Don't Quoth Me

After the Fire

2008-03-21T23:33:10Z

A few weeks back, Samantha Ferris asked on her website for some suggestions on what Ellen has been doing with herself since last we saw her slamming shut the gates of Hell with Bobby Singer. Due to one thing and another, it took me a while to formulate my response, and naturally I couldn't just do a few sentences, and so I'm coming late to the party. Not a true story in the proper sense, more of a seven page plot bunny. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized Ellen has a few things to say that I wanted to hear. Not at all difficult to hear those things, as Ms Ferris made it very easy to hear Ellen's voice. Making maximum use of a limited amount of screen time, using a few deft strokes, she was able to create a vivid, memorable and well-defined character. A high water mark in the series for me.

After the Fire

Hell from beneath is moved for thee to meet thee at thy coming: it stirreth up the dead for thee, even all the chief ones of the earth; it hath raised up from their thrones all the kings of the nations. Isaiah 14:9

She heard gunfire in the distance, but Ellen didn't care about that. It was steady and controlled, so Kathleen and Diana were methodically working down the ranks of Infected with police-trained accuracy and efficiency. She turned her truck slowly off the highway, on to the service road. The dark desert stretched in all directions around the isolated Nevada township that had turned into a battlefield. Black mountains all around tore a strip of stars from the sky. A few houses strewn about to the west and south, behind her the main drag, buildings and stores, most dark, some lit by the fires burning unchecked. And the two-story hospital Dean had been held in for the last few weeks. The Impala was waiting in front, driver's door still standing open, right where Sam had left it when he went in to get Dean.

Of course it would never occur to a Winchester to dig in and wait for help to arrive. She scanned in a full circle, her fists wanting to shake the steering wheel. 'Dammit, boys...' Once Sam had found out where Dean had been taken, there was a straight line between Sam and there, best not be in the way. Of course it had been a trap, and as soon as Ellen found out she called Deacon. His team had stormed out of Truckee hell bent, but Sam had still got there first. She turned off the road and slowly cruised in a slight zigzag, letting her high beams play along the desert scrub. One hand on the wheel, the other on the shotgun.

It hadn't even been a year, she thought, as she peered into the night, a year after the fire, looking for any sign of movement. The brilliant starlit sky was almost brighter than her headlights. A year and then some since Jo had left, a year and then some more since John Winchester's sons had busted into her bar and the countdown started. Not that she blamed them for what happened when that countdown hit zero and her life went up in flames. But not even a year since the gate to Hell had opened, and all that came after that.

After the fire, of course, came the drive to Bobby Singer's with the files Ash had left in the safe. After the night in front of Samuel Colt's mausoleum or whatever the hell that was, it wasn't like she could just go on vacation to Mexico and lay in the sun. Nothing keeping her in Gilead. Jo wasn't coming home, Bill hadn't been coming home for years, she was free. Of course there was a war on, or so everyone had said.

But she didn't care about that. At first she just drove, visited a couple of old friends, trying to reconnect. If the storm had arrived, it was a quiet one. She found a lot of angry people, people she considered friends and decent folk with serious axes to grind with the Winchesters, and with Bobby Singer, and with her. How anyone found out what had happened that night in the deserted Wyoming cemetery was a serious question, and she had yet to hear a satisfactory answer as to how that story got round. She hadn't breathed a word, and Bobby Singer wasn't known as a gossip. The Winchesters didn't know anyone to tell.

So she found herself with a chip on her shoulder, and found she didn't hold with laying blame for that night on her, or on Bobby, or holding those two boys responsible for all the ills of the world. Bare-naked stupid, and she found she didn't mind telling people. Even it if cost a few bruised knuckles and bruised egos.

Surprised her. She thought hunter folk were smarter than that. Everyone was het up, gearing up to fight whatever was coming, or already here, but as far as most were concerned the Winchesters were on the wrong side. At any rate, they were on their own. She nursed her feelings, her knuckles, and she pondered. She took those files Ash had left and started going through them.

She made calls, made visits. She met some unusual people, and heard unusual stories. A school friend of Sam's in St. Louis. A priest in Rhode Island. She found some of the folk on her list had already found each other. A lawyer in Kentucky who tracked down a police detective in Baltimore who had talked with a deputy in Minnesota. All had been touched by the supernatural and by the Winchesters, and each one had kept asking questions. Most all of them women, which always gave Ellen a laugh.

Missouri Moseley, who tried to get her to see that there was a greater purpose to her roaming. The good of humanity, the survival of the world. Ellen didn't care about that, called her an officious busybody, and let her know all she cared about was the good name of two brave boys who were out there somewhere alone. Thinking they were alone, anyway. With what hung over their heads, it broke her heart to think of them thinking that. Took a while, but she and Missouri Moseley came to a workable relationship. And that was before the blind preacher started calling her up to give her instructions from God. So now she had a mission. Ain't that something.

Some folk she met up with were just folk, ready to be helpful, but not set up to be heroes. Couple of airline execs in Pennsylvania were real handy as friends. So was the rich lawyer from Mississippi, Handler, he was real open handed with his money. So was Gert Case, the old bat. So much like her own gran, God rest her, it gave her shivers. Whatever else they might be, though, they all were happy to know there were other folk in the world who knew they weren't crazy.

Not all the meetings were pleasant, not at all. Alice, in Michigan, who said she owed her life to the Winchesters, but it cost her son, and she closed the door in Ellen's face. Stephanie, a hunter's daughter, now a hunter herself traveling with Jo, fighting the good fight, and fighting hard every day, real hard, not to blame Sam for her father.

Then there were the kids. The moms and kids. All were grateful, and willing to talk to her, but most just wanted to forget. Ellen had been willing to let them forget, till she arrived at the motel in Wisconsin owned by a woman on her list named Joanna, to find Tamara, a hunter she knew by reputation but had never met, investigating Joanna's murder. Sulphurous fire took the mother, and two little boys had barely escaped with their lives. That same night Missouri had called to tell of a premonition of danger to the family living in the Winchesters' old house in Lawrence. The house burned to the foundation two days later. So something else was following the Winchesters' trail.

So she couldn't let them forget after all. She talked to Bobby, and Gert, and then Ellen went right down the list, calling the mothers and children that might be used as hostages or bait for the Winchester boys. Offered them a safe place in upstate New York to wait out the end of the war or end of the world. An old girl's school, Halcyon Hall, as spooky an old pile as she'd ever seen, but it was owned by the spooky old Marlowe, the fellow Bobby got his books from, and warded to the rafters. Right down the road from New Paltz. Gert was there to take them in and see them settled.

