I don't think this has been done yet. And if it has, I'm still doing it. I mean, what the heck...

A little Dean Angst, a little Sammy Torture. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Sadly I own nothing Supernatural. rats.

o0o

Why did he never see these things coming? Why was he, who had basically lived his whole life on guard against anything evil, always surprised when things – ok, not things – when Sammy blew up in his face? And stormed out back to their latest motel room, again. And why, why, why was it always right after he made the mistake yet again of mentally congratulating himself for a job well done on his little brother? When he was just thanking whatever deity might exist that he'd managed to spare Sammy some of the same awful choices and situations that he'd had to face as the older one, the responsible one. When he was thinking gratefully that while Sammy had had much of the same awfulness happen, at least he made sure that Sam had had some options; that it wasn't all bad.

But apparently it was. All bad. Sammy's latest rant just outside the bar had been about, what else? not being 'normal'; not having had a 'normal' childhood. About no 'normal' seven year-olds having to learn knife wielding and throwing; about no 'normal' ten year-old learning to fire a colt .45; about the dubious nature of the Winchester family values that praised lying, theft and cheating. All brought on by yet again, not having a 'normal' birthday.

Nothing new there.

Ok, maybe he shouldn't have teased Sammy by pretending to forget his birthday, maybe he should have just given him his present first thing this morning and not dragged it out. Maybe he was being an asshole, but…

"You're not being an asshole. He is."

Dean was too well-trained to visibly flinch, but the cultured British voice behind him was almost as much of a surprise as Sammy's recent rant had been. Fortunately this surprise was not as unwelcome.

"Chris!" Dean felt a genuine smile cross his face as he watched 'The Ghost of Christmas Past' wince at the shortening of his name. Dean didn't recognize 'Chris' so much by his appearance as his appearance changed based on whomever he was real for; Dean recognized him by the sarcastic smirk, caustic wit and by the ever present unholy gleam of promised retribution in his eyes. Ok, and by the fact that he had been pulled out of time again – it was definitely a sensation you did not forget: the bar around him continued on, but Dean and his visitor were no longer visible to them and Dean's sudden absence would be an anomaly that would not be allowed to linger in the consciousness of anyone who might have noticed.

Dean gave his… well friend seemed too strong a word for it considering their different occupations, but acquaintance didn't sound like enough either…his pal a smirk as he realized that this time he looked like an extra from Easy Rider, rather than the most fictionalized phantom ever. He looked about as un-Dickensian as might be possible. And the fact that he seemed relaxed and perfectly at ease in a rural Tennessee bar should have been incongruous but wasn't.

Apparently showing selfish misguided misers the error of their ways agreed with him.

"So, trying to redeem a Hell's Angel? I wouldn't have thought that there were many that needed their eyes opened." Dean had run with a couple of Hell's Angels for a while after Sam left for college and after he and his dad split ways, and the people who followed that lifestyle seemed to have fewer illusions than most people he met. Perhaps too many had delusions of being the next Peter Fonda, but still…

"No, I wasn't here on business, I really only do most of my work on Christmas Eve, sometimes a bit of work in the week before Christmas, but other than that I have more days off than anybody other than Santa Claus."

Dean snorted in disbelief.

"You know, it's a sad, sad world out there when there's not enough belief to sustain a children's myth but the tale of dead spirits ganging up on the unenlightened is enough to keep me 'alive'," Chris smirked, "for centuries."

"So where are Huey and Dewey anyway, don't tell me you went on your world wide vacation without them?" Dean knew that kidding aside the three seasonal spirits never were very far from each other.

"No, they're a couple of counties over at a Harley Davidson show. I heard your brother and decided I'd pop over and see if we could finally repay the favour we owe you."

"Repay me?" It took only a moment for the penny to drop.

"No way! No way are you doing your act on Sammy. There's nothing he needs to know. We're fine. Yes, he's pissed at me right now, but when he storms back to the motel room and see his present he'll cool down. We're good."

Dean let out a shaky breath and tried for a teasing grin. "Now if you want to try your mojo on my old man…"

But Dean could see that Chris wasn't buying it. "Dean, our 'mojo' as you so quaintly call it, would never work on your father. At some level the convert has to want to be convinced, has to want to see. Your father has been wearing his blinders for so long they've become his security blanket, he can't let go of his own view of events. He'll never change. Ever. You know this."

And Dean did know this. He knew it instinctively. He'd known it for quite some time, but had only just realized that he'd been secretly hoping that there'd be a day when his father would turn to him and acknowledge Dean's unstinting contributions to their own twisted family. At the sudden utter certainty that it would never happen, that his father would never appreciate all that he had done for him and for his brother growing up, Dean felt once again the familiar mantle of weariness and guilt settle over his frame. He slumped down in his seat. Maybe he hadn't done as good a job with Sammy as he'd thought, if he had then maybe John would..."

"And see, that slump, that train of thought that starts out "maybe I didn't do all that I could…" that thought is why we're gonna do Sammy. It's too late to do anything about your old man, but there's no reason for this blindness to continue to the next generation."

With that the suddenly spooky specter of "The Ghost of Christmas Past' pushed out of his bar seat (or would have if he hadn't gone right through it) and started to dematerialize.

"Wait!"

The righteously indignant ghost stopped.

"You won't tell him everything, right?" Dean didn't want to beg, and would never specify, but there were things that Sammy could never know. Things he'd done when there just wasn't another way. Things that he wasn't proud of, but that he'd do again in a heartbeat. But that didn't mean he ever wanted Sammy to know.

To hell with it. "Plea…"

And Chris looked into Dean's worried expression and into his worn and very old soul and read the mix of shame and pride that fought for dominance and knew that he'd never do anything to taint this tired man in the eyes of his younger brother. The spirit, having full knowledge of all things Past, knew that neither brother was ever going to be ready for full disclosure. Some of those illusions would need to remain intact. He could and would respect Dean's request.

He gently shook his head, understanding and acquiescing to Dean's request.

"No Dean. Trust us. We won't. We won't tell him everything."

And Dean gave a curt nod of thanks. And breathed a silent sigh of relief as the bar coalesced around him once more.

He did trust Chris, and had instinctively since he'd first met the trio over ten years ago. Dean allowed himself a weary chuckle as he signaled the waitress for another drink.

His lips settled into a knowingly wry smirk. Poor Sammy wouldn't know what hit him.

o0o

TBC

I think.