Your Favorite Grinch
*Dean-centric
Tagging: @fandomless-advent-challenge
Prompt: Your Favorite Grinch
You knew what to expect– Sam had filled you in on Dean’s dislike of the holiday. He’d even told you about the Christmas he’d tried to celebrate the year before Dean had gone to Hell. But between apocalypses, strained family dynamics, and every other problem the Winchesters faced, you weren’t surprised that living snowmen and flying reindeer didn’t fill the hunter with warm fuzzy feelings.
But you loved the holiday. True, recent years had begun to feel slightly stale– there was no snow, only bitter temps. Holiday decor was too flashy and artificial, a competition to show who could have the biggest, most impressive display, instead of simply trying to add some color and light to the dark winter nights. (And don’t even get started on the bland ‘minimalistic’ decor, or the ‘sad beige Christmas’ trend.) Christmas cookies didn’t taste as good as they had when you were younger. And then, of course, there were the presents– grateful as you were to receive anything, unwrapping a new pair of socks or a coat just wasn’t nearly as exciting as Barbies and Beanie Babies.
But all of that aside, you still felt a burst of excitement when you woke up the day after Thanksgiving. There was a veritable shift in the air that you swore you could feel. You pulled out the bags of Christmas decorations that you’d stashed away– you’d picked them up during some of your food runs, hiding the bags in the trunk until the brothers went to sleep, transferring them to your closet in the silent nights.
Still dressed in pajamas, you carried your treasure out into the library, emptying the bags on one of the tables. You ripped into the packaging like… well, like a kid on Christmas. You unwound the strands of lights from their cardboard protection and began to hang them, connecting strand after strand with little concern about overloading outlets.
As the lights twinkled in the dim library, you moved on to the kitchen. You taped small wreaths to the cabinet doors before switching out the plain colored mugs with some decorated with familiar characters of the season. You were wrapping garland around the legs of the table when you heard a footstep land behind you.
“What the hell is this?”
You turned, finding Dean standing in the doorway in his old man bathrobe. “Christmas!”
He studied you, his mouth a thin line of disapproval. “It’s still November.”
“Credit for remembering what month it is, but don’t be a party pooper.”
You watched as his eyes trailed over all of the decorations, his brow furrowing slightly. He grumbled something to himself as he stepped into the kitchen, grabbing the leftover pie from yesterday’s feast. Dean pulled a fork from a drawer, slamming it shut with his hip before he stalked out of the kitchen, towards the library.
“What the hell is this?!” you heard him exclaim from the other room.
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You spent the rest of the day decorating the rest of the bunker. By the time you flopped down on the couch in the living room, you’d exhausted your stash of tinsel, garland, lights, Santa figurines, and oversized red bows. You’d switched out your bedsheets for flannel ones with little Christmas trees on them. You’d even thrown a fluffy red blanket with snowflakes all over it on the back of the couch, which you now dragged over your frame.
“You finally done?” Dean grumbled from the nearby armchair.
“With this round. I’ll need your help putting the tree together.”
“Absolutely not.”
Sam shot his brother a look before turning to you. “Sounds great, Y/N. Just let me know when you want to get started.” The younger Winchester appreciated the lengths you’d gone to to decorate the bunker, to make it feel more like home. While it had also surprised him to wake up to an in-progress winter wonderland, he thought the lights looked pretty, and that the festive mugs made the crappy coffee taste just a little bit better.
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Dean’s scowl seemed to grow with each passing day. He frantically looked for a hunt, even a measly one– anything to get him out of the bunker. He found a few, and even though they didn’t seem like much, Sam agreed to go investigate with his brother. One did turn out to be a vamp, a weird loner creature who didn’t put up much of a fight. It was a short hunt, but enough to put Dean in a slightly better mood.
Until the Winchesters returned to the bunker to find you seated in the living room, surrounded by fake evergreen branches.
“Y/N!” Sam said, looking around at the mess. “I told you I’d help you with that.”
“I know,” you said, a slightly guilty look on your face. “But I couldn’t wait.”
Sam laughed slightly. He dropped his duffle on the couch before crouching on the floor near you, picking up a few branches and taking the instruction manual from your hands. Dean stomped down the hall towards his room, the one place left in the building that didn’t have any holiday cheer.
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Dean’s nose led him to the kitchen. Something sweet and sugary was beckoning to him, practically drawing him in with a cartoon steam lasso. All available counter space was taken over with mixing bowls, baking sheets, bags of flour and sugar, softening sticks of butter.
You were nowhere to be seen. Nor could Dean see any cookies, despite the smells that had led him here.