She high tailed to Lawrence, where Missouri had Jenny, Ritchie and Sari packed and ready. They needed little convincing. Back to Fitchburg to find the orphaned boys, Michael and Asher. They'd been placed in separate foster care facilities, and after a few choice words with bureaucrats who must have been hatched not born, Ellen cruised the back roads around the town till she found two boys with backpacks trudging to God knows where. Trust didn't come easily, but the magic name of Winchester at least got them into her truck and to Missouri's house in Lawrence. Then wheels just started turning on their own. Mara Daniels, the Baltimore lawyer, arranged for a Dr. Garrison, who she had never heard of but once again the Winchester name was invoked, to take custody through some fancy court finagling that Ellen would rather not know about. Before the authorities could give her grief for transporting across state lines, the youngsters were on their way to Halcyon Hall where they would have family, where people wouldn't think they were crazy, and where dear God they wouldn't be separated.

Then it was six more trips for her, five mothers, eight kids, seven Winchester stories and she ran out of names. She prayed she'd got them all. Bobby was working the east coast with the Collins's, so now the place was spilling over. Hunters had never been much in the way of organized and were always secretive. After the fire she'd thought maybe they'd lost too many, and the world was in dire shape, but turned out there were more than anyone had guessed. A lot of them had families and were glad to hear of a place that would protect them. And there were a lot of orphans, and the hunting families wanted every one of them.

Nothing would replace Michael and Asher's mother. But at least they'd be with mothers and kids and good people. She could have strangled John Winchester when she found out about Sam and Dean. Known him for over two years, and he'd never said word one about having children. Suspicious, paranoid, isolationist bastard. Could have had them around, maybe not permanent, but at least they could have grown up with some kind of family, had Jo for a part-time little sister or something. Lord knows she was no model mother, and she would never have tried to step in like that, though Bill had wanted a son so bad you could bottle it, but that didn't work for John Winchester, no, he needed them far away and under lock and key or whatever bullshit reasons he kept in that barbed-wire brain of his. Jesus.

She and Dean had started out crosswise for sure over that very issue. Of course two wayward boys brought out the mother in anyone, specially when Sam turned on the big eyes to get information. She could have told Dean right there she wasn't going to tread on that sacred ground with either of them. Dean's memory of Mary Winchester was something religious. And Sam had a mother; he was sitting right next to him. Still, Dean was suspicious and defensive.

She wasn't even scaring up jackrabbits. She picked up speed a bit, letting the truck jostle over the rough ground. The fight must have sent them out the back, since the Impala was still there. They must have gone into the dark to shake pursuit. Mostly Infected, a whole lot of zombies, and maybe a few possessed. Deacon and his small army had swept into town, went full metal on the creatures trying to get into the clinic, which Sam must have barricaded. Given them a chance to escape, it looked. In the big picture, it was a substantial victory. A base of operations destroyed, a whole lot of bodies put back in the ground. But she didn't care about that. She cared about finding those boys.

Her cell rang. She glanced at it. Reverend Roy, with typical timing. Whatever he had to tell her would have to wait, because it would only be more murky advice from the friends of the Winchesters that only he could talk to. Been talking to Death, the man had said. Death apparently owed Sam Winchester a favor. Or had unfinished business with Dean. Last time he'd said he had a message from Pastor Jim Murphy, and she'd hung up on him. Well, unless his 'spirit guide' Layla had told him where she could find Sam and Dean Winchester at this very moment, she wasn't interested. Not a betting woman, but she was going to bet not. Might accept some advice on how to get them in the truck without shooting her first, though. What they'd found in the town had chilled her to the bone.

The take-over must have happened months ago. The town was small, off the beaten track, and the Infected kept things looking normal. Behind the shuttered windows, though, it was all nightmare. The inside of the hospital had been horrific. Deacon and his company fighting their way in, Sam fighting their way out. Randall had spotted them on the monitors: a bloodied Sam carrying semi-conscious Dean in hospital scrubs, fighting off corpses. By the time the good guys had found that corridor, the boys were gone.

How to convince the mistrustful and wounded Winchesters that the good guys had won? She should have brought cheeseburgers. Set them out in a trail leading into the back of the truck. She grimaced, and wished she hadn't thought of food. What they'd found in the hospital had made some of the prison-hardened lose their stomachs. She'd have to prove she wasn't one of them. Infected or possessed. And the boys were always suspicious. And rightly so. She didn't feel very charitable towards humanity these days. In the recent months, as the news had more and more trouble keeping the War a secret, it became apparent that the Possessed had infiltrated many key areas, but there weren't enough of them to really take over. But they found volunteers. She was glad she hadn't been present to see the expression on the boy's faces the first time they encountered someone that was willingly working with the invaders. That was how Dean got taken. Not by the creatures they had protections against, but normal humans. Quislings. Set up and handed over by Bela Talbot.

Bela Talbot. There was a shameful waste of God's good air. She'd come to Sam with Dean's cell phone, in that motel outside Boise, showed him the video on it. Shaky, blurry glimpses of the things the black-eyed doctors were doing to the patients, to the children. And to Dean. It had been taken days earlier. Dean had been taken weeks ago. He could handle pain, Dean Winchester, and fear, and would make jokes to God's own face, but even he couldn't fight the stuff in needles, and their powers, and they took their time.

She had claimed to have come across the phone by accident and brought it to Sam at once. Picture of innocence. Nothing in it for her. But she screwed up. Sam had flown out the door, of course. Called Bobby, who called Ellen, who called Deacon, and the girls... Bela should have made herself scarce. But she made a few phone calls from his motel room, lady of leisure. She didn't think she was in any danger when the first car pulled up, the one with the college girls. Ellen hadn't found them, they'd found her. Jill Shoemaker and Charlie, from Toledo. Lori Sorensen, Iowa. Kat from Illinois, and Emily from Boston. They all met up over the Internet, somehow or other. Stories of mirrors and trees, monsters and ghosts. And stories of the Winchesters. They had gathered themselves together, and they had hit the road. They'd seen more of Jo than Ellen had herself in the last months. Called themselves the Hell's Sorority or something. Jo in a sorority. Never in her born days. Good shots, though, all of them. They had been looking for Sam, too, knowing he was in trouble.

Bela had laughed at them, as they kept her there, waiting for the second car. She offered them money, which they refused. She pitied them their bourgeoisie ways. Looking for Sam? That was dangerous, she said. Aren't you aware it's fatal to have designs on Sam Winchester? Yes, they said, they knew, they've been told what would happen to any of them if they made a move on Sam Winchester. They exchanged looks and smiled and said it was more dangerous to have hurt him. Bela didn't get the joke, even when the second car pulled up, and Gertrude Case got out. Gertrude's presence was a surprise. And money wouldn't move her... That made Bela uncomfortable. With Gertrude was Sarah Blake, who didn't appear likely to be swayed by money either, and the look in her eyes made Bela's anxiety quite acute.

