#122222

“Dean Rupert Winchester!”

“What’d you do?” Sam chuckles, glancing at a confused-looking Dean sitting across from him.

“N- Nothing,” Dean scoffs, heart rate fluttering in wary fear.

“Dude, she made up a middle name for you. She doesn’t do that unless she’s super pissed.” Closing his laptop, Sam begins to stand. “I think I’ll just-”

“Yeah, me too.” Dean drops his feet to the floor and pushes up from his seat.

Both men freeze at the roar of her voice, “SIT!” and drop back into their respective chairs.

“Why?” she snaps, eyes narrowed and fixed on Dean like daggers pinning him in place.

Not sure what he’s done to provoke her ire, Dean attempts a little bravado even as he squirms in the chair. Giving her a cheeky grin, he jests, “Why does shower sex have to be so complicated? Why does Sam refuse to cut his hair? Why do I love you so much? Gonna need a little more clarification there, Nico.”

The resounding whack of the large booklet that lands on the table in front of him makes him jolt. She leans over, palms flat on the polished wood, bringing herself to eye-level with him. “Why was that in the garbage? Why are ALL of the windows open? Why is all of the candy gone?” Each staccato syllable is pronounced with fierce precision. 

“It’s an Advent calendar,” he sneers. “Christianity …the coming of …Chuck. I’m not celebrating that douchebag’s birth.”

“Well, remember, it’s probably not his real birthday; it’s actually the winter sols-” Sam cuts himself off when Nic puffs her cheeks and expels a heavy sigh.

“It’s a Christmas countdown.” She softens her tone. “It’s meant to create excitement and anticipation for the upcoming celebration.”

“What’s to celebrate?” Before she can respond, Dean adds, “Don’t get any ideas about decorating or exchanging gifts either,” and flatly states, “There’s nothing special about it. It’s just another day. We don’t do Christmas. Right, Sammy?” 

Sam smartly doesn’t reply, clearing his throat and tucking his chin. Dean frowns, giving his brother the stink eye for not backing him up.

“You agreed to help cut down a tree and decorate the bunker.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You did.” 

The cute smile that curls her lips momentarily distracts him, and he shakes his head to dislodge thoughts of where those pouty lips were last night and shoves the calendar back across the table in frustration. 

Lifting her fingers just enough to stop the book’s forward motion, her eyes remain locked on Dean. 

“A couple of months back. When Donna and Jody came by for game night, we started playing that drinking game that you were surprisingly awful at, and Donna kicked your ass. Sam,” she tilts her chin toward the bent head of her friend, “ended up completely wasted.” 

Dean smirks when Sam shifts in his seat but continues to avoid eye contact with either of them. Clearly, his traitor of a brother is going to be of no help with the situation. “I remember, but what’s that-”

“I mentioned I wanted to go all-out for Christmas this year,” she cuts him off, “real tree, garland, lights, gifts, the whole shebang. Sam started whining about the hassle, pine needles, the environment, blah, blah, blah. You,” the Cheshire cat grin warns him that she’s going in for the kill, “agreed to everything I wanted to do. I’m pretty sure it was just to annoy Sam, but I have witnesses to your compliance.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “I changed my mind.” He knows he might be pushing back a bit too hard. The low growl she emits gives away her growing frustration. He also knows that he’s being unfair. The night in question, he’d been mesmerized listening to her explain how she wanted to transform the bunker into a winter wonderland. Excitement and hope had started to weave their way into his heart, and he began to believe they could have something normal or, at least, something close to it. Maybe he could have the apple pie life he’d always wished for but never believed he’d get.

In the days following, though, that hope started to dim. Sam seemed content with completing his goal of cataloging every single artifact in the bunker, digitizing all the paper files, and doing less hunting. Dean figured he’d found a new girl, too, as Sam’s thinly veiled excuses of three-day ‘healthy lifestyle’ seminars and serial killer movie theater marathons were lame. Now that Nic had more time to devote to jewelry making, her business had taken off, and she’d been occupied with creating pieces and running her online store.

Which meant Dean had a lot of empty time on his hands. Time to think about what he wanted to do with his life …the life he never thought he deserved or would get to live. What is his purpose now?

It left him feeling unsettled and lost—angry at himself. He doesn’t want to burden Nic with his issues. She’s dealt with them enough over the years, and now that things are going well for her, he doesn’t want to damper her happiness. Yet, here he is doing just that, and he can’t seem to stop himself or keep the anger in check.

“You were so excited when Mrs. Butters manifested Santa’s workshop in here. I thought that you might want to see the bunker decked out like that again.”

“Yeah, well, you know how that almost ended. So, no, I don’t want any reminders of it.”

Narrowing her eyes, she taps her fingers on the calendar as she straightens. A shift in her features indicates she’s going to try a different approach. “What about the beauty of the holiday? The wonder and excitement of it all.” Her smile is sweet and soft. “The spirit of giving. People coming together, helping one another.”

“They should do that every day,” he scoffs, taking a large gulp of his drink. “Not just one day a year.”

“I don’t disagree with that,” she nods, “but I thought that since this is our first year without an apoco-”

“Don’t say it!” he warns, pointing a finger. It’s probably a silly superstition, but it just doesn’t need to be put out there for the universe to hear. 

She holds her hands up in surrender, “Okay, not saying it! I just thought we could make something of the holiday for a change.” 

“Do what you want, but I won’t be participating.”

Nic jolts at the near-defiant stare Dean aims at her, anger rising to meet his. “You-” she huffs, chest heaving and hands clenching into fists, “you’re a- a …bad banana.” 

“A what, now?” Dean asks, brows knitted together, and lips pursed.

“You know,” she sweeps a hand in the air between them, “a greasy black peel …heart an empty hole …seasick crocodile ...“

Sam snorts, and Dean swears the temperature in the room drops ten degrees as she turns a cold glare to his brother. “Are you calling him a Grinch?” Sam’s smirk is large until he raises his head to face her. Happy to have her anger diverted from him, if only briefly, Dean chokes down the laugh bubbling in his throat as Sam’s eyes widen and fear creeps into his features.

“You think this is funny? I’m trying to bring a little joy back into our lives.”

“Uh, well …it was kind of … “ Sam finally shuts up under the intensity of her stare.

Dean draws her attention, clearing his throat. “Remember the year you got poison ivy from that Christmas tree farm while tracking a pack of werewolves? Or the year you bought that cheap mangled tree hoping to liven up the crappy motel we were stuck in and it ended up being full of stick bugs? Or what about the year that Sam and I were almost ritualistically sacrificed? Nothing good happens for us at Christmas.”

Narrowing her eyes, Nic forcefully shoves the calendar back in his direction and declares, “We’ll see about that!” briskly walking away and leaving Dean to choose between saving his drink from being spilled or letting the book slide off the table. He chooses his drink, cringing when a stiff cardboard corner pokes him in the gut.

A distant door slams a few moments later, and Sam gives a low whistle. “You should go after her.”

“Nope. I learned my lesson a few years back. She needs time to cool down. You know that.”

“Would it really be so bad to have some kind of celebration? You know how much she loves this time of year,” Sam attempts to initiate a concession.

“You want to participate in all that commercialized crap? Go ahead, but the two of you can leave me out of it.” Dean snatches the half-empty bottle of whiskey and his glass from the table as he stands, letting the countdown calendar fall to the floor without a glance as he storms out of the room.

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