He took a few more steps, through the kitchen and into the library. You’d once more covered the tables, but this time, instead of boxes and decorations, he was met with half a dozen platters of different kinds of cookies. You were seated at a far table, piping green icing onto a cookie. More bags of icing and tubs of sprinkles surrounded you.
Dean stood there for a few moments, waiting to see if you would notice him. But with your attention still on the treats before you, he slowly reached out and snagged a few cookies from the plate closest to him before silently darting back out of the library.
You smiled to yourself as you continued to decorate the cookies in front of you, switching the green icing for some red.
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As the big day approached, Dean got more and more irritable. On top of that, he’d started coming down with some sort of bug– fever and cough plagued him. ‘At least it gives me an excuse to lock myself away from the insanity that’s taken over the rest of the bunker,’ he thought to himself as he shivered under his comforter.
Sam got word of a ghoul case a few towns over. He packed his stuff and headed out, promising you that he’d be back by Christmas Eve, and his brother that he’d return with chicken soup and eggnog (Dean also tried to bargain for some nudie mags, but Sam steadfastly said no).
Finally, when his fever had broken and he was feeling more like his old self, Dean emerged from his cave. Was it just him, or had you added more decorations? He found you in the living room, doing nothing but staring at that godforsaken tree. ‘Weirdo,’ he thought to himself.
Sam returned on the twenty-third, and the two of you went into a holiday tizzy, prepping as many dishes for the next few days as you could, Christmas music blasting from the record player (Sam had found some old Sinatra and Crosby vinyls stashed away in a closet). The two of you took over the tables in the library, creating what you called a ‘wrapping station’. Dean called it a mess– scraps of paper, empty tape rolls, strands of ribbon. You and Sam paid him no mind, and the pile of gifts under the tree grew.
“I can barely see the TV,” Dean complained. Not that that mattered after a while– with the last gift placed under the tree, you and Sam flopped onto the couch. Sam swiped the remote from his brother and put on a crappy claymation cartoon. Dean scowled as the two of you bobbed your heads along to the silly songs.
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Finally, the big day arrived. Dean woke to a pounding on his door, you and Sam clamouring on the other side. “Go away!” Dean called, rolling over and trying to get back to sleep. But the two of you were relentless. You threw open the door and bounded into the room, singing Jingle Bells at the top of your lungs. “Don’t make me pull my gun on you!” Dean shouted, causing you and Sam to scurry out of his room, giggling maniacally down the hall.
In a move of peak annoyance, you’d left Dean’s bedroom door open, light from the hall streaming in. He knew there was no hope of getting back to sleep. Grumbling, Dean rolled out of bed and pulled on his robe, making his way towards the kitchen. If he had to be awake this early, he was at least going to drown himself in coffee, maybe whiskey.
Mug in hand (and two cookies shoved in his mouth), Dean made his way into the living room. You and Sam were seated in front of the tree, distributing gifts into three distinct piles. Neither of you paid any attention as Dean sank into his armchair. He watched as the two of you ripped into the wrapping paper, thanking the other for the gift that lay inside. Eventually, boxes got shoved into his hands, and orders for him to join in were given. Dean appreciated the ammo, knives, and new robe he unwrapped (even though Sam threatened to burn the old robe if he didn’t throw it away immediately). You’d also found some vintage cassette tapes he didn’t already have. Dean felt the smallest of smiles tug at the corner of his mouth when he felt them in the toe of his stocking.
The rest of the day was a blur of feasting and films. You and Sam even let Dean put on Die Hard, bowing to his argument that it was ‘definitely a Christmas movie’. Eventually, evening fell, and with it, the melancholic reminder that the day was nearing its close. All the lights in the living room were off except for the tree. Dean looked around– you and Sam were nowhere to be seen. Wrapped in his new robe (yes, it was much warmer than the threadbare one he’d been using), sipping a glass of eggnog, bathed in the colorful glow of the tree… Dean had to admit it was nice.
The softest of footsteps sounded behind him. Turning his head slightly, Dean saw you stepping into the living room, mug of cocoa in one hand, plate of cookies in the other. “Didn’t you have enough sugar today?”
“Not even close.” You stepped closer to Dean, standing just beside him. The two of you let silence fall around you, eyes trained on the tree before you. Dean was adamantly not looking at you, not wanting to hear anything from you about him finally enjoying the seasonal decor.
In a swift, smooth movement, you bent down and pressed your lips against his stubble-covered cheek. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Grinch,” you whispered before disappearing from the room, like one of the ghosts that visited Ebenezer.
Dean lifted his hand, his fingers brushing the spot your lips had touched. It was warm, warmer than the faint blush that was creeping over his face.
Perhaps this had been a merry Christmas after all.
