Disclaimer: Not mine, not even for a minute at Christmas.

A/N: Written for the 2008 UnGen Christmas Challenge. Dean's Christmas at 8, 12, and 25. I added Dean at 29 because I couldn't stop myself. This story references my fic Canaveral. Beta'd by Merisha and Muffy, and then I fiddled with it. All remaining errors are mine.

A/N: This fic is Deangirl1's fault. She asked me to write the 'junkyard game' story months ago. And I swore I would never go back to Lawrence - no wait, I swore I would never write anything Weechester, and yet, here we are.

Christmas 1987

Sammy woke up with a cold, and sniffed miserably while he sat at the table in footy pajamas, eating Lucky Charms. Dean treated him with Bayer Children's Aspirin, because the pharmacist told him it was the best, thinking his parents were in another part of the store, and Vicks VapoRub. He had to hold his breath while he used it, but marveled as his fingers heated up while he was rubbing it on Sam's chest.

The aspirin worked. Sam rocketed around the small motel room like a tiny heat seeking missile, ramming into Dean and latching on, laughing hysterically, before launching himself back on his bed, giggling and bouncing from one bed to the other. He was doing a headfirst dive, when his socked foot hit the lamp, sending it crashing to the floor. Sam froze, his eyes huge, and started to cry.

Dean had to pull him in the closet and hold him close when the neighbors (not so scary) or the hotel management (CPS scary) came to the door about the noise. He shushed him, holding a hand over his mouth, and finally ordered him to stop crying in a hissed tenor imitation of Dad's deep base, 'you remember what to do when strangers come to the door'. He chewed his lip and wondered if he'd remembered to turn off the TV.

When the knocking stopped, he put the shotgun back by the door, and set Sam in front of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer while he made dinner. They'd go out tomorrow for more milk, and get some Wonder Bread and bologna. Dean mentally reviewed their finances and figured they could splurge on two cans of fruit salad.

Sam loved his presents. He got three candy bars (and would have eaten them all right then and there if Dean hadn't saved one), candy canes, a bubble maker, a yo-yo, a big box of crayons, and a treasure trove of books Dean had found in the trash behind a used book store. Those were the best – he'd been able to repair the pop-up books with tweezers and model glue, the alphabet books and puzzle books were easy to clean, and best of all, he scored dozens of almost new coloring books. All he'd had to do was remove carefully slice out the used pages.

Sam gave Dean … something, Dean wasn't exactly sure what, made of red and green construction paper, dried macaroni, and about a pound of glitter. He'd had to tell the babysitter that Sam would eat the paste if she wasn't careful. It just grossed him out what Sammy would put in his mouth. Sam smiled and watched as Dean taped his present to the refrigerator so they could both admire it.

Sammy threw himself into his father's arms when he got back the day before school and child care was due to start up after Christmas break. He burbled and laughed and spun around the room with his new teddy bear, before showing Dad all his other presents, and leading him to the refrigerator to see what he gave Dean.

After Dad put Sam down for a nap, he talked quietly with Dean about the week he'd been gone. Dean reported in about the neighbors, and what groceries they most needed. Dad wouldn't let him go to the laundry room when he was out of town, so he made sure Dad knew to bring home plenty of quarters. Before they went to bed that night, Dad gave Dean an awesome Bowie knife even though all Dean really wanted was for his Dad to stay home once when they were both off school.

Christmas 1991

Sam thought Bobby's junkyard was the best playground ever. Now, under a foot of snow, the junkyard became a new mysterious land of goblins, orcs, and trolls. He would squirm his way under, over, and between cars, fighting and winning desperate battles with his trusty mount 'Lizabeta', Bobby's dog Elizabeth Dole, by his side. He could scream and yell to his heart's content out here and not bother Dad and Uncle Bobby while they were researching.

