Title: Men of Mistletoe
Pairings: Dean, Sam
Summary: Set during season 9ish. Sam pranks Dean with some well-placed mistletoe.
Note: I don't currently have a Netflix subscription, so I hope I got the details right. It has been awhile.
Word count: 987
Ao3: Men of Mistletoe
Sam Winchester looked around the kitchen of what he and Dean referred to as The Bunker. So much had happened over the last year, he hardly felt like he could catch his breath, never mind muster the energy to host a Christmas party. Sometimes he didn’t know what got into his older brother. Dean and Cas had driven off in the Impala late yesterday afternoon to track down a werewolf den. Sam had been annoyed when Dean had ordered him to stay behind. His relationship with his brother had been rocky after Sam’s possession by Gadreel and Dean’s taking the Mark of Cain. Sam was tired, bone tired. And he hated when Dean babied him. Sam was a grown man, not the little kid Dean stole beef jerky for when their father was out on a hunt.
His side twinged as he leaned into the refrigerator to take out the leftover hummus. Okay, so maybe Dean was right. Sam’s ribs were still tender after their last hunt. Sam recalled how pale Dean had turned when his brother had caught sight of the knife sticking in his left flank. Dean had insisted on bandaging the wound and then had sent Sam to bed. Sam chuckled. Dean could be quite the mother hen, not that he would ever admit it.
After weeks of brooding and barely speaking, Dean had suddenly woken up yesterday and insisted they have their local hunters over for a Christmas party. Sam didn’t think it was a good idea, but Dean had been quite persuasive, pinning Sam to the floor and tickling him until he’d agreed. It was almost like old times until Sam had yelped when Dean’s fingers had gotten too close to his knife wound. Dean had retreated to his room and hadn’t said a word until his odd demand yesterday afternoon.
How does Dean expect me to decorate this place when he took the car? Maybe Sam could find something in the storeroom. After searching for two hours, and with his side aching, Sam gave up. But as he turned off the light, he spotted a box shoved into the corner. It was covered in dust, but Sam could just make out a piece of red velvet topped with a white tassel. Blowing off the dust, Sam was pleased to discover a pair of Santa hats, what looked like an elf costume, garland, some ornaments, and at the very bottom of the box—Mistletoe.
Sam grinned as he hoisted the box up into his arms. Once everyone had consumed enough alcohol, Sam would hang the mistletoe in a location Dean would have to pass under. Hunters were an odd bunch. Loners, for the most part, they could get quite rowdy when large amounts of alcohol were involved. Dean would be kissed within an inch of his life, and Sam was going to record every second with his iPhone.
* * *
Dean slammed the door as he exited the Impala. It had been a long hunt; the werewolves had scattered, so it had taken much longer than anticipated to round them all up. To top it all off, the entire exercise had been unnecessary. This group of werewolves had turned out to be allied with Garth’s pack. He stretched tiredly. “You know, Cas, I feel like I could sleep for a week.”
Castiel frowned. “Sam said you spend most of the day in your room. You can’t blame yourself for Gadreel, Dean.”
Dean grunted and stormed upstairs. The last thing he wanted was a heart to heart with an angel. All Dean wanted was a beer and the chance to catch up on a good porn flick. He froze. What the hell was that?
“Hark the herald angels sing …”
“Angels really hate that song,” Castiel said as he pushed by Dean.
Dean paused in the doorway to the Bunker’s kitchen. In the corner was the biggest freakin’ tree he had ever seen. When he and Sam were kids, their father was usually on a hunt. Dean would sneak into the local drugstore, steal a small toy and a few candy treats for Sam. The hunter’s eyes scanned the room. In addition to the giant Douglas fir in the corner, strings of Christmas lights and garland hung from the very packed room’s ceiling. Dean smelled all the delicious food and couldn’t help but smile. “It’s like a Norman freakin’ Rockwell painting.”
“Dean Winchester, get those cute little buns in here and give me a kiss.”
He spun around just in time for Donna Hanscum to plant one on him. He stepped back and waved his hand in front of his face. “Whoa, there. Someone’s been at the egg nog.”
A feminine hand belonging to someone else smacked him in the arm. “Dean Winchester, I know Bobby taught you better manners than that.”
“Jody?” He hugged the small woman who was like a surrogate mother. Many a demon had underestimated the diminutive female hunter, much to their regret. What the hell had Sam been thinking? Inviting all these hunters under one roof—and apparently with an open bar. “Where’s Sam?”
A burly hunter, whose name Dean couldn’t remember, grabbed him into a giant bear hug while planting a wet, sloppy kiss on his lips. Dean shoved the man away. “What the hell, man?”
Dean heard Sam laughing from where he’d hid in the corner. To see Sam, this happy almost made the awkward kiss worth it. But what the hell was Sam doing with his phone?
Dean turned back to the hunter, who looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Dean. But it’s tradition.”
Sam, who had been filming the entire time, walked up to his older brother. He pointed to the sprig of plastic mistletoe hanging in the doorway directly over Dean’s head. “Mistletoe,” he said smugly.
Dean didn’t miss a beat. He grabbed his younger brother by the shoulders and planted a wet one, right on the kisser.