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English
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Published:
2021-12-26
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1,760
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1/1
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24
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Bells And Whistles

Summary:

Sam, Dean and their newborn daughter are invited to a Christmas dinner with Sam’s folks. Dean can’t exactly say no. (A 50 timestamp.)

Work Text:

Mrs. Campbell has eyes for nobody but Riley the second she locates her in the carry-on basket that dangles as an elongation of Sam’s arm. She begins unbuckling the newborn right then and there with Sam and Dean still on the doorsteps in their thick coats, the snow still collecting on their shoulders. Once inside, Dean takes his coat off, looks around to confirm his suspicions: huge house, styled to the nines, not a speck of dust. Nice neighborhood. Oh, boy.

Dean is gonna need a lot of booze.

After a short back and forth about how to correctly hold Riley, Mrs. Campbell happily carries her away under a constant stream of cooing and praise. Sam shoulders out of his coat and looks about as enthusiastic as Dean feels.

“You’d think she never handled a baby before, Jesus Christ.”

Dean says, “It’s gonna be fine,” and Sam just grunts, already on edge thanks to that recent baby-related lack of rest. Dean still doesn’t quite understand why they’re even here. Sam’s folks didn’t even attend the wedding.

They follow Mrs. Campbell into the salon. A massive, elongated table in the middle of the room bows under festive decorations…and mountains of food. Dean keeps his expression in check while Sam beelines to his mother, to the baby. Dean blinks over roast, dumplings and Christmas stars. Candles, long and short, thin and thick. He meets someone’s eyes, half-hidden behind the whole setup, and is too taken aback to greet them. Just stands there with his hands in his pockets and with Sam’s father staring him down. Wow. Great.

“Why don’t you sit, my dear; oh, her little fingers, how are you ever letting her out of sight?”

Dean jokes, “Heh, that part’s easy—it’s not like she’s going anywhere,” while he pulls his randomly assigned chair back, but Mrs. Campbell is not listening, not with her brand-new granddaughter in her arms. For what it’s worth: Riley isn’t crying. Yet. Dean throws Sam a look, but Sam is not any better than his mother—shoves his chair right back after sitting down because there’s one foot too-many between him and ‘his girl’, so he follows.

He barks, “Would you put her down already!” without making a dent in his mother’s entrancement. Dean forces himself to deflate into his chair. His eyes swim back to the only other sort-of-sane person at the table and he clears his throat, tries half a smile. He nods towards the drink in the man’s hand.

“Sir, uh—you got any more where that came from?”

Sam’s dad gets up without a word and brings the decanter to Dean’s seat. Dean didn’t even see the damn thing through all the glitter.

“You don’t have to—oh, uh, thank you.”

Mr. Campbell finishes pouring Dean a generous glass and returns to his seat. Dean toasts and drinks. Campbell doesn’t toast back.

Yeah. Yeah, Dean expected as much.

Much to Sam’s dismay, Mrs. Campbell refuses to give up the baby. Dean couldn’t care less if it wasn’t for her chirping, “Why don’t you help yourself, dear, you boys must be starving! The meat’s getting cold, no need to be shy.”

“…Thank you.”

Dean eyes his options. Another sip of whiskey before he at least picks his napkin from his plate to put it over his lap.

“Mom, enough is enough. You’re overwhelming her…”

“Oh, shut the front door, Samuel, you’re being ridiculous! She loves me! Yeah, don’t you, my sweet little angel?”

Dean slips a glance for the circus, a check-in with Campbell on the other side of the table, still silently drinking. Man. Call him crazy, but maybe another night alone with the two-week-old and Sam would have been preferable.

Just as Dean stops being a fucking chicken and reaches for the roast and vegetables, the baby catches up on the general unease of the room and starts to announce its displeasure. Hidden under the new commotion, Dean sighs, tries to focus on piling crap onto his plate. The slices in the middle look leaner, but surely, it’d be impolite to pick the roast apart…

“Oh, ooh, sweetheart, shh…”

Sam warns, “Mom,” and Mrs. Campbell finally relents. Yeah, not so cute anymore once they open their mouth. Mrs. Campbell’s frown deepens while Sam bounces the baby in his arms.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Shut your damn mouth!”

“Sam.”

Dean perks for the new voice. Mr. Campbell glares at his son.

“In front of the child? Really?”

Sam scoffs. Poor Riley is still crying her head off. Dean can’t blame her. “She can’t even roll around on her own, you think she has any fucking clue what we’re saying?”

Riley’s head is getting red from screaming. Her tiny little fists push against Sam’s shoulder while he tries his best, bounces and cradles and walks with her while he and his mother keep arguing, and Dean can’t—he can’t.

