A Very Merry What?

Summary: Sam. Dean. Santa Claus. You do the math. Humor, no slash.

-

"Dean, quit it."

"Ahhh-choooo!"

"Dean."

"Ahhh…. Hey, I think it's— ahhh-choooo!"

"Dean, if it makes you sneeze, stay away from it!"

The elder Winchester brother regarded the mistletoe with obvious contempt, ignoring Sam. "Evil sonofabitchfriggin'pieceofcrap," he mumbled, and immediately began to sneeze again.

And again.

And again.

Sam glanced up from his nearly completed gingerbread house. "Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you're allergic?" His tone was patronizing, deliberately so.

Dean scowled and threw a Kleenex box at Sam's head. Sam ducked.

"Awww, dude, your germs are on that!"

Dean grinned. "You're smarter than you look, Sammy boy." He turned on the motel carpet to glare at Sam's attempt to spruce the place up a little with the decorations. "And I'm not allergict."

"Allergic."

"I think it's possessed," Dean declared, eyeing it warily, and two seconds later yelped when Sam chucked the purple flowery Kleenex box at the back of his head.

Sam laughed without mercy, putting the final touches on his candy creation.

"Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam retorted.

"Ass."

"Rudolph."

"Pretty- wait, what?"

Sam blinked at him with those wide green eyes of his, maintaining a perfectly straight face. "You think I'm pretty, Dean?"

"Oh, bite me," Dean threw the Kleenex box a second time, this time hitting his brother square in the forehead. "Whaddya mean, Rudolph?"

"Owww," Sam grumbled, rubbing the sore spot with three fingers. "I called you Rudolph 'cause you look like him, Einstein. Take a look in the mirror or something. Hah."

His brother did so and a string of curses erupted from his mouth. "I hate it when you're right." And sneezed.

"Shall I take it down?" Sam asked sweetly.

Dean growled at him. "Go to hell, Sam."

-

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I don't know, what does it look like you're doing?"

Sam stuck out his tongue. "I'm walking through the door with a grocery bag in my right hand. Anything else I can do for you, officer?"

"What's in the bag, Sam?" Dean asked, getting snippety.

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because." Sam held the bag protectively to his chest and darted past. Dean made an attempt to swipe at it and missed, glaring.

"Sam…"

"Dean…"

"Gimme the bag."

"No."

Dean set his jaw, frustrated. "What the hell, Sam? Did'ya stick Sarah in there or something?"

"No."

"Then what?"

"Cookies," Sam stated succinctly, with a proud grin on his face.

"Cookies?"

"Cookies," Sam confirmed, opening the bag for him to see. "Monster cookies from the gas station."

"What the hell were ya hidin' 'em for?" Dean demanded.

"It's fun to make you mad."

"Aughh…" Dean stormed over to the unmade bed of the two in the motel room and flopped down on his back, switching on the t.v. "Whatever, dude."

Sam nodded agreeably. "Okay." He found a piece of paper by his laptop, a pen, and began writing. Two minutes passed before Dean's curiosity got the better of him.

"Oh, god, please don't tell me that's like your Christmas list for Santa or nothin'."

Sam looked offended. "No."

"Then what are you writing?"

"A note."

Getting information out of his little brother was like trying to squeeze water out of a rock. Dean sighed. "To…?"

Sam held up the paper. In big block letters that stood out in stark contrast to the white, the note read:

DEAR SANTA: HELP YOURSELF. –SAM WINCHESTER

"Retard," Dean mumbled, turning up the volume.

Sam grinned and propped the folded paper against the glass of milk and beside the Styrofoam plate of "monster cookies from the gas station".

"Sam…"

Sam sighed loudly. "What…" in the exact same tone of voice.

"Did you have a drink when I wasn't looking?"

"Nobody caught me," the younger Winchester defended himself. "And I only had three of the little things." He held up his index finger and thumb about two and a half inches apart. "God, Dean, would you get off my case already?"

"Sheesh."

-

"I'm going to bed," Sam announced, as if it were something important. Dean's heavy-lidded eyes slid closed and he clicked off the t.v. "Fine."

"Goodnight, Dean."

The lights switched off. Sam crawled into bed.

"Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight, Sam."

"Merry Christmas!"

"Go to bed, Sam."

"Fine."

-

Sam's eyes popped open. The first thing that registered in his fuzzy little mind was that someone was creeping. He could hear it.

You're too loud, creeper, he thought, and rolled over. Thump. Oops. Maybe he was closer to the edge of the bed than he realized. Sam sat up, rubbing his head. Owww. Dean, the bedside table hit me…

Dean wasn't in his bed either.

Sam's inebriated brain instantly figured out what was going on. After all, it was Dean, and it didn't take a genius to know.

"Dean!" He hissed as quietly as he could, which wasn't really all that quietly. "Did you fall out of bed, too?"

Nothing.

"Dean."

Still nothing.

"DEAN!" Sam whispered loudly, peeking over the edge of the bed. For a brief moment, he wondered where the creeper went. He sure was quiet when he wanted to be. Hmm.

"For god's sake, Sam, what?"

Sam stopped and tried hard to remember. "Did you fall out of bed, too?"

"No, of course not. I went to the bathroom." Dean flicked on the lights. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Oh, lots of things," Sam replied offhandedly with a dismissive wave. His head throbbed. "But the bedside table hit me when I fell out of bed."

"The bedside table…" Dean shook his head, disgusted. "Sam, go back to bed."

"Ohhhkayyyy…" Sam hopped back under the blanket and closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Dean."

"Goodnight, Sam."

"Merry Christmas, Dean."

"Merry Christmas, Sam."

"Sweet dreams, Dean."

"Sam, go to bed."

"Hmph. Fine. I'll say it to myself, then. Sweet dreams, Sam."

Dean was silent for a full five minutes. When he was sure Sam was sound asleep, he carefully finished his cookie and stuffed the rest into a bag in his duffel bag. "Santa thanks you, Sammy."

-

Man, did his head hurt like hell.

Sam sat up groggily and yelled the first thing that popped into his head when he opened his eyes. "Santa ate my cookies!"

Dean growled something incomprehensible into his pillow. "Sam. Shut up. Santa did not eat your cookies."

But the hungover Sam had already moved on. "Did you hear the creeper last night?" he demanded.

"No." Dean's face was still buried in his pillow.

Finally Sam's eyes lit up as his keen gaze picked out something in Dean's duffel bag. "Dean! You're the creeper! You stole my cookies for Santa! You're such a grinch, Dean."

"A tired grinch," Dean reminded him grumpily.

Sam stumbled out of bed, snatched the mistletoe, and dangled it as close as he could to his brother's face, sending Dean into a sneezing fit.

"Take that, grinchy cookie thief."

-

END.