AN-My take on everyone's Christmas movie adaptations including supernatural characters. So satire, mostly. I don't know if this is going to stay a oneshot or become a full story. It depends how badly the holidays stress me out.

A Christmas Carol for the Tone Deaf

In E Minor

Large puffs of snow fell softly, tangling themselves in Sam's dark tresses before melting into icy kisses as the hunter sat on the house step, eyes unseeing as he stared across the blanketed earth. Despite usually being the sentimental Winchester, tonight Sam paid no heed to the way the pale moonlight sparkled on the dancing flakes, or the way lights of joy and wonder lit up the street. No, tonight Sam was going out of his way to ignore the magic and splendor of the holiday season.

Which was why he had banished himself to outside. Even from where he sat he could hear Dean's voracious laughter, soaked in rum and genuine delight. He could picture the way his brother's cheeks would be flushed with the alcohol from Bobby's eggnog as the curmudgeonly hunter told stories of times when he had gotten into trouble. Somehow the pair of them had even managed to get Castiel to beam down for the night, though the angel spent the time frowning at his beverage.

Sam didn't want to ruin that for everyone else. Just because he didn't like the holiday was no reason to pop everyone else's balloon. He knew that it was his own weakness that he couldn't seem to fight past the dark memories of waiting up all night not for Santa Clause, but for a father who wasn't going to come, despite all promises to the contrary. A father who had been too busy hunting, drinking, or hanging out with his normal son to come home to visit two boys in a drafty and dirty motel room.

Sam was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't see the approaching light.

"Sam Winchester."

"Shit!" Sam tried to jump back in surprise, his shoe slipping on the icy step causing the man to slide down onto the snowy ground, right at the feet, uh, floaty ghostly tail, of the figure who had addressed him. "What the hell?" It seemed the only appropriate question as Sam found himself staring a ghostly apparition of his brother wrapped in chains.

"SaaAAaam," the thing howled, making exaggerated wave motions with his hands and fingers. "I am your former partner DEAN-"

"No you aren't!" Sam scoffed.

The ghostly imitator blinked. "No. I'm Dean. Back from beyond the graAave to give you a message!"

Sam stood and dusted himself off. "Dean's inside the house. "

The thing looked contrite. "No. I'm right here. Back from the deEaAd, wooOOOooo."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Dean!" He called out, hoping his brother would catch his tone.

"No need to shout," grumbled the specter. "Now, back to business. I'm here to warn yoOOOoou. SaaAAaam! These chains are my sins and unless you change your ways, yoooOOoou will end up in a chain that is-"

The door to the house burst open. "Christ, Sammy. You had better be being attacked by a goddamn yeti." Dean marched out, his sawed off in hand. He paused, sobering as he took in the scene.

Sam was standing at the foot of the stairs; the back of his thick shirt covered in snow from where had obviously fallen into a bank. His hair had weird puffs of the thick flakes sticking up randomly, looking like a bad case of dandruff, which would explain the patented bitch face he was wearing and why his arms were folded over his chest.

However, the expression could also have been attributed to the cheap imitation of Dean floating a few feet from Sammy, waving his arms like a retard.

"What the hell?"

Sam huffed. "That's what I said." Sam took a step back towards his brother, eyeing up the shotgun with an appreciative glance.

The specter eyed up Dean with horror. "Who are you?" It practically squeaked in indignation.

"I'm Dean!" Dean answered back, equally indignant. "What the hell are you?"

"You can't be Dean," the thing whined. "I'm Dean."

"I was Dean first!" He aimed the gun at the thing, debating the need for information with the joys of shooting first, asking questions never.

The thing shimmered and started to freaking pout. "All the paperwork says you're dead!"

"Was," Dean corrected. "Now step, er, float away from my brother!" The thing sulked but moved back a couple of inches. Dean frowned, but didn't fire. "Sam, you okay?"

"Yeah." Dean could hear the appreciation for the rescue.

Dean shifted his grip on the shotgun, aim never wavering. "Now, I'll ask you one more time. What the hell are you?"

"It is a holiday spirit." A voice spoke right in his ear.

Thirty years of instinct had Dean whirling, bringing the gun up to strike before his brain took over. "God dammit, Cas! Personal space!" Dean snarled, turning the gun just as quickly back on the spirit thing.

The angel looked as flat as ever. "Sorry. Bobby sent me to check on you. He would have come himself but he did not trust me to make popcorn." It was proof that Bobby had an overdeveloped survival instinct.

"A holiday spirit?" Sam asked, peering at the thing curiously. "Is it dangerous?"

"No. It is similar to a death omen in nature, though different in purpose."

Dean lowered the shotgun, glowering at his brother. "You attracted the attention of a Christmas death omen?"

"I'm not a death omen!" squawked the thing.

"It is not." Cas agreed sagely.

Dean took a step closer, resting the gun across the back of his neck in the hopes that the cold barrel would help fight off the tension headache that he knew was beginning to form.

The thing certainly looked like him, except for the chains. It was a younger him though, and had that preHell freshness that he had lost while, well, in Hell. It was even wearing his favorite leather jacket. Whatever it was it had done its homework.

Sam took a step closer to Dean, brushing his shoulder against his brothers as Dean examined the holiday spirit. "So what exactly does it do?" Dean could hear the full-blown geek out happening in the tone.

"It feeds off of the bi-products of positive emotions," the angel explained, "and often seeks to encourage those feelings in people who are upset around the holidays."

"Why the hell does it look like me?" Dean growled. The spirit wisely floated back another couple of inches.

"I take the form of a lost loved one to provide guidance." It lifted its chin defiantly. "It is through this guidance that I can spread holiday cheer and teach the true meaning of Christmas."

"You're going to teach me about the Winter Solstice?"

The thing flickered. "What? No!"

Dean looked at Sam. "Dude, I told you to lighten up. Now look. Your emo is attracting ghosts."

"Holiday spirit," corrected the ghost.

Sam's eyes were wide. "This is not my fault! And what the hell? Why can't I just not like Christmas? There are people who don't like Independence Day. I bet they don't get visited by ghosts!"

"I'm a holiday spirit."

"Well, maybe they should. The assholes at the fireworks store could use a good ghost haunting."

"I'm a holiday spir-!"

The sound of a shotgun rent the night air, shaking snow loose from Bobby's roof even as the holiday ghost, spirit, uh, thing vanished is a shower of rock salt.

Dean smiled smugly. "There. Problem solved."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Guns are not the solution to every problem."

Dean snorted. "And you're lucky they're not, otherwise I'd fill you with a holiday buckshot. Now get your ass in the house and go sing Bobby a carol or something." Sam was halfway up the steps before the angel added his two cents.

"Dean." Cas was using his "I disapprove of your humanity" tone. Which wasn't that different from his other tones, but, well, you know. "This is not a permanent solution."

Dean sighed. "What do you mean?" He had a feeling he wasn't going to like the answer.

"Sam has been visited by the holiday spirit. Though you have banished it before it gave its message, the events it would have ordained will still come to pass."

"Meaning?" So what if Dean took a step closer to Sammy? It was cold outside.

"Sam will be visited by three spirits, starting at the stroke of midnight."

Sam blinked wildly. "How is having a haunted Christmas going to change my mind about liking it?"

Dean pushed firmly on Sam's back. "You. Inside. Now. Go tell Bobby to put the nog in the panic room. You." Dean pointed at Cas. "Come with me. I'll need help brining in the salt. I can't believe Sam attracted and goddamn Christmas death omen," Dean muttered and stalked off.

Cas nodded serenely and followed Dean into the night. Sam stood on the steps, watching them make their way to the Impala and shook his head, trying to figure out how the hell he was going to explain this to Bobby.

He really hated Christmas.