Dean fishes his napkin back out of his lap to put it on the table instead and Sam rolls his eyes just for Dean, pushing his chair back to get up.

“Hand her over, come on.”

Sam snaps, “I’ve got it,” but does peel the crying child off himself once Dean is at his side. The pinch to his entire face though says it all.

As soon as Riley is nestled against Dean’s chest, the crying stops. Dean bounces her a little softer than his husband did, cups her tiny head. He turns away from the Campbells, from Sam, cradles the child—his child. Behind his back, Sam lets out a scoff, pulls back a chair to sit.

“Ridiculous.”

“Not a very good mother, are you?”

“Runs in the family, Mom.”

Dean can’t help but smirk into Riley’s soft hair.

~

More booze. Dean shoves his food around his plate, cuts pieces into tinier pieces and washes the few bites he takes down with all the whiskey he can get his hands on. Which, in this household, thankfully is an unending supply. Riley is fast asleep, strapped to his front. They tried putting her into her basket, but no such luck.

Mrs. Campbell has migrated to the chair right next to Dean. Her wine glass never quite empties.

She frowns at the baby. Dean’s private space apparently doesn’t exist. Well, if they don’t bat an eye at his drinking, he’ll tolerate it.

“You don’t look anything like your daddy, sweetie. Sammy was an ugly baby.”

That last part is for Dean (who knows better than to jump onto that train). Her brows draw tighter yet. Up close, her and Sam do look alike an awful lot. She looks at Riley, at Dean—throws a disgruntled look to Sam, who apparently is on a mission to double his weight with gravy and meat pies.

“Who was the mother, anyway?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Dean feels baby-slobber seeping into his good shirt, tries to ignore the sensation. More whiskey should do it. Yep. Feels like it’s helping. Sam finishes his current serving and wipes his mouth with his napkin. He almost knocks his glass over with how he tosses said napkin onto the table; he takes another, long sip. Dean feels those eyes on their daughter. The spite in Sam’s whole mannerism.

“’Sides, she’s his. So that makes sense.”

“Oh—what? But I thought…?”

Sam grumbles, “You know why,” and Mrs. Campbell balks a bit more before she deflates. One more glass of wine and she’s gonna start touching the baby again while it’s still strapped to Dean.

Sam and Dean look at each other for a beat before Dean decides it’s not worth the hassle to argue, and before Sam decides he’s too tired to take his frustration out on Dean. Riley flinches in her sleep. Dean’s hand goes back to his glass.

Dean assures that he’s got it when the inevitable diaper change needs to happen. Anything that can steal him a break from the nightmare that is this dinner is good enough for him. He might be drunk, sure, but it’s only a diaper. He finds the bathroom on the second try. Riley squirms calmly and awake once she’s laid out on that fancy marble sink. Dean chuckles, squeezes her little foot while he fixes her up. He doesn’t sway, leaned against the sink as he is.

“Daddy’s golden ticket, aren’t you? Yeah, you are.”

Dean washes his hands, has some from the flask he pulls from the inside of his suit jacket. He sighs, rubs at his eyes. Riley grunts. Dean watches her squirm. Just a little worm. He still has no clue why Sam would want—something like that.

The flask screwed shut and put away, Dean straps his daughter back to his chest with that stupid sling contraption Sam swears on. No matter how ridiculous it makes him look or how often Dean points said fact out to him, Dean barely sees his husband without it—or without Riley, that is. As macho as Sam usually is, this side of him came as a surprise, to say the least. Well, maybe better that way, with Dean’s ‘maternal instincts’ missing their bus.

Back in the hallway, Dean sways. The saloon baits with soft light and colors and the low chatter of calmed-down company, the clatter of cutlery on good porcelain. Dean stares at the shut, fancy glass doors separating him from the party for another moment before he turns the other way, his palm cupped safely over the back of Riley’s head.

Mr. Campbell is the one who ends up finding him a bit later. Steps out on the balcony and brings Dean’s drink, and neither of them says a word as he shuts the door behind himself, comes over to Dean and the baby. Dean blinks through the falling snow and puts his almost-empty flask away so he can accept the glass Campbell hands him.

Campbell thumbs the collar of Dean’s jacket aside to find his happily snoozing grandchild underneath. Reassured, Campbell hides the child once more. Dean sniffles, drinks.

“They were looking for you.”

“Heh. I bet.”

“Come back inside. You two must be freezing.”

“Eh, it’s not that bad.”

Campbell grumbles, “Have some mercy on me, will you? They’re like goddamn headless chickens in there,” and nips from his own drink, and Dean chuckles because he’s drunk enough. “What? You think that’s funny?”

“Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

Dean falters. Dares to focus on Campbell’s face, but his expression reminds him so much of Sam that it chills his bones.

“Come back inside.”

Dean doesn’t argue this time.