It should not have been a surprise that the art dealer's daughter and the art-collecting socialite had met, living as they did in the same area, during the course of business. That they enjoyed each other's company was not surprising at all. That they both knew just enough to drop hints about the nature of certain objects, and pick up on those hints was not a coincidence, but a credit to their astuteness. That they both came by that knowledge by way of a certain tall, beautiful, haunted young man and his rascal brother, well.

Over the course of the next hour, Bela Talbot had learned why the girls had laughed, and that lesson was very painful. But later Gertrude called Ellen, and informed her Sarah had learned the name of the town where Dean had been taken, and where Sam was headed. Shafter, Nevada.

Ellen didn't care about bloody Bela Talbot. She drove round a gully, trying to get her headlights aimed down enough to see into it. She wracked her memory. What else was in this area? Anything? In any direction? Nothing but desert, no civilization till Salt Lake City, near a hundred miles east. Must have gone out a ways and turned north or south, hoping to shake the Infected and circle back to town. But if they knew there were demons, they couldn't shake them that easy. How could they, both of them wounded, hope to get a hundred miles to... She grunted and laughed, turned directly east. Easy driving on this featureless landscape, just have to avoid ruts and gullies. A few miles ahead it would get even easier, when she reached Bonneville Flats, that three thousand acre plain of raw salt. Those boys were something. She gunned the engine into high speed

She remembered something Dean had said to her, late one night, after a few beers, about feeling bad about not feeling worse. About the things he had to do. She wondered if she felt that way about Bela Talbot. Nope. Not a flicker. Sarah was ready to just put a bullet in her head, but Gert had proposed they keep her alive. Bela had access to objects, to knowledge, information that could be useful. Gert spoke with Ellen, and they, the wise old heads of the group, discussed options. Convincing her to part with that useful information and those useful objects, even just keeping her under lock and key, would be a ticklish job. The hunters weren't equipped and the policewomen too useful in the field. Bobby Singer agreed with Sarah. Ellen had a suggestion. Another peculiar Winchester connection, one that had found her, too, like the Sorority Girls. Offered aid if needed, she owed the Winchesters a favor or two, and didn't want to see the world come to an end either, thanks. Ellen had barely been able to talk rationally to her at all, considering, but Ellen called her and gave her the story. Then Ellen instructed Gert to keep Bela where she was, preferably sedated. Gert reported later that Bela was arrogant to the last. She was typically contemptuous of her new warden as they drove off, and even Gert had been surprised at the wan thing Ellen had sent, but after a moment of conversation, and the chill that followed, Gert was happy to leave Bela Talbot to the tender mercies of the pale, pretty girl with ancient eyes named Lenore.

With little victories like that, the war, such as it was, was actually going pretty well. Horrible things happened, sure. The demons targeted isolated communities, or closed groups, and wreaked havoc, but left little direct evidence. Mass murders. Small towns going crazy. Strange disasters. But there were successes. The prison in Greenville would have been a blood bath, but John Winchester's old war buddy Deacon knew how to fight them, and when they abandoned the place, there were a lot of bodies, true, but there was also a group of twenty guards and prisoners who had been blooded as a fighting unit. Her own daughter Jo had gone into Camp Pendleton in California to lead out survivors, and what came out had already been trained to fight, and now they knew what they were fighting against. Jo in a Marine base. That line of thinking was bad for her back teeth.

And apparently demons were just dumb. The Infected, those poor folk who were diseased with something that acted like possession but without the demonic powers, were easily created, but just as easily defeated. No supernatural protection for them, and most of the vulnerabilities. The demons had taken to mass necromancy, raising zombies as shock troops, but they were slow and unthinking, and were easily shown on television. That was an indication of how bad things were going for the demons. They were being forced into the open.

She didn't even care about how the great plans of the Demon Duke Lilith were foiled by her own monumental stupidity and ignorance, though the circumstances gave Ellen a good laugh. The plan had been to open a gate from the netherworld on a moonless night in September in a remote desert location, just west of where Ellen was now, far from civilization's non-believing witnesses, and bring a numberless legion of demons to earth. With nothing but a campsite of air-headed hippies gathering for some summer festival to impede her new army from rising from Hell, there would be nothing to prevent their descent on nearby unsuspecting Reno and beyond. Fully fifty of her faithful lieutenants boiled their oily black forms across the bleak and flat sands of an ancient lakebed to Black Rock, the aptly named gate, sealed by Shoshone petroglyphs, to find not a collection of VW buses and tie-dyed pot smokers, but a great assembly of fifty thousand, fully ready to witness, believe, and act. Gaelic songs and knotted kerchiefs twisted the winds to hold them fast; Sanskrit hymns and colored sand immured their powers, pentacles and Latin chants commanded from them answers, and finally Shinto prayers bound them into little origami paper shapes, there to be consigned to the great pyre, and a quarter of Lilith's legion was released unto the Great Spirit of the desert in the cleansing flame of the Burning Man.

By midnight, not a demon remained, and their plans were discovered. By noon the next day, with the magic of cell phones, the word was spread to the great sinful cities to the west, cities Lilith had thought would be easy pickings for the corrosive temptations of demonkind. She had not counted on the witches, the shaman, the New Agers, the artists, the religious of every stripe, those that believed, being ready to answer the call to arms. There was proof enough for the doubters, and by the end of the week every tattoo parlor in San Francisco and Los Angeles was offering free Sun-and-Star tattoos and the lines were stretching down the block.

The regular news still was talking about biological agents and mass hysteria. But the traditional media found itself eclipsed by freelancers, working over the Internet, who would construct reports in a neutral fashion so as to avoid being labeled alarmist kooks or fabulists. To those that knew what to listen for, the word got out. Ellen made a note to call Cassie Robinson as soon as she got the boys settled safely.

How to keep them settled? They still had battles to face. But not alone, not now. Ellen's phone wouldn't stop ringing. Or Bobby's. Or Missouri's. The word was out now, the good guys talking, organizing. The hunters were coming out of the shadows. The boys were still needed, they'd want to head right back into it, but first things first, they had to heal up and fix their own problems. Get the FBI business sorted out, at least. They had the ammo and the muscle to deal with that now. They had friends that could help, damn it. Food, that was it. That Susan Thompson was a hell of a cook, Bobby said, she had run a hotel or something in Maine. Get the boys to Halcyon Hall and keep them eating.

