It’s s’posed to snow again tonight,” Dean told Sam before letting him run into the building. “Wait inside the doors, but watch for me so you can come out as soon as I get here. I’m not standing around in the cold again. Got that, shrimp?”
“Okay, Dean, jeez, stop acting like such a jerk.”
“M’just saying. Not like you’re gonna be busy singing.” Dean smirked. His nose was running again from the cold. “See you later, geek-boy.”
He kept walking, hearing Sam call, “Bye, Dean!” but not waiting for it. He swiped his nose with his knit cuff.
Dean increased his pace, aware that he was running late. He was sweating by the time he reached South, but he made it ahead of the first bell.
“You may remember, class, that today is the day we’re drawing for our secret holiday gift exchange,” Mrs. Fontana said after the morning announcements. “We’ll exchange gifts on the last day of term—that’s Friday, the 21st. Now, I know that not everyone can participate in the exchange—yes, Chenaya, I know—but I’ve put the names of those who can into this.” She held up an opaque cookie jar in the shape of a penguin. “Please form a line on the left side of the classroom, draw a name from the jar, and if it isn’t your own, resume your seat. Yes, Dean?”
“I can’t, ma’am,” Dean said quickly, putting his hand back down. He didn’t want to squander his Christmas fund on a stranger. He figured if the lie had worked for Sam, it would do for him as well.
Mrs. Fontana regarded him suspiciously over the rims of her reading glasses. They were small and rectangular and looked like they’d come from another century. “Please approach, Dean,” she said. Dean had already learned this was her way of calling him up for a private conversation, like a judge asking for a sidebar. Several of the kids tittered or whispered as he walked to the desk.
“There’s nothing in your records about a legitimate reason not to participate in school holiday festivities, Dean,” she said softly.
“I’m not surprised,” Dean replied, ready for the objection. “It’s happened before. Sometimes the records don’t all arrive, um, intact.”
Mrs. Fontana looked like she didn’t believe him. “I don’t have time to go digging through the slips for your name now. Kindly draw a name anyway, for the time being, and then you and I can work out what to do during your study hall.” She raised her voice to address the class. “Everyone, get in line, please.”
Dean stayed in front of the desk while everyone snapped to Mrs. Fontana’s directions. She lifted an eyebrow, her gaze clearly telling Dean not to challenge her authority in front of the others. Dean held her eyes just long enough to make it clear, in return, that he was capitulating not because he feared her, but because he chose to comply. He was doing her a favor, not the other way around. When he was sure she got the message, but before she could accuse him of insubordination, Dean spun on his heel and marched over to join the line.
Dad said ninety percent of any confrontation was won by establishing one’s dominance right off the bat.
He brought his slip of paper back to Mrs. Fontana during Study Hall. “Thank you,” Mrs. Fontana said crisply. “But you have yet to explain to my satisfaction why you ought to be excluded from the exercise.”
“Huh? Oh. You mean you want to know why I want out?”
“Are you in some doubt as to what I said, Dean?”
Either Mrs. Fontana was more annoyed than Dean had figured, or she delighted in being as pompous as possible. Maybe both. “No, ma’am. We’re Jehovah’s Witnesses,” he supplied quickly.
“Your records include nothing to indicate that.”
“I know. Like I said, sometimes they don’t catch everything.”
“I highly doubt that they made an omission, Dean.” Mrs. Fontana pulled out a manila file and tapped it with one manicured nail. Dean could see a neatly printed label on the tab: “Winchester, D.” it read, with a sequence of numbers underneath it. “These are the records from your previous school. They include your transcripts, the number of days you were absent, the number of times you were seen by the principal, your school photograph, and even selected physical characteristics, such as your lack of known allergies and the date of your most recent tetanus shot.” She pursed her lips, giving her whole face a pinched look that accentuated her wrinkles. “So the fact that they could successfully transfer all this information, and yet somehow neglect to mention a religious affiliation that would affect your participation in school-sponsored solemnities is something I find highly suspicious. In fact, if I didn’t know better I might arrive at the conclusion that you are deliberately misrepresenting your family’s spiritual status in an effort to abstain from proceedings you find personally distasteful.” She paused to let that sink in—or at least, to give Dean a chance to figure out what she meant behind all the fancy words.
“You’re calling me a liar,” Dean complained.
“Certainly not,” Mrs. Fontana said primly. “I’m merely offering you an opportunity to reconsider your allegation.”
Dean squinted at her.
“To change your story, Dean,” she clarified. Her eyes were sharp and bead-like over the rims of her glasses.