Dean kept a close eye on Sam while he constructed an awesome snow fort. He glanced toward the house once in a while, just in case it caught on fire or something and he had to run over and drag Bobby and Dad outside. They were so engrossed in research they barely noticed when Dean took Sam outside, bundled in coats and gloves and boots Dean unearthed from Bobby's 'Lost and Found', just like he did every year. Dean never told Dad or Sammy that sometimes they were still in their bags with receipts, and somehow they always left South Dakota wearing them. Even Dad. That was a secret he kept with Uncle Bobby.

He'd just started stockpiling snowballs for Sammy when it got quiet. Dean's head came up, his eyes tracking to where he'd last seen Sam and Liz. Liz he could see. He was moving before she started to bark frantically.

Sam had slipped through the space between two cars butt first, and wedged himself so tightly he was almost folded in half. He was struggling to get enough leverage to pull himself out, but his mittens kept slipping on the snowy metal of the cars. Dean snagged him and pulled, depositing a red faced Sam onto the snow, and right in range of Liz's tongue.

Sam didn't swear yet, really swear with bad words, even though he heard Dad and Dean swear all the time. He had little boy words he would string together instead, and listening to Sam mutter 'monkey vomit, pee, dog do, snot, slug face' always reduced Dean to helpless laughter. He dragged Sam over to the fort and when they ran out of snowballs, he snuck in and brought hot chocolate out to the porch. Liz was sitting on the swing, Sam was sitting on her, and he was getting to that antsy point where they either needed to go inside, where Sam would go apeshit all over the house, or Dean had to find something for him to do.

He trailed off into the yard, eyeing the cars, and had a brilliant idea. He raced back and unearthed the ladder he knew was next to the house and dragged it back into the yard. Sam was right on his heels, dancing to one side to avoid being swept off his feet by the ladder when Dean swung it up and leaned it against a stack of cars. He raced up and cleared a spot on the top car before letting Sam come up to join him.

From there, he jumped to the next stack, windmilling his arms to find his balance. Sam jumped after him, without any warning, and Dean had to catch him before he went headfirst over the edge. They ended up in a heap, laughing like loons, snow flying everywhere. When the tops of the cars started to get icy, Dean finally called a halt and brought a now much quieter Sam into the house to warm up by the fire.

Sam's eyes were huge and he was talking so fast he sounded a lot like a bee buzzing, dancing from one tiny eight-year-old foot to the other, gesturing and describing his best jumps. He wanted to go out again the next day, but Dad packed them up and drove out before dawn. Dean promised they would play again, and sitting in the back seat with his squirmy little brother, quietly told him about how much more awesome it would be when the cars were dry and they could jump in sneakers. They could really play then.

Sam loved to read in the car, and had some great new books from Dad and Bobby, but if he didn't take a break every hour or so Dean knew he would get a really bad headache if not totally carsick and puke in his lap. So he let Sam play with his new Walkman. Dad had also given Dean a new gun, a pearl handled Colt 1911, but all he really wanted was Dad to promise that they would always stay with Uncle Bobby, or at least, at Pastor Jim's on Christmas. He didn't mind all the extra chores if they had a place to play outside.

Christmas 2004

Dean pulled into Bobby's lot about 3 AM Christmas morning. He saw lights come on in the house and predicted to the second when Bobby would switch on the porch light. He couldn't bring himself to get out of the car, and blamed it on wanting to wait until the tape ended.

He woke up looking up into Bobby's unshaven face, and realized Bobby was talking, and he was really cold.

He blinked and slowly looked around. Things weren't making too much sense. "What's up, Bobby?" He licked his lips and tried to sit up, since it seemed he was lying down. In the Impala, his baby. "When did you get here?"

"Get here? You idjit, you pulled into my lot half an hour ago. I understand if you want to adjust your pantyhose, princess, but I was tired of waiting for you to drag your lazy ass to the door."

Dean levered himself up and looked out the windshield. "Am I at your house?"

"No, you dipshit, you're in the Land of Oz."

That didn't make any sense either. "You're being sarcastic, right?"

"Dean. Listen carefully. When did you sleep last?"

Now that? That was just mean. "Ahhh, about a minute ago. You woke me up." He scrubbed his hair. "I drove here to see you. I was in Cali, and then drove here." He smiled suddenly. "Merry Christmas, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby helped him out of the car, and into the house, and let him drop onto the couch. Dean felt Bobby grab his chin and pull his head up.

