AN: I know that I haven't finished this since last Christmas, but the reason for that is some things happened last Christmas that left me unable to write anything for awhile. But this was written before the badness and it's basically just been sitting on my computer since last year. I figured in honor of the holiday spirit, I'd post it. I'm warning you now that unless I get some heavy duty inspiration for this story while I'm on Christmas vacation, this story will probably never be finished. But I felt bad that I didn't have anything Christmas-ey written, so...have this.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
All I Want For Christmas
Written by Becks Rylynn
Charlie Brown: I guess you were right, Linus. I shouldn't have picked this little tree. Everything I do turns into a disaster. I guess I really don't know what Christmas is all about. Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?
-A Charlie Brown Christmas
He gets into an argument with Sam just after the sun has gone down and it passes in blurs of hushed angry voices because neither of them wants Bray to hear. If at one point their voices get a little too loud, Bray doesn't hear because that's when she turns up the volume on Rudolph: The Red Nosed Reindeer and laughs extra loudly at something that isn't funny. (She's a smart girl, that Lila Bray.)
It's an odd argument, one about imaginary friends and invisible playmates and Sam is right (Sam is always right) but Dean is Dean and he is stubborn and hard headed and won't give up without a fight. Sam is arguing that there is something strange about Bray's new imaginary friend. Apparently, he walked in on Bray having a conversation with her new friend and it was...odd. To say the least.
And Dean shouldn't argue because there is something off about Bray's new friend, but as usual, when it comes to his daughter, he gets defensive and snaps at Sam. (It's that little voice's fault. The one in the back of his head that keeps telling him he's not good enough, he needs to do more, be better, try harder.) Just like always, Sam snaps right back (there is fire in the Winchester's blood, after all) and they both explode.
''Dean, are you aware that kids are haunted more than adults?''
''It's not a ghost,'' Dean says vehemently, ignoring the look Sam gives him. It's not, it can't be. That's crazy. ''It's just another one of her imaginary friends, Sam. It's not a big deal.''
''But the things she says - ''
''Sam!'' Dean's voice holds an unspoken warning (drop it, Sam, just...leave it alone) as he narrows his eyes at his brother. ''It's not. A. Big. Deal. I am not going to take away Lila Bray's imaginary friend.''
''I'm not asking you to take away...'' Sam trails off and his gaze moves to the doorway, his frustration instantly evaporating. ''Dean...''
But Dean has turned away from him, rummaging around in the cupboard for something a little bit stronger to add to the insipid hot cocoa he's been drinking lately. His eyes light up when his hand hits a familiar bottle because he's annoyed and overworked and it's the seventh time today his daughter has watched Rudolph: The Fucking Red Nosed Freakshow or whatever. (It wouldn't actually be so bad except now he's got this song stuck in his head: We're a couple of misfits, we're a couple of misfits, what's the matter with misfits? That's where we fit in. It's annoyingly catchy and fuck, it sounds just like the story of his life and if he's relating to a reindeer with some kind of weird tumor nose then he needs some alcohol. ...And he's totally Rudolph because he is undoubtedly cooler than a Dentist Elf. Honestly, what the fuck, man?) ''She is four years old, Sam,'' he says as he uncaps the bottle of whiskey and pours a little into the cocoa, purposefully ignoring the odd look his brother is sending him.
He stops, thinks about it...then adds a little more because we're a couple of misfits, we're a couple of - damn it! Stupid song.
''Dean,'' Sam's saying and Dean notes the warning edge to his brother's voice but it doesn't deter him one bit.
(In the space he can't touch, Ruby's eyes have gone black and she's hissing out a desperate, ''Keep your mouth shut, Winchester.'')
''I mean,'' Dean chuckles bitterly and the hot drink burns his tongue and throat when he takes a gulp. ''Maybe while I'm at it, I should just tell her Santa Claus isn't real.''
Panic and anger line Sam's voice but all Dean can hear is this little tiny sound that makes his heart stop. A voice. It's small and fragile, like glass. It makes ice fill his veins. ''S-Santa Claus isn't...r-real?''
Oh, fuck no.
He whirls around so fast the mixture of harsh alcohol and sickeningly sweet chocolate sloshes over the rim of the mug and burns his hand.
She's standing there in the doorway, her fingers desperately clutching a piece of paper, her eyes bright with tears, her lower lip quivering. His breathing picks up speed and for a moment he can't do anything but stare at her because his brain doesn't seem to be functioning. He thinks he may be having a stroke of some kind. She stares back, but only for a second and then the tears spill over. She lets out a despairing, choked sob and runs, the paper in her hands falling soundlessly to the floor.
''Bray!'' Sam rushes after her.
Dean would like to follow but he can't seem to move.
(''You,'' Ruby snarls, ''are a moron.'' Forgetting for a moment about longing and grief, she turns on her heel and races after Bray and Sam. And she only looks back once.)
He remains standing where he is for at least three minutes, perfectly still, breathing raggedly. And then he starts to tremble. Seemingly calm, save the shaking hands, he places the mug down and walks around the counter, snatching the piece of paper off the ground. It's a letter written in green and red crayon. More specifically, it is a very cheery letter to Santa Claus.
'Dear Santa,' it reads, 'I know I already sent you a letter and everything and it's kinda late but I have something else to ask you for. It's real important. I would like you to make my daddy happy again. I want you to give him back my mommy.'
What the fuck has he done?
He figures he has three choices right now. Cry, throw something, or hyperventilate. Since he doesn't have any paper bags to breathe into and he does not feel like being a pansy at this particular moment in time (check back later when he's fighting tears in bed), he doesn't even stop to think as he grabs his mug and hurls it at the wall, watching in part fascination and part satisfaction as chocolate and whiskey drips down the wall. ''Fuck Christmas,'' he chokes out after a moment because he just can't do this anymore. ''Just...fuck it.''
...The television starts to sing.
''We're a couple of misfits, we're a couple of misfits, what's the matter with misfits? That's where we - ''
''Dear Editor. I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, ''If you see it in The Sun, it's so.'' Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?''
end chapter two
AN: Was that possibly a little depressing? Oh, well. I guess I'll have to try and write a happy ending for this story while I'm on vacation. Damn my need to please people!
Love to you all!