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December 25, 1993. It's been two years since Dad never showed up for Christmas Day. He showed up the next day, full of whiskey, and not an ounce of apology. He just packed the three of them into the car and moved on to the next case. Neither Sam nor Dean said anything, but the amulet around Dean's neck burned like a screamed accusation. Dean squirmed in his seat, guilty for taking Dad's gift—for keeping it a secret. Guilty that he'd lied to Sam, told him Dad would be there, when he wasn't. Guilty he hadn't actually gotten Sam a gift, even though the amulet wasn't actually for him in the first place. Just...for something. And he could feel Sam's eyes burning into John's back from the backseat, and there was nothing he could do.
Now, Dean almost 15, Dad's here, just like he's supposed to be, but he's late. It's almost 11pm before he gets back to the motel. Sam's not supposed to be awake, but he is anyway. John shoots Dean a sharp look for that, and Dean shrinks on the couch, as much as he can. He's all gangly, awkward limbs—just hit his growth spurt. It's long overdue, and it's accompanied by a bad case of bowlegs. He gets no mercy from the guys at the schools they attend—though they stop implying what he can use those bowlegs for when their girlfriends start making out with him. It's not that easy to disappear behind the back of the couch, but he somehow manages.
"Hey, Sammy," Dad says, ruffling his hair and easing onto the edge of the bed, "Sorry I'm late. But I gotcha somethin' real cool."
Sam scootches up in bed as Dad holds out the square package, wrapped in bright blue paper. After a minute of wary regard, Sam tears into it.
It's a copy of To Kill a Mockingbird.
"So you can read it for class," John grins.
Sam glances at Dean before he looks back at the book and finally Dad. He forces a smile. "Thanks, Dad. This is awesome." He leans forward and wraps his arms around John's neck. John pulls him into a hug, and Sam's eyes stay on Dean over their father's shoulder, apologetic, until John leans away and messes up his hair again.
"You get to sleep, kiddo. I know it's late."
Just like that, he stands, done with Christmas. He makes a stop in the tiny kitchenette to grab his bottle of Jack before he settles onto the couch, opposite Dean. Sam settles back into his bed, one more apologetic look thrown Dean's way as he sets the book on the nightstand.
Dean's not sure when he goes to sleep, but he suspects it's sometime around a third of the bottle of Jack.
At two-thirds of the fifth, John pulls his attention away from It's a Wonderful Life to sit up and fix Dean with a hard look.
"He shoulda been asleep 'round nine, Dean."
Dean gulps, fidgeting. "I know, sir, I'm sorry. I had him in bed at nine, I swear. He just—he just woke up when the car pulled up."
John keeps up the stern glare for another moment before he nods, and his expression shifts to something approving.
"Good."
He leans back again, then seems to think of something. "Dean, you're practically a man by now," he says thoughtfully. He considers the bottle of liquor. "I think it's time for your first drink. I wasn't gonna do it this year, but..."
John stands, wavering, and plunks down the whiskey bottle.
"I gotcha somethin'."
He staggers to the mini-fridge and draws a bottle of beer out of it. A bottle from a six pack that Dean knows has been in there for the past three days—ever since John left. Making his way back to the couch, John pops off the cap and hands it to him.
"Merry Christmas, Dean." John smiles, big and bright, sure he's offering his oldest a real treat.
Dean had his first beer back when he was nine, back when Mr. Jones pushed a bud his way and said, "Drink up, son."
Dean grins big and accepts it, taking a big swallow. He manages to suppress a wince at the sour, bitter taste of the Coors.
"Thanks, Dad," he says as brightly as he can, and because John is watching, takes another big swig.
He wants to vomit.
But Dad's grinning fit to burst, so he just takes a second gulp and keeps smiling, keeps swallowing against the urge to puke it all back up.
It's not too much longer before John passes out.
Dean removes the fifth from his loose fingers, screws the cap back on, and puts it back in the kitchen. He empties the beer down the bathroom sink and runs the water extra long just in case John can smell it in the morning—he doesn't want him to think he poured his present out.
After he's settled a blanket around John's shoulders and shut off the tv, he digs his notebook and a pencil out of his bag, then crawls onto the bed across from Sammy, and picks up To Kill a Mockingbird.
Sam opens his eyes, somehow divining his presence.
"Sorry," he whispers, guilt written across his face as he gestures with the book.
But Sam shakes his head and nestles further into his pillow. "It's okay, Dean. You're s'posed to have it read by end of break. I can sleep with the light on."
With that, his eyes slide shut, and Dean swallows back the rising warmth in his throat, getting comfortable, propped up against the headboard with notebook on his thighs and pencil and book in hand.