"Are you hurt, boy?"

"Was. Getting better. Pretty sure."

"Where's your Dad?"

"No fucking clue." He took a breath and accepted a cup of coffee. He drank about half of the mug in one gulp, and things started to look a lot clearer. "I got clocked by a poltergeist. Cracked some ribs, ringing in my ears. Dad took off, somewhere." He finished the cup and gratefully accepted when Bobby offered a refill.

"Is he going to come here?"

"He might, I guess, but I don't think so, not after last time. I haven't talked to him in a couple of weeks."

"If he does show up, you know I'll shoot him. Gonna hold that against me?"

"Not if you use rock salt. You still have some of those shells I made for you?"

"I do, but would appreciate your help making more while you're here."

Dean nodded and took a sip of coffee. He dragged his eyes open. "I saw Sam."

"Boy, you are going to be picked up as a stalker if you aren't careful."

He fished around in his pocket and held up a plastic card with an inset clip. "I have a Stanford ID." He squinted at it. "I'm an assisted, no, assistant professor. See?" His eyes closed without his permission. "Professor of Phy'cal Ed." He dragged his eyes open one more time. "Do y'think they have those in Californ-eye –ay? "

Rumsfeld woke him enthusiastically in the morning. He still hated dog spit on his face. He washed up and joined Bobby in the kitchen.

"Ribs?" Bobby asked.

"Fine."

"Head?"

"Ringing gone. I was just tired – I was up for a day or two."

Bobby's voice gentled. "Sam?"

"Can't believe he doesn't see me sometimes. I've sat in his classes so often, they're going to have to give me credits."

"Who's that girl he's with? See her?"

"Name on the lease is Jessica Moore. Haven't had a full on view. Tall, blonde." Dean snagged some bacon and crunched it. "Do you think Sam has any of Mom's DNA? I mean, you didn't meet her, but Sam's just freaky like Dad sometimes. Thank God he got taller than Dad, or I'd think it was a plot. Got skinny too. And a stubborn, self righteous, selfish son of a bitch."

"He still not talking to you?"

"I don't call since he blocked my number." He heard Bobby start to say something, but interrupted him. "It's OK. This is what he wanted. Exactly what he wanted. And you can't have normal with me and Dad in the family tree." He watched Bobby pull a carton of eggs from the fridge. "I send him really cool presents though. This year, it was a carton of Trojans."

Bobby started to chuckle. "You always knew exactly what that boy wanted."

"I was lucky he had inexpensive tastes when he was a kid. Once he became a bitchy moody teenager, all I did was give him coal in his stocking." Dean stepped forward and pushed Bobby away from the stove and toward the table, depositing his coffee cup in front of his chair. "You make the best bacon in the world, but you can't make scrambled eggs worth shit."

Bobby rejoined, "If you ever wanted to see a moody teenager, look up Dean Winchester in the dictionary."

That made Dean smile. He worked on cars and hung out with Bobby until his phone rang a week later. He didn't tell Dad where he was when he answered, but he was sure Dad probably knew somehow. He left to meet up with Dad in Florida with a last wistful glance at the stacks of cars, and wondered what Sam would have given him if they still talked.

Christmas 2008

Dean gave Sam twenty-five of everything. Twenty-five pairs of socks, twenty-five pairs of underwear, twenty-five Twinkies, twenty-five legal pads, condoms, granola bars, Goodwill teeshirts – including an almost unbelievable score of an XXL Spongebob Squarepants shirt that might reach Sam's waist, twenty-five pairs of shoelaces … he'd almost had to use a wheelbarrow to bring it all into Bobby's house.

But he needed to make up for the perfectly shitty present he gave Sam back in May. Twenty-five Pez dispensers (all Jar Jar Binks) were not going to make up for dying gruesomely right in front of Sam on his twenty-fifth birthday. Probably nothing would. 'Your insides were slop' still echoed in his ears sometimes. But they made Sam smile and that was all the Christmas he needed.