And take care of that bullshit Deal. She'd put the pieces together, going through the boys' own journals, left behind in Boise, and she didn't apologize for reading them given what she'd figured out. No wonder they'd been so skittish and desperate over the last year. Selling your soul. Load of crap. She'd just have to sit Dean Winchester down and give him the straight talk, make him listen. Him and her and a bottle of twelve-year old bourbon. If there was a God, then Hell was for punishment, and what kind of punishment lets you forget what you're being punished for? Ask a mother. When your child gets punished you make damned sure they know exactly what for and they wouldn't forget a moment of it for a long, long time. If there was a God, Hell was someplace you were sent by God's judgment, not by whim, not by contract, and demons didn't have a damned thing to say about it. As far as she could tell, God not being particularly visible in the picture, if a soul went to Hell it was because that soul decided that's where it belonged. No judgment but your own, no scales to be weighed, no Golden Book consulted. So the demons were just running a big old con job, a scam, all they can do is convince you that you deserve it and you send yourself down. But they can't compel shit. And at the end of the year Dean can tell the bitch to go blow and what can she do about it? Well, try to kill him, of course, but that's preventable. They kill all the time, willy-nilly. Even if the demons did have that kind of power over Dean's soul because of his Deal, they don't have it over Sam's, which is what it would have taken to bring Sam back from Heaven or wherever, so more evidence it's all crap. And as for that monumental bullshit about 'Sam not coming back 100% Sam,' aren't they using their heads at all? If they didn't deliver 100% Sam, they don't get 100% of Dean's soul, so unless souls can be sliced up, screw 'em. The whole business made her head hurt.

When Dean's time comes, he'll go where he chooses, where he believes he deserves to go, like the very spirits he's sent on have done. Father Reynolds had told her about his experience with the Winchesters. Sounded to Ellen like the spirit of a dead priest decided to 'walk into the light,' never mind the suffering he'd caused. If he could forgive himself then so could Dean Winchester, demons be damned, no pun, though it may take some convincing. After the fire, she had plenty of bourbon.

There. A shape against the dark. Huddled low, holding still, but she was sure. Her heart was pounding. She fought the urge to gun it right towards them, which would earn her a shotgun blast in the windshield for her trouble. She slowed, drove closer, tacking wide. What to say? Ask if they have any holy water left? Say something in Latin? She pulled up her sleeve so the Star-and-Sun was plainly visible.

They looked to be in bad shape. Crouched on the cold ground, no cover to be had, blood everywhere and fading fast, though the fight would only go out of them with the last breath. Sam had tied the sleeves of his coat together so he could rope Dean to his back. Sam looked battered; his left eye was swelled closed. He was trying to bring up the shotgun with one arm, the other looked broken. Dean looked barely conscious, bruised and gaunt, eyes closed, head lolling, wearing just scrubs and a sweatshirt but one hand was groping for the pistol stuck in Sam's waistband. A leather restraint with a dangling strap was still on that wrist.

She put the truck in park, but angled so the lights weren't shining right at them. She debated calling Randall or Deacon to come sweep the area, but she decided not to risk it, didn't want to take the time or make a move that looked at all suspicious. Her thoughts raced through things to say. Convince them she's not possessed, infected, or turncoat. How to get past the bullshit 'you're always alone' stuffed in their heads by John Winchester. Damn the man (never mind what she had seen that night in the cemetery). So the world was at war with demon kind, that's not their fault or their responsibility. Deals with the devil, demon curses, death and killing and blood and never knowing their mother, losing their father, no hope for a future, they'd face the horrors ahead of them alone because alone is all they'd known. Screw 'duty,' or the future, or 'we have work to do' like Bobby said they said to each other, they needed warm beds and three squares and time. Before the fire, she might not have known what to say. But after the fire... She stopped a few feet away, and exhaled. Could still hear gunfire in the distance, some other noises. But whatever the Godforsaken universe would send after these boys, and that was considerable, it was going to have to take a number. Hell can wait. She stepped into the light and paused.

"Ellen?" Sam's voice rasped from the dark.

"Okay, boys," she said. "Let's get you home."

Strangers in Gilead

2007-09-29T02:05:42Z

A period piece. Not typical with regards to structure, development, and vocabulary, so may not be everyone’s cup of whiskey, to be sure. I will claim it is ’avant guarde.’ Oh, and there is sex in it, but nothing that will make anyone *is ded*. And swearing.

And a long piece, upwards of forty thousand words. No, really. It was recommended to me that given the sheer volume of verbiage, I should mount the Story, the Epilogue and Afterward as PDF files. For those that love the feel of the printed page over the glowing screen, this should make for a more enjoyable and printable reading experience. In any event it should make for less clicking.

Many, many thanks to Simpatico, Mamajamallama, Anthrophile and Arcfire for many, many hours of discussion regarding the nature of writing fiction (pro, fan, porn, fiction, non), grammar, punctuation, concepts, cruel truths, Supernatural, and stuff. More said in the Afterward.

Strangers in Gilead

Strangers in Gilead - Epilogue

Strangers in Gilead - Afterward

An addition: For those not enamored of PDF, here is an HTML version:

Strangers in Gilead - HTML

Dear Uncle Michael

2007-05-27T17:39:21Z

San Diego, California. A few weeks after 'All Hell Breaks Loose, Part II'

Many, many thanks to simpatico for using both her scalpel and club.

A Bit of Frippery

2007-04-19T17:44:07Z

So these good people: http://community.livejournal.com/spn_het_love/3631.html set out a Challenge entitled "These Are a Few of my Favorite Things" so I went to work. Naturally it does not follow the instructions for the challenge, but perhaps they'll find it amusing nonethless.

Gunmetal polish and music that's blasting;
Cheap one night stands and true love everlasting;
Saving good people and hunting bad things;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Barbecue ribs dripping sauce down my shirt;
A saucy old waitress that likes when I flirt;
Spark plugs and beer mugs and aces and kings;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Miller time shift at the end of the day;
Sam's sleeping head at arm's distance away;
Rock-and-roll, sports bars and buffalo wings;
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the beer's crap,
When the girl's mean,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

Research on laptops and Latin-filled volumes;
Lock picking tools and sneaking-in costumes;
My greyhound tee shirt and Dean's spinner ring;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Faded old jeans and bitch-face expressions;
Snarking and squabbling and childhood regressions;
Disco decor and motel mattress springs;
These are a few of my favorite things.

Reach for the tapes, Dean says "Don't even think it."
A sludge-dripping jar and "I dare you to drink it."
A touch on his arm and the mocking it brings;
These are a few of my favorite things.

When the vamp bites,
When the sex kills,
When I'm feeling sad,
I simply remember my favorite things,
And then I don't feel so bad.