“Oh. Well…maybe my family aren’t Jehovah’s Witnesses,” Dean said. At her look of satisfaction, he continued quickly, “But I am.”
“Really? You willingly want to forego presents, decorations, candy in your stocking? You would rather attend church than wake up on Christmas morning to a wrapped box under your tree?”
“We don’t have a tree,” Dean pointed out, glad that he was absolutely telling the truth.
Mrs. Fontana wasn’t impressed. “Dean. Are you honestly telling me that you harbor a religious conviction that prohibits you from observing Christmas?”
Dean captured his lips between his teeth, jaw shifting to one side. If he ducked the Secret Santa, he could also duck other things, like whatever holiday assemblies or other stuff they had planned. But…he’d also miss out on the fun stuff. He wouldn’t have to waste money on someone’s present…but he wouldn’t get a present, either.
On the other hand, if he changed his story now, Mrs. Fontana would know he’d been lying. And she’d win.
“I’ve been thinking about it,” Dean said carefully. “Christmas really doesn’t mean a whole lot to our family.”
“There’s more to religion than liking or not liking a single holiday, Dean,” Mrs. Fontana said softly. For once, her customary pretension was absent. She spoke like a real person.
“I never said I didn’t like it, Mrs. Fontana,” Dean pointed out politely. “It’s just not much different for us. Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t do anything different either, so….”
“So you thought you’d trick me into letting you sit out on the festivities?”
She was so frank about it that the comment actually stung Dean a little. “It wasn’t a trick,” he lied. “Honest. I just…I was trying it. Being one, I mean.”
Mrs. Fontana took off her glasses. Without them, she looked younger, softer. Her eyes were bright blue, Dean noticed. She tapped his records again. “I’m not sure what conditions were in your previous school…or previous schools, I should say…but I think you’re used to being able to tell your teachers stories. And because they’re plausible stories and because you’re an affable young man, no doubt, they believe you. Strictly speaking, I’m not supposed to have anything to say about religion, or the lack thereof, in one of my students. So I’m not going to discuss with you the intricacies of any religious conversion, except to caution you not to take such a decision lightly. Your religious beliefs are your own business, Dean, but they’re also an intensely personal decision, and they should be meaningful. Not based on whether or not you have enough money for a Secret Santa present. Hm?”
Dean had been scowling when she started lecturing him again, but as he looked up to answer, he saw something on her face that was so out of place, Dean wondered how it had come to rest there: She was smiling. Not a condescending smile, nor an indulgent one, but a straightforward, genuine smile. Seeing it surprised Dean enough to return the gesture. Unfortunately, she took this for confirmation.
“If you’re worried about spending your Christmas budget on this gift, there are things you can do that don’t cost anything. You’re bright, Dean. I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Mrs. Fontana put her glasses back on and the approachable, kind version of Mrs. Fontana disappeared behind the frames. “I suggest you take a look at your recipient’s name, Mr. Winchester, back at your desk.”
Continue to Chapter 3
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YAY.
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Glad you're enjoying it so far!
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JOHN! John being all fatherly and knowing and DEAN lying and his teacher catching him and little wee Sammy with his stubborness, and his earnest concern and OH GWEN. OH! I just...OH!
Oh, I just am SO SO pleased with your John. He's really the John Winchester who started a college fund and spent it on ammo. He really is. This is what i was hoping for when I made the request, someone who would treat John well and show them as a family unit without betraying the fucked-up-ness that is the Winchesters. Oh, oh, oh! This is my favorite Christmas present.
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So much flail.
I'm so glad you're enjoying it so far. It makes me full of squee.
I'm writing in chapter 7 now, and I'm somewhere near the halfway point (I think?). I really, really hadn't intended this to take on so much length, but the more I get into the situation they're in, the more I'm finding about HOW they functioned as a family at this point.
Of course, it was much easier for John to be fatherly and knowing when they were this young (this is one year before the 3.08 flashback), but I do think that he tried to balance between father and drill sergeant for some time. I also deliberately made this hunt fairly local, so he doesn't have to be off on the road completely.
There will be lots more to come, so stay tuned!
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All excellent stuff.
:)
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The hardest thing about this, I'm finding, is balancing the "family" stuff with the casefile, although that's usually my source of angst whenever I'm writing a case-based fic.
It's also getting longer as I find out more about how they've established their routines. The request was for family bonding and so that's a major factor in the pacing and subplot development.
Glad you're enjoying it! Stay tuned....