It was beyond weird being in Bobby's house without Bobby, but it felt as much like home as the Impala did.

Sam gave him a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue and a book on how to beat alcoholism in thirty days. He also cried every time he looked at Dean on Christmas Eve, which was just freaking gross, but they had great eggnog, and didn't have to pull apart a Christmas tree to kill a couple of pagan gods. They laughed and drank and then Sam asked him if he remembered the game they'd played on the cars that Christmas when he was six and Dean was ten.

"Of course I remember that. But you were eight and I was twelve. You never remember how old you were when you did anything." He held up a hand. "Except for everything that happened after you turned eighteen and went to Stanford."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Sam broke it, by nodding solemnly, and saying, "The game. You remember you promised we would play it again. And we did, every time we were at Bobby's." He sipped some eggnog and choked a little. "That game was awesome. I was sorry we had to stop playing it a couple of years later."

Dean laughed and said, "Three and a half years. I was sixteen and you had just turned into a whiny twelve-year-old." He sipped his scotch. "It was an awesome game, dude, and you were incredible at it." He shook his head ruefully. "Just incredible."

Sam interrupted his thoughts. "You were punished for that last time, weren't you?"

He shook himself and sat up straighter. "Yeah, but it wasn't too bad."

"Did I even notice that when I was a 'whiny twelve-year-old'?"

Dean had to laugh. "No, Sam, you never did." He shook his head again. "You always were an egotistical little bastard."

"What did Dad do to you? And why punish you when we both played the game?"

"I was the big brother, which not only means I'm always right, but it also means that I'm responsible for everything, especially when I was endangering your life."

"What was the punishment? I remember you being dirty at the end of the day but not much else."

Dean hesitated for a moment. "Um, Dad and Bobby made me clean out the oil reservoirs in the yard."

Sam just looked blank.

"There were six in all. Full of old oil Bobby drained from the cars here." He waved in the general direction of the lot. "You have to do it differently now, but back when Bobby started you could pour it in a hole and let it sit. The reservoirs had to be emptied and the oil packed up according to EPA regulations and shit like that."

"But if you used Bobby's pump…"

"No pump, man, that was part of the punishment. At least Bobby let me use a bucket."

"A bucket? Instead of what? Dad would have given you a ladle?"

Dean barked out a laugh. "Only if I was lucky. Probably would have given me a sponge instead."

They both dissolved into helpless laughter. Sam suddenly stood up.

"I have a surprise. Wait here a minute."

Sam put on his coat, and dodged outside. After a few minutes, Dean heard and saw the outside floodlights come on. He stepped out on the porch just as Sam ran back up and motioned Dean to follow him.

"Did you string lights on the cars?"

Sam just shook his head, and kept walking. Dean followed after him, hurrying to keep up. They rounded a corner and there was a ladder set up against a pile of cars. Sam walked to it and grandly gestured for Dean to precede him.

Dean clambered up the ladder and looked out over the yard. The cars were clear and dry and the flood lights made the cars and the chasms between and around them look like a moonscape, all black and white and stark sharp edges. Sam appeared next to him and pointed at the next pile.

"I can make that pile and those two," he said, pointing, "without stopping."

"Sam, wait, wait. This is nuts."

"Dean, no one is here but you and me. Dad's gone, and I know we are both sorry for that, but Bobby's gone, too. Out of town. There's no one to yell at us, or tell us to stop, or punish you this time."

Dean tried again to fathom what it would be like to grow up without responsibilities. Just be a kid as long as possible, with no sense of consequences, almost no fear, just normal kid responsibilities. Had to be great if it turned out someone like Sam.

"You are going down. You may have stilts for legs but I have power and grace." He sized up the possibilities. "I can make that pile, and three more without stopping."

"You are so on." Sam's grin was blinding and they did rock-paper-scissors to see who would go first.

As Sam made the first jump, then hopped to the next pile, Dean starting yelling, egging Sam on. Dean would always let Sam's rock smash his scissors.