I Count a Star

2007-03-29T21:24:17Z

Black is the Colour

2007-03-03T08:14:28Z

Archive: Poem from 'Television Without Pity' Haiku Forum

2006-12-17T03:59:23Z

Boys and girls, come out to play,
The Winchester brothers have saved the day!
They came with their rock salt; they came with their guns,
And attitude: 'Yeah, we're John Winchester's sons!'

They dealt with the Deavas, Rakshasas got nixed,
Tree Gods were pruned, and the Hellhounds got fixed.
The things from the movies, the things from the books,
'Ring' girls in mirrors, those guys with the hooks.

Whoever should call: town, village or city,
(though it helps, truth be told, to be female and pretty)
they'll come with their laptop, their monster-hunt gear,
And all for the price of some crap bottled beer.

Pure hearted, halo-lit faces for sainting,
Bodies of Greek gods assured to cause fainting.
Their car is an auto fiend's deepest, dark wish,
Their music is rock based on some kind of fish.

But lock up your daughters, and some of your sons,
Dean's cocked and loaded (um, no, not the guns).
Mother's concerned that wild oats might be sown
(And Mama's got plans for Dean's oats of her own).

Sam will commiserate, calm and console,
Then hit the books in the researcher's role,
But while Dean's hustling pool and bemoaning his fate
He'll slip out for a snog with some other guy's date.

We'll see.

They banish or vanquish or humble their prey,
The demons to hell, the ghosts sent on their way.
Nothing escapes; well, perhaps just a few...
Vamps? We'll discuss. Reapers? Them, too.

They lay thick the salt on each corpse they exhume,
Torch all the Dreaded White Nightgowns of Doom.
They dazzle the locals, they baffle police,
Dress up as firemen, dress up as priests.

Latin for demons, hair spray for bugs
Old fashion fists for the cannibal thugs.
A church for the truck that can't burn cause it's wet
Silver for werewolves (which we haven't seen yet).

Nightmares and visions of death and of dread,
They succor each other with words left unsaid.
They fight on, so driven, in hopes to compel
Their father's approval... Oh, wait. He's in Hell.

The struggle is hard; their comforts are none,
Will they lay their heads close once the battle is won?
A mystic of Leng cried 'For that do not pray!
When those boys hug, it's the Last Judgment Day!'lj-cut>

Archive: Poem from 'Television Without Pity' Haiku Forum

2006-12-17T03:58:18Z

John Winchester is dead, John Winchester is dead.
The choirs in heaven fall to their knees,
Birds sit silent in the trees.
John Winchester is dead.

John Winchester is dead, John Winchester is dead.
His body is ash upon the pyre
Tears like rain to drown the fire,
The journey done, now rest eternal,
The last page written in the journal.
John Winchester is dead.

John Winchester is dead, John Winchester is dead.
Grievous wrongs go uncorrected,
The weak and helpless unprotected,
The sword has fallen from his hand,
Evil creatures roam the land,
Darkest night is darker yet.
And good folk will not soon forget
John Winchester is dead.

John Winchester is dead, John Winchester is dead.
The Devil's cheer rang though his hall
But wailing ministers in did crawl
Oh, woe, oh shame, our ill-wrought fate!
A long, black car crashed through our Gate!
To knife and scythe Hell's creatures fall!
Two voices that cursed name do call.
Two vengeful sons a raging storm,
Their final duty to perform:
Make Hell regret it can be said
John Winchester is dead!

Archive: Poem from 'Television Without Pity' Haiku Forum

2006-12-17T03:56:08Z

Why did I look in the rear-view mirror?
I could have just kept going.
Why did he have to see me flinch?
We would have been fine without knowing.

Why did I push him to leave with Rochelle?
I wanted her friend, Heather.
Who said as Rochelle led Sam back to her place
'Those two really look good together.'

Why did I pick him up late, after dark?
We'd both spent the day in bed.
He was hiding his smile as he got in the car.
A long drive, with teasing ahead.

Why did I stop at the corner to turn?
Why did I have to look back?
To see the smoke drifting up from the house,
Rochelle's window bright red and black.

Of course he saw my eyes go wide.
I covered up too late.
The car doors stood open, he ran down the street.
I tackled him just at the gate.

He tore up hunks of grass and screamed,
We lay on the lawn in a heap.
Too late, of course, to save her life.
Nothing to do but weep.

No fang, no claw, no wound, no bruise
I've suffered from a fight
Hurt as much as the sound he made,
The cry he cried that night.

How could our roles get so reversed?
I drive and beg him to speak.
He's curled up tight, silent and grim
His bright eyes cold and bleak.

Another 'X' marked on the map.
Evil's safe, they'll learn.
Lawrence, Stanford, now Flagstaff:
We can't and won't return.

I know it was The Demon.
At least, that's in my head.
My heart says getting Sammy laid
Brought death and pain instead.

When I looked in the rear-view mirror,
I became a pillar of salt.
Come back, Sammy, tell me please
This wasn't all my fault.

The Ghost of Christmas Not to Be

2006-12-02T19:44:39Z

Written for the Supernatural Fiction Community:

http://community.livejournal.com/spn_christmas/389.html

Florida at Christmas time. Mostly sucked, Christmas. Deck the halls with bunches of money. Traffic. Suicide rates. Good time to head to southern climes to avoid the cold. Insane weird place, Florida, but California was too far away, and they took their gigs where they found them. A hospital in Clearwater, suburb of Tampa, with reports of mysterious goings on several years running right around the holiday season.

Flat roads through a flat landscape, motels designed with the discerning long-haul trucker in mind. Winchester territory. Much staring out of windows and silence. Dean wondered if Sam was thinking about Jess. Sam wondered if Dean was thinking about Dad. They both wondered at the marvelous incongruity of a peeling plywood Santa Clause in seventy-five degree November and Christmas lights on a stunty palm tree. Christmas classics playing on the radio: Sandler singing about famous Jewish people, and the one about meeting the guy in the A&P cause ‘you forgot cranberries, too.’ An evil earworm, that one.

The local news reports had made a fizz about the ‘Christmas Ghost.’ Gleeful reporters barely concealed their mockery as they interviewed former patients giving grandiloquent descriptions. The staff was uniformly silent and hostile. A search through the want ads found a contractor looking for electricians for a security camera project over the holidays at the very hospital they were investigating. Rarely did good luck fall into their laps, and even funnier, they were qualified. No artifice required. Pay wasn’t bad, either. Dean called it an early Christmas present. Sam said they never got what they wanted for Christmas, ever, so shut up.

~~~

They installed cameras, ran cable, checked alarms, asked questions either subtlety (Sam) or tactlessly (Dean). Use the EMF meters more or less openly, given their cover story was perfect. Nice place, ordinary place. But the Clearwater General Hospital felt strange. Strangely strange.

In the motel with the pink flamingoes wearing red Santa caps, Dean said, “Something about it is weird. It’s not like creepy weird... But it’s weird.”

Sam said, “Yeah, it’s weird. It’s like, how often are we in a hospital without worrying...?”

He trailed off, and Dean looked up, and they both realized that was exactly it. To be in a hospital without stomach-wrenching dread gnawing at your gut. Without being on high alert. Without having to steal or defraud. They laughed, but there were ghosts.

Dean searched the laundry bag for a shirt. “EMF is all over the place. The nurses know something is up. Fourth floor is jumpy. They aren’t talking, though.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“Yeah, it may take some special attention from Santa’s elf to get some of them to unwrap their presents.”

Sam snorted.

“What?”

“I’m hungry.”

~~~

Two-and-a-half-weeks into December there had been no ghostly manifestations, but enough suspicion to keep them around. They were running cable over the fourth floor nurses station, and Dean made small talk as the staff moved about their business. He was casually babbling about the stories on the news, until Celeste, the quiet one, abruptly stood and left the area for no reason Dean could see. Sam, head in the ceiling, frowned down at him. But a lead is a lead.

“Sorry, what did I say?” Dean tried to apologize to the two remaining nurses who were looking uncomfortable. Keith, tall and TV handsome, handed off a clipboard to Margery, old and impermeable, and with a significant look moved in the direction Celeste had gone.

“Those stories are upsetting, and not good for the hospital,” said Margery. “It upsets the patients. It upsets Celeste.”

Dean put on his most contrite face. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Can I...”

“Not to worry. Let’s just get on with our work, shall we?” It’s all uphill with Margery. Dean buttoned up, and glanced at Sam, who looked cautious. Best to bide their time.

Later, in the cafeteria, they strategized.

Dean asked, “So what do we know about Celeste?” Sam had his laptop open, back to the wall. Just because they had a legal job didn’t mean they didn’t resort to illegal means, such as searching patient records and staff personnel files, to get the job done.

“Celeste Garcia, RN, 37, hired three years ago. Excellent rating.” Sam shrugged.

“When did the reports start up?”

“They only made the news a few years ago. Hm...”

“What?” Dean munched potato chips, casually keeping up a continuous scan the nearby tables. The ambient noise of the place gave them a degree of privacy.

“There is a similar report from before that, but in a Tampa hospital.”

“And where did our Ms Garcia work before here?”

Sam tapped keys. “Not on file.”

“Weird. So there’s subject numero uno. What about that Keith guy?”

Sam scrolled. “Keith Walters, RN, been on staff five years.” Sam shrugged again.

“Somebody knows something.”

“Yeah. The kids in Peds are scared of something. Hard to get a night visit in, though.”

They could work late hours, hospitals being twenty-four hour facilities, but there were limits. And in the wee hours, they were more conspicuous to the vigilant staff.

Dean murmured, “And that old lady on four. She went on and on about a visitor that no one else saw. She said he kept changing channels on her TV and wanted to sing carols.”

“I’ll try to get back up to her.” Sam had a way with ladies of a certain age. No singing, though.

“And I’ll go make friends with Celeste...” Dean had a way with all ladies.

The next day they worked their way around the floor till they came to the hallway where Celeste was stocking a supply rack. Dean’s turn on the ladder, plugging cable to a video camera to the ceiling, Sam down below testing the connection on a small monitor.

Dean climbed down, gave a look to Sam. He headed over to the supply cabinet where Celeste was working while Sam made a show of fussing with equipment. Dean didn’t make it to Celeste. Before he got five steps down the corridor, Keith, coming from nowhere, intercepted him with a hand on his arm.

“Please don’t.” He was Dean’s age, Dean’s height, and his scrubs showed off his build nicely. Dean gave the hand on his arm a look, but carefully. Dean didn’t like it when someone got the jump on him. But Keith had the home field advantage, so best to be sociable.

Dean tried the surprised and slightly hurt expression. “I really wanted to apolo...”

Keith frowned. “You know, spare me.”

Uh, oh. Keith had kept his voice low, so Dean did the same. “Am I stepping on your turf? Dude, it isn’t like that.”

“I know it isn’t. And you know that isn’t my turf.” Keith released Dean’s arm, but stayed in his personal space.

Dean, being an equal-opportunity charmer of nurses, went for the 100-watt smile. “Can’t a guy make friends on the job?”

“Are you two reporters or investigators?” Keith, impassive, kept his tone was serious, but not yet unfriendly.

“Why would you think that?” Plan B. Dean let the smile drop. Dean recognized protective behavior (and then some), so no sense being insulting.

“Because you’re asking questions. Because you’re turning on the charm and snooping. And because some of your electronic gadgets aren’t standard for video installation.”

Oops. Dean studied the man. “Look, we’re not reporters...”

“Can you let Celeste alone? Please. Can we make a deal?”

Dean nodded carefully. “Um, well, it depends...” Dean stepped back a step.

Keith twitched an eyebrow. “Dude.”

Dean winced. “What do you, uh...”

Keith was studying Dean’s face, gauging his trustworthiness. “I’m off shift at seven. You and the bro want to meet me at the Soup Plantation?” He gestured down the hall toward Sam.

Dean wished Sam could be having this conversation, so yes.

“You’ve got a date. I mean...” Dean smiled sheepishly. “A deal. You’ve got a deal.” Perhaps this was salvageable, if he could keep from chewing his foot off.

Keith rolled his eyes. “You’re safe. I like ‘em tall.” He winked at Dean, and shot a look down the corridor at Sam, coiling wire, and not looking towards Dean and Keith but watching them carefully. Dean decided Sam was not having any conversations with anyone, ever. Keith went back to the nurse’s station, and Dean returned to Sam. Climbing back up the ladder, he flipped the switch on the camera.

“So what was that about?” Sam asked.

“We’re kinda busted. Try the picture.”

“No picture. Busted how?”

“Seems our boy Keith knows an EMF meter when he sees one. Wants to meet me later though, I think he knows something. Wants me to leave Celeste alone. I think he’s protecting her.”

Sam snorted. “I told you that cheap-ass thing was a dead give-away. Anyone with any electronics know-how will know it’s a basement job.”

Damn it. Dean grimaced at Sam’s casually derisive remark. He took pride in his handiwork. He turned his head away, and adjusted a cable.

“Yeah, well...”

“There, that’s good signal. Well, what?”

Dean started down the ladder. “Nothing. I’m meeting him at seven.”

“You or both of us?”

“Just me.”

Sam gave him an impatient look. He’d been observing.

“Okay, okay, he was looking at you funny,” Dean grumbled.

“So?”

“Dude.”

“Dude yourself. What’s the problem?”

Dean grabbed the toolbox. “When did you get comfortable with... Oh, yeah, school in San Francisco.”

“Shut up. Let’s get this corridor finished. I’ll tag along so you don’t make a jerk of yourself.”

~~~

Keith sat across from the Winchesters, coffee and pager on the table. He had on a Hawaiian shirt and jeans now, and they noted a small silver chain with a pentacle pendant that had been hidden beneath his scrubs. The boys exchanged a quick look, and Keith regarded them warily.

Dean let Sam take point, but he fidgeted.

“So. You know what an EMF meter is?” Sam opened, offhandedly.

“Yeah, but it won’t be that useful.”

“No?”

“Too much activity to pinpoint anything.”

“Why so much activity? Is there something there? The site, maybe”

“Was it built on an old Indian burial ground, you mean? No, it’s a hospital.”

“Does it have a reputation...?”

Keith snorted. “Yeah, a great one. And more death happens there every day than anywhere else. And pain, and suffering. All the elements to create that kind of energy.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“Never spent time in one?”

The Winchesters looked away from each other.

Sam said “Yeah, some. And most of our time in hospitals we’ve been... Well, it wasn’t for hauntings.”

A shadow passed over Sam’s face. Dean spun his fork. Keith watched Sam’s smile and thought of a cloud passing over the sun. Sam met his appraising look without flinching.

“So if you’re not ghost hunters, and not reporters, what?”

“We just know what to look for and what to do about it,” explained Sam. “I’m guessing you know something about what I’m talking about. More than the average Joe...”

Keith nodded. “I know what you’re talking about. So do a lot of people. Celeste doesn’t like to talk about it, but she’s not frightened. She doesn’t think she’s in danger. We do not want the reporters after her, it would make her life hell.” The threat was not veiled, but Sam didn’t take offense.

“What does she say about it?”

Keith stirred his coffee slowly. “I asked her about it last year. She told me it was nothing to worry about, and that I should leave it alone.”

“Leave it alone?”

“She meant leave the subject alone, but yeah, both.” Keith leaned back in the seat, twirling his pendant absently. Light danced off silver.

“Have you seen it yourself?”

Keith sighed. Sam made sure to keep the concerned, trustworthy face in view, though not so much to overdo it. Keith was clearly a good reader of character, and wouldn’t appreciate being played. Dean just tried to be invisible.

“Yeah, last year. It shows up at Christmas. A guy walking the halls. Doesn’t seem to be malicious. Scares the patients who see it. Not everyone can.”

“But you can. Know why?” Sam was using the soft voice. Dean loved the soft voice. He’d bet on the soft voice against any iceberg in the North Atlantic.

Keith shrugged. “Who knows how it all works?”

“And you’re okay with all this?”

Keith let his pentacle stop twirling, and let the symbol hang there a moment. The significance was unambiguous.

Dean asked, “Can you describe the spirit?”

“Just a figure. A man. Looks lost. It appears for three nights, I think. Before Christmas Eve. I’d say leave it alone, but it screws the electronics all over the place.”

Sam looked over at Dean, then back to Keith. “You know what we need to do?”

Keith looked sad. “I think so. It may be...” He stopped abruptly, looking beyond the boys.

Dean and Sam turned to look, and Celeste stopped at their table. Keith looked guilty as hell, and Celeste shoved him farther into the booth.

“Mind if I join you?” she said, and it wasn’t a question.

~~~

Winning Celeste over took some effort. Dean’s smile and Sam’s sincerity versus the exceptional defenses of nurses. But she eventually concluded that they weren’t publicity seekers, or crackpots, and that she could speak to them about her experiences. Keith’s opinion seemed to weigh in their favor.

“Don’t go making up your mind too fast about these two, Celeste.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. Sam looked hurt. Celeste looked to Keith for explanation.

“You’ve should see them at work. It’s a master class in the art of persuasiveness and non-violent arm-twisting.” He smiled across the table. “But I think they’re okay.”

“We could use them on the Peds ward. You sure it’s not just cause he’s your type?” She spoke to Keith while looking at Sam.

“Are you questioning my objectivity? You know I don’t do straight boys.”

Sam grinned. Dean scowled.

Keith reached over and almost patted Dean’s hand. “The morning guilt is way too ‘One Tree Hill’.”

Sam intervened. “Look, Miss Garcia, we’re sorry about prying. We just want to help. Help you. With the spirit. We can... We can send it on its way.”

“Really? How?” Celeste sounded dubious.

“First we identify it, then find the remains.”

Celeste’s demeanor was grave.

“George Williford,” said Celeste somberly. “He died in a car accident, seven years ago. On Christmas Eve. He was 27.” She spoke as if it were yesterday.

“Did you know him? Has it... he spoken to you?”

“No,” said Celeste. “But I recognize him.”

“He’s following you, isn’t he?”

Celeste nodded. “I thought maybe he would stay at Tampa General, where... Where he died. He appears every year at Christmas. He doesn’t do any harm. He... What do you intend to do?”

Dean cleared his throat. “Cremation will end the haunting.”

Celeste blanched, and Keith shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“The body was cremated,” Celeste said.

Sam blinked. Dean sat up straight.

“Already cremated? But that should... That doesn’t make sense. How can you be sure?” Dean asked. As much as Dean loved the soft voice, his own patience was its worst enemy.

“I’m positive. Why doesn’t it make sense...?”

Sam spoke carefully, after a moment’s preparation. “Once nothing is left of the body, the spirit loses its anchor to this world, and can move on. Were you working at Tampa General that night?”

Celeste said, “George Williford was an organ donor.”

That revelation landed like a rock in the bean dip. Dean groaned.

“Well, that’s just ducky. Can’t burn the body when there’s pieces of him roaming around in healthy people.”

Sam’s elbow shot out, catching Dean hard in the side. Dean grunted, surprised. Celeste smiled a bleak smile.

“I wasn’t working at Tampa General, I was a surgical patient. Congenital heart defect.”

Sam’s eyes widened. Dean squirmed. Keith was looking hard at the napkin dispenser.

“I have his heart.”

“Ah, jeez.” Dean cleared his throat. After a moment with grim silence, he twisted to look for the waitress. “Does this place serve beer?”

~~~

They traveled to the Williford residence, an unpretentious house in the suburbs of Clearwater. Dean sang along to radio playing the song about a reindeer running over a grandmother. Sam had always though it in bad taste, which guaranteed an increase in volume. But Dean had it out of his system by the time they arrived. A petit woman with a polite smile answered the bell.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. We’re...”

“Sam and Dean. You sure fit your descriptions.”

The boys exchanged a look, disconcerted.

“Celeste Garcia called me. Come on in. Should I have waited for you to tell me something interesting about who you are and what you wanted? She said it would be worth it.”

They hung their heads in shame as they entered. “Can we talk to you about your son?”

“I’ve got coffee on. Let’s sit down.”

They sat around a patio table, and she spoke somberly but without difficulty about her son, and the accident that took his life. He had been on his way to the family home, since sold, on Christmas Eve. She spoke about how it was difficult for her this time of year, with her family spread out across the country, and with it being the anniversary of her son’s accident and death. She related tales of their early, happier years, before the loss of her husband to lung cancer, the loss of George. Tree trimming, presents, turkey dinner, the family tradition of ‘A Christmas Carol’.

“Alistair Sim or George C. Scott?” asked Dean.

“Alistair Sim. Though I actually preferred Mr. Scott, myself. And that Patrick Stewart did a fine job. Does your family celebrate Christmas?”

“Not really.”

“Oh. Well, it was George’s favorite time of year. Hokum and all. So what questions did you have?”

Dean leaned back in his chair. Sam took the lead.

“What did Celeste tell you?” he asked. The soft voice was getting quite a work out this holiday season.

“That she had seen his spirit. Every year since his death. And that this year she expects it to happen again.”

Dean’s eyebrows went up. “You seem okay with that...”

Mrs. Williford shot him a look. “No, can’t say as I am. But there’s not much I can do about it. He hasn’t chosen to... to appear to any of his family. Not that we’ve discussed such things. But I expect I would have heard if it had happened.”

Sam’s expression was soulful. “Your family all got together every year?”

”Every year. George and his sister, Alice, and my sister Blanche would come down from Inverness with her husband Ron, and my niece and nephew, that’s just up the 44, Inverness, by the lake... Her boy Theodore, he and George were born exactly one month apart... They could recite the whole thing. They’d tell stories about what the ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Future would show every one of the family. They were so creative... Theodore is just about as tall as you, Sam, and that’s saying something. After George’s accident, well, I sold the house and moved here, and we just never got back in the habit. Alice got married the year after George died, and her husband, Albert, well, his family is all in Boston, so they go up there, they named their first child George, you know. It’s cute now, but I hope she likes having a boys name when she’s older. Theodore moved to Los Angeles, and there doesn’t seem much point for Blanche and Ron to drive all the way down here or for me to go up there... I go over the Saint Anthony’s, the nursing home, and help out with the folks there. We even watch ‘A Christmas Carol,’ it’s just like old times.

Sam nodded, empathy glowing like a hearth fire. Dean tried to sip his coffee in a sympathetic manner.

“Celeste and I meet there, actually. Saint Anthony’s. I understand it’s not the usual thing for the families to meet with the people who... You know... But we got to talking, a miracle, really, when we realized... What a coincidence. But it was a happy one. It meant so much to us, to know that George was living on and horrible as his death was, he was doing something good even to this day. She’s a wonderful girl. She sends me a beautiful card every year on George’s birthday. I keep thinking we should try to get together again but every year seems to come and go without it happening.”

Sam looked pensive, considering.

Dean glanced at Sam, and asked Mrs. Williford if he could visit the bathroom. She directed him down the hall, and took Sam on to the patio to show Sam her orchids.

She left the boys to themselves on the patio while she took a telephone call. When done, she came out and they looked at each other, and looked at her. They’d been discussing what they had learned; Sam’s forehead was furrowed.

“Is there anything else I can tell you, boys?”

Sam looked at Dean, who shrugged.

“Mrs. Williford, this may sound crazy,” Sam said hesitantly, “but can we suggest something...?”

~~~

It was simple, painless idea, one that doesn’t naturally occur to the Winchesters. Dean kept saying ‘bah humbug,’ but Sam would happily remind him that it had been Dean’s own idea. Four days before Christmas, the Williford family gathered once again, including Blanche and Ron, and Alice and her husband, with baby George, and including, for the first time, Celeste, accompanied by Keith. When she learned that the Winchester boys were going to spend Christmas in a motel, Mrs. Williford sent Theodore, who had flown out specially, to knock on their motel room door and offer a non-negotiable invitation to attend.

They had actually been planning to spend the evening in the Impala parked across the street to monitor the house. Dean would have preferred sitting bored in the Impala all night to having to fake their way through an evening of picturesque suburban holiday fun. He kept humming ‘Somewhere That’s Green’ from ‘Little Shop of Horrors.’ Sam tried to convince him there was no need to fake anything, and that wasn’t a Christmas carol. Dean switched back to the run-over grandma.

And so they went, and turkey was eaten, and all the fixings, and popcorn popped, and movies watched. In the darkened room, surrounded by family, they watched the corny old films, and laughed, and Sam talked to the family and Dean played with the baby and looked embarrassed when Sam kept smiling at him playing with the baby. For the Winchesters, it was like being in a play about a family at Christmas. Dean felt like an impostor. Theodore, who was, as advertised, every bit as tall as Sam, proposed a toast, and cried. Celeste tried not to, as it wasn’t her family and she didn’t belong to these people, but they were all too welcoming and kind, so she did.

“To George, and all the ghosts of Christmases past. I’ll remember you forever.” Everyone murmured assent.

Sam and Dean tried to slip away. Even Sam found the emotion of the evening overwhelming, and once they stepped outside and looked back at the house, blinking Christmas lights wrapped around a plastic snowman on the porch, they felt the even more disconnected from what Sam had once called ‘normal.’

“Norman Rockwell paintings aren’t for us, Sammy.” Dean intoned.

“Isn’t that why we do what we do? To make this possible?” Sam looked along the street, and chafed his arms. The weather had finally turned, and it was cool enough to need jackets. “Can’t you want this? Even a little?”

Dean snorted. “At least the food is good. But it’s all a greeting card. Even without knowing what’s out there to tear it up without warning... Pick three other houses,” he said. “One’s got a cheating spouse, next door is an abused kid, next one a girl who put her husband through college and he’s going to leave her for a trophy...”

“Dude! Just shut up! Can’t you have one night of...?”

Theodore appeared at the front door, looking for them. His looked ordered them to stay put as he ambled over.

“Nice sneak. Aunt Barb’s not letting you get away without leftovers. And pie. There’s pumpkin pie.”

The Winchesters blinked. More sacred ritual, about which they knew only through television.

“Coats. We were getting our coats.”

Theodore stood there while coats were retrieved from the car. No escape. “If it means anything, I think this worked. We owe you more than we can ever repay.”

Dean was querulous. “Did you see something?” He was heading back to the Impala for his EMF meter.

“