musicalluna

Title: One More Christmas
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: MusicalLuna
Rating: T
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean
Genre: Fluff, Family
Warnings: None
Complete: Yes
Summary: Dean gets a rude early morning wake up from his little brother.
A/N: Written for Spammy, because I love her. Smushy Christmas fic with snowball fight and cocoa. Yaaaaaay mush. Set in season five.
Disclaimer: None of these boys belong to me.

 

Dean was not happy when he was jolted awake when the sunlight outside was still weaker than a flashlight beam. “Wh' th' hell?” he muttered, scowling as he squinted upward.

 

Sam was bent over him, face too close, and ready to crack open he was grinning so broadly. “Dean! Wake up!”

 

Dean thrust a hand up, pressing Sam backwards with an extremely grumpy, “Sam? What the hell? It's too early for this shit. We finished the job now lemme sleep.”

 

“No, come on, Dean!” Sam protested, still sounding way too happy for Dean's liking. “You gotta get up and see this. Come on, man, it's Christmas.”

 

“What?” Dean said, face scrunching up as he tried to process that. “Christmas? Since when?”

 

Sam snorted, eyes still glittering with pleasure. Like he was five-years-old again and dragging his big brother out of bed to go tear into their Christmas haul. “Since about nine hours ago, Dean. Come on,” he whined. “Get up!” And then he broke out the puppy-dog pout.

 

The puppy-dog pout Dean felt like he hadn't seen in...forty-one years or so. Letting Lucifer out of hell, for all of the horrible shit it had unleashed, was turning out to have some small perks. He and Sam didn't have the unbreakable bond they had somehow managed to form prior to his jaunt in Hell, but things were getting way better than they had been since he'd gotten back. They'd never have what they had before, but this new thing that was developing, it was bringing back parts of Sammy that he hadn't even realized he'd been missing.

 

He groaned, but the annoyance he'd felt just a few minutes prior was dissolving. “You owe me,” he grumbled, sitting up. His bare toes hit the cold hardwood floor and he shivered, shoulders hunching as he chafed his hands over his arms. “Damn, it's cold.”

 

That sparked Sam's grin again. “Yeah, well, that's winter in South Dakota.”

 

Dean grabbed his jacket off of the post at the end of the bed and slung it around his shoulders, noticing just then Castiel standing silently in the shadows near the door, watching them, unblinking. His head dipped ever-so-slightly in a nod.

 

Dean's eyebrows rose briefly and then he shook his head and got to his feet. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

 

The angel's head cocked to the side slightly and he replied with the slightest hesitation, “Merry Christmas, Dean.”

 

Dean didn't ask why he was there. Ever since his split with Heaven, Castiel had been spending a lot more time around them. To his surprise, Dean didn't actually mind that much. Castiel was...well, cool wasn't the word for it, but it seemed like they were on the same team now, and they needed all the allies they could get.

 

He grabbed a pair of socks out of the duffel bag on a nearby chair and yanked them on, using Sam to steady himself. He was doing that fidgeting thing again, like it was killing him to wait for Dean before barreling downstairs. “Dude, what is the deal?” Dean said, trying and failing to smother a smile. “You haven't been this jazzed about Christmas since we were kids.”

 

Sam shrugged, Castiel still watching expressionlessly from the sidelines. “I don't know. The fact that we're even here to have Christmas seems pretty awesome to me.” His smile faded a little and his eyes dropped and Dean immediately felt sorry for bringing it up. But then Sam said, “I thought for sure last Christmas was it. Done deal.” He looked up and Dean felt a hand squeeze his arm. “But here you are.”

 

Dean had to look away, swallowing hard to try and loosen the sudden tightness in the back of his throat. He elbowed Sam gently in the ribs. “What have I told you about acting like a girl in front of Cas? You're going to give him the wrong impression of human guys.”

 

He didn't even have to look as they headed out through the door to envision Castiel's head, cocked to the side.

 

“What part of that behavior could be considered feminine?”

 

~ * ~

 

When the three of them arrived downstairs, Bobby was in the kitchen. He greeted them by shouting, “Get your asses in here and get your plates! Do I look like your momma?”

 

As Sam and Dean collected their plates, Castiel said to Bobby, “If I had a mother, which I do not, I'm sure she would look nothing like you.”

 

Sam snorted and Dean grabbed Castiel's plate, pushing it into his hands. “Here. Eat this. Don't think.”

 

But Castiel looked down at the plate and proceeded to do exactly what Dean had ordered him not to do. He did, however, use his fingers to capture a daub of whipped cream, tasting it. “This is...pleasant,” he observed.

 

“Waffles,” Dean said with a grin. “Food of the gods. Or God, I guess. Whatever. Delicious.”

 

Castiel's head dipped, conceding, and he began eating his waffle with his fingers.

 

“Come on,” Sam said eagerly, taking Dean's arm with his free hand. “You gotta see this.”

 

“Okay, okay, jeez, Sammy,” Dean said, licking whipped cream off of his own fingers. “What the hell's got you so riled up?”

 

The question was answered when Sam yanked open the front door and pulled him onto the front porch, despite his yelp of protest. Damn, but it was cold!

 

He was momentarily distracted from just how cold by the sight that met him. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed, gawking out at the junkyard. Freshly fallen, pristine white snow—a good six inches of it—covered everything as far as the eye could see and big fluffy snowflakes were still drifting thickly from the flat gray sky overhead. The junkyard had been transformed from the dirty, black-iced mess of grimy dirty snow that had covered it in patches when they arrived late last night.

 

“Wow,” Dean breathed. “It's colder than a freakin' mother out here.”

 

He turned and stomped back inside, followed by Sam's protesting, “Dean!”

 

“It's awesome, I get it,” he said once inside, shivering and burrowing even deeper into his jacket. “But I'm not gonna stand out there and freeze my ass off. Shut the door!”

 

Sam sighed and closed the door. Castiel was lingering near an exposed grime-coated corner of one of the windows, peering outside with his brow furrowed. “This—snow—is very beautiful.”

 

“Yeah,” Dean said, “It's a hell of a lot nicer when you're inside and not out there tromping around in it trying to waste some sonuvabitch with no sense of temperature.” Speaking of temperature. He turned, raising his voice. “Bobby?”

 

“I'm right here, you idjit,” Bobby grumbled from his elbow and Dean whipped back around, feet shuffling sheepishly.

 

“Oh. Uh. Did you make coffee?”

 

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Of course I made coffee. What do you take me for? You're not the only one Sam forced out of bed at this godforsaken hour.”

 

Dean flashed a grin at Sammy's exasperated look and ducked into the kitchen to fill a mug with the steaming brew. He was standing at the counter, reveling in the feeling of the scorching hot brew sliding down the back of his throat and setting a fire along his windpipe right down into his gut when he felt a waft of cold air, followed by a soft stifled laugh. Then—

 

“HOLY SHIT!”

 

His back arched, the coffee cup flying off somewhere to his right, a string of vicious curses following in its wake as he started writhing, groping at the back of his shirt because it felt like he'd been sliced from the nape of his neck down to the middle of his spine. “SAMMY, DAMMIT!”

 

The little bastard let out a peal of delighted laughter and ran for it.

 

“Yeah, you had better run!” he shouted, tearing after him, chills still locking up the muscles in his back as melting snow trickled down his backbone. “Bitch!” he snarled, kicking up snow as he chased his suicidal brother out into the yard.

 

Sammy was still laughing when he called back a gleeful, “Jerk!”

 

He changed direction as Dean got a little too close for comfort and Dean's feet skidded in the fresh snow as he followed suit, lunging with fingers outstretched and just barely missing the edge of Sam's coat. He realized Sam's long legs were going to provide just too much of an advantage and immediately changed tactics, ducking down and gathering up two handfuls of snow, packing them together quickly before hurling the sloppily made snowball at Sam.

 

His scowl transformed into a victorious grin when it smacked Sam's cheek, dribbling down into the collar of his jacket. He swore, but it did nothing to dislodge the grin on his face. A second later he had hunched down, gathering up his own snowball. Dean pegged him with another and swore again as one hit his thigh, slipping down the fabric of his boxers to slither its way, icy cold, down his calf. The next few snowballs exchanged were really more just handfuls of snow. Then Dean managed to tackle Sam and he collapsed into the snow, laughing breathlessly and fighting with a complete lack of technique. Dean jammed a handful of snow down the front of his shirt with vindictive pleasure, smashing it down for good measure. Sam's face turned bright red between the exertion of struggling and his endless laughing.

 

“Take that, bitch,” Dean said, sitting back on his haunches.

 

“Ow,” Sam panted between giggles, struggling to roll up onto one of his elbows.

 

“Serves you right,” Dean said, pointing a finger at him.

 

“Get out of the snow you idjits!” Bobby barked at them from the porch, exasperation thick in his voice. “You're gonna catch your damn death! Playin' in the snow in your goddamned underwear...”

 

Castiel stood next to him, regarding the two of them with an expression that was as close to “baffled” as Dean thought he was capable of.

 

He looked at Sam and when their gazes met, Sam's mouth curled into an evil grin that Dean knew meant they were on the same page. A second later they had scrambled to their feet and Sam grabbed hold of Castiel's arm, dragging him off the porch as Dean gathered up snow.

 

“...I do not understand the purpose of hurling snow at one another,” Castiel was saying. Sam pulled back his collar and Dean proceeded to dump an armful of snow straight down the back of his coat.

 

Nothing. Not so much as a twitch.

 

Then a slight wriggle. Almost unnoticeable. “That is...extremely unpleasant. Why would you do this?” Castiel said, gazing at them both with dark, befuddled eyes.

 

Dean looked at Sam and as one they burst into laughter. Castiel turned his confused gaze on Bobby as they collapsed at his feet, laughing so hard they could barely breathe. “I do not understand.”

 

Bobby shook his head and rolled his eyes. “Get used to it.”

 

~ * ~

 

Dean shivered and glared at the mug clutched between his hands before looking up and glaring at Sam. “I don't want cocoa, Sam. I want a cup of frigging coffee.”

 

“What's wrong with you?” Sam asked. “It's chocolate. You love chocolate.”

 

“I love caffeine at nine-thirty in the morning, Sam.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You got cocoa. Suck it up and drink it, princess.”

 

“You did not just call me princess.”

 

“Drink the cocoa, Dean,” Sam said, exasperated, “before you die from hypothermia.”

 

Castiel's forehead creased in worry from where he sat, perched at the edge of a wooden chair. “If death is a concern and can be avoided by consuming this drink, Dean, it seems reasonable for your brother to insist upon your drinking it.”

 

“Death is not a concern,” Dean grumbled. “Sam is just being a girl again. I hope you know that I am not happy with this!” he called over his shoulder.

 

“Noted!” Sam called back from the kitchen. “I'll write that down in my diary right now: Dean is unhappy because I made him a cup of hot cocoa.”

 

Dean grumbled a few more unpleasant things about Sam and his assets, or lack there of, and the potential for their getting kicked into next week before finally taking a grudging sip of the hot liquid.

 

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel said when he returned, carrying his own mug. “This is enjoyable. I do not know why Dean protests so vehemently.”

 

“Because Dean wants his goddamned coffee,” Dean muttered, but continued to gulp down the cocoa, shivering beneath the pile of blankets Bobby had provided.

 

“Would you stop your whining, already?” Bobby said, glaring at him over a steaming mug. “I've had about enough of you wah wahing about a stupid drink.”

 

“Here, Dean,” Sam said, setting another mug gently on the table beside him. “Coffee. If you want it.”

 

Dean looked up at him, resentful. “Thanks,” he muttered.

 

Sam shrugged, a shy gesture—one more thing Dean hadn't seen in a long time. “It's your first Christmas,” he said. “We should make it count.”