A.N. Hey you all! I'm going to start on (I KNOW it's overused…but screw it) a Winchester Christmas Special and I'm going to try to write one chapter every day. Though, I may miss one because I'd rather have awesome chapters every other day than crappy, short chapters every day. So…bear with me. Also…ages…Sam is 7 and Dean is 11. You'll like it…very fluffy and with my signature Ingenue humor sprinkled in it.
Little Sam Winchester had been pressing down too hard on the coloring paper with the forest green crayola crayon he'd been using. He'd severed the thin little crayon so greatly that it was only hanging together by a little piece of the fuzzy, thick green crayon paper that had formerly been coiled snugly around the wax stick.
Sam let out a frustrated groan and threw the bottom half of the broken crayon over his shoulder, deciding to continue coloring with the top half. He had to finish this coloring sheet for his first grade class. And he had to color perfectly inside the lines. Even at seven years old he was a perfectionist. He wouldn't compromise for a substandard opus.
On the paper was the outline of a very symmetrical Christmas tree with a large star on the top that was quite out of proportion with the tree. There were also little outlines of circles inside the tree to represent ornaments. Sam decided he wanted to color those red and blue. The star he would color yellow, of course. Maybe once he finished the ornaments and star, he'd draw purple tinsel on the tree.
After a few minutes of slowly making smooth, green strokes on the paper, he put down the green crayon. He had completed the green part of the tree.
Sam let out a sigh as he looked up at his surroundings. It was an upgrade from the usual one-star motels. An apartment. Albeit a drab, dank one with bleak, stark white walls, old, threadbare Berber carpeting, and grey, dusty furniture.
He was sitting in the living room at a small, fold-out card table…alone. So depressing, so dreary.
"It shouldn't be like this," Sam thought wistfully to himself.
In class that day he learned what homes were supposed to look like around December. A fire should be crackling in the fireplace with stockings hung above in neat little rows. Large red bows and wreaths of pinecones should adorn the house. There should be candles, electric little lights, snow falling outside, floor littered with Christmas crafts, the smell of cookies baking in the oven, Christmas music playing on the radio, and of course, a large, dazzling Christmas tree bedecked with tinsel, tiny lights, glass balls, fairies, angels, stars…
That's how houses around December typically should look like. Unfortunately for Sam, the Winchesters were not a typical family. His father and his big brother, Dean were out of the house…not Christmas shopping, but browsing an occult store for crushed scarab beetles and bottled holy water. The Winchesters didn't celebrate Christmas.
Sam sighed forlornly and held up the picture of his incomplete drawing.
"You can be my Christmas tree," Sam whispered softly to his humble masterpiece.
Sam put down the paper and reached into his yellow cardboard crayola box, producing a slender, ruby red crayon. He began carefully filling in some of the little ornaments, making his strokes dark and even. Then, once he was satisfied with the red glass balls, he began coloring in the remaining ornaments with a cobalt blue shade that he had selected with care.
When he finished with the blue ornaments, all that was left was the big five-pointed star on top of the tree.
"I'm gonna make this one good," Sam said resolutely to himself, pulling out a glittery gold crayon. Though at first he had wanted a lemon yellow, he thought gold would be prettier.
And with that, Sam held the crayon like a warrior and embarked on his quest. His quest to make the best damn star a first grader has ever colored.
So Sam, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth, began steadily drawing with the beautiful gold crayon, being very careful not to break it.
"Sammy! We're back!" The voice of his father, John Winchester, rang out as a door slammed behind him. There was the sound of two sets of feet on linoleum and then the resonance of scuffling on the Berber carpet in the living room.
"That store was freakin' awesome, Sam!" Dean exclaimed much louder than necessary. "Too bad you're still too much of a munchkin to be allowed in. It's ten and up!" Dean stuck out his tongue at Sam.
"Dean, be nice to your little brother!" John scolded his older son.
"Shut it!" John then turned to Sam, voice softened slightly. "How was school today, son?"
"Probably stupid…as usual," Dean scoffed, popping the collar of his kid-sized leather jacket and running a hand through his hair that he had spiked up with gel.
"Dean, if you don't shut your little prepubescent mouth right now, I swear I'll never take you to the occult store until you're 17." John snapped.
"But I like the occ-…" Dean paused, screwing up his face in thought. "Oculars…Oculist…Oculus…"
"Occult," Sam piped in while putting the finishing touches on his star.
"Very good, Sammy," John remarked, impressed. "Looks like your seven year old brother is becoming smarter than you, Dean."
"Whatever," Dean snorted, hiding his humiliation of being outsmarted by a first grader. "He's just a know-it-all freak."
"School was super good today!" Sam announced, putting his name neatly on the bottom of his artwork. "We did lots of art stuff called "crafts" like makin' snowflakes, stickin' cotton together to make snowmen…I made a snowdemon…Mrs. Davis didn't like it, though, but all my friends said it was neat…"
"A snowdemon?" John chuckled. "Ol' Mrs. What's-her-name probably hasn't seen many of those."
"Mrs. Davis," Sam corrected John. Sam had always admired his teachers, especially Mrs. Davis who always made every day fun while teaching them something.
"Oh…Sammy?!" Dean leapt up in front of John and pulled something out of a black plastic bag that was gripped in his father's hand. "Look what I got at the freaky demon store!"
Before Sam could even think, Dean was waving a shriveled rooster head in front of his face. It was a disgusting thing with a twisted, blackened beak, a disfigured face that looked like melting wax, and freakish, reddish eyes that resembled raisins.
It was a frightening sight for even the toughest of seven year olds so naturally Sam let out a rather girly scream which made Dean begin slapping his knees, laughing like a loon.
"Ha ha! You're such a little girl!" Dean teased his horror-stricken little brother. "It's just a freakin' rooster head!"
"Dean!" John snatched the rooster away from Dean and stuck it back in the bag. "Just because you think you're all big and tough doesn't mean you need to be a jackass to your little brother."
"What's a jackass?" Sam inquired. His stunning green eyes were filled with curiosity as well as tears.
There was a short, but intense silence that made John realize what had slipped in front of his first grade son.
"Erm…" John twiddled his fingers. "That's…a very bad word…um…don't say it."
"Daaaaaaad!" Dean whined, pulling on the hem of John's heavy coat. "Can I have my rooster back now?"
"No!" John snapped viciously. Dean jumped back, alarmed. Once again John had recognized he'd made a mistake. He'd lost his temper. So, he took a deep breath and started again,
"Not until you apologize to your brother. Once you give a nice, good apology…you can have the rooster head back." John looked sternly at Dean.
Dean lowered his head. "Yes sir,"
"Alright then," John turned around and plopped down on one of the grey couches, turning on the television. "Go ahead."
Sam was still shaking slightly once Dean had turned to face him. He was holding a trembling violet-colored crayon in his hand. He'd decided to add the purple tinsel after all.
Dean sighed. Though he wouldn't admit it, his brother was pretty cute sometimes. "Sammy?"
"Y-Yeah?" Sam looked up, gently putting down his crayon.
"I'm…sorry," Dean looked down at his shoes. "I just was playing a joke."
Sam gazed at Dean, his brother, and clandestinely his idol, with hope in his face. "Really?"
"Really," Dean nodded.
"Your…apol-…" Sam's brow furrowed as he tried to say the word. "Apology acc-…accepted." Sam beamed at his knowledge of so many big words.
"Smartass," Dean mumbled.
"Watch your mouth!" John shouted from the sofa.
"Yes sir," Dean pouted a little. Then he began looking for dirt under his fingernails. They were in desperate need of scrubbing like most eleven year old boys' are.
Dean let out a bored yawn and sat down on the chair across from Sam at the card table. Sam was still hard at work, perfecting the tinsel.
"Done!" Sam had on a toothy grin as he held up his paper. "Look at it, Dean! Look what I drew!"
Dean grudgingly took the paper and looked down at the drawing. It was pretty good for a first grader's work. When Dean was in first grade he never colored in the lines. He always did his own thing.
"It's a Christmas tree," Dean said in monotone.
"It's pretty isn't it?" Sam was ravenous for Dean's appraisal. "Just like Christmas is, right?"
"Sammy, Christmas is stupid," Dean threw the drawing back at Sam. "So is this stupid tree."
"What?" Sam was crestfallen.
"Christmas is stupid," Dean repeated. "There is no stupid Jesus so there is no stupid day for him to be born on."
"What?" Sam said again, this time his voice was cracked and tears were welling up in his eyes. "But Christmas is…"
"To hell with Christmas!" Dean yelled.
This was too much for Sam. Did his big brother, the one he'd looked up to since he was born, really think Christmas was stupid? How could Dean ever think such a lovely, enjoyable thing as Christmas was stupid? Was this actually happening to him? Would he never wake up on December 25th with a stocking full of toys and presents under a Christmas tree? Would Dean, his dad, and he ever sing "Frosty the Snowman" and roast chestnuts over a fire?
All at once, tears were streaming down Sam's soft, ivory cheeks and he began sobbing and gasping like…like the child he was.
Immediately, John came to the rescue and rushed to Sam's side. He knelt down beside his weeping son and embraced him tightly.
"Dean!" John was exasperated at his elder child.
"I didn't do nothin'!" Dean held up his hands. "I swear,"
"Nothin' my ass," John snorted, not minding his language at all. He returned to his child in distress. "Why're you cryin' like that, Sammy?"
Sam let out a choked gasp. "Dad…is…is…Christmas really…stupid?" Sam began to wail.
John went silent for a minute. He actually did think Christmas was frivolous and unnecessary…but he had to say anything to get his son to stop crying. "Of course not, Sammy."
"But Dad…" Dean started.
"Hush!" John shushed Dean.
"Then…" Sam sniffed. "Why…don't we…have a…Christmas tree?"
"Um…" John bit his lip. "Well…"
"Or stockings…" Sam hiccupped. "Or…Christmas…dec-dec…decor-…"
"Decorations?" John tried to figure out what his son was trying to say.
"Yeah…those…" Sam looked up at his father. His eyes were red, puffy, and full of misery. "Why don't…we have Christmas?"
"Why not, Daddy?" Sam was looking a little more curious than upset now.
"Well…because…" John was almost babbling. "I don't know, son…"
"Could we have Christmas this year?" Sam's face lit up and his irresistible green eyes began sparkling with hope. "Oh, that would be the most greatest ever!'
"Oh no!" John thought. "Not the puppy-dog eyes!"
"Well…" John looked over at Dean, who shrugged in response,
"I don't care. You were the one that told me Christmas was stupid. I was just copyin' you."
"Please, Daddy!" Sam's lower lip stuck out slightly. "I want to have a Christmas."
John caved in. Sam had won. "Okay Sammy," John took a deep breath. "This year…we'll celebrate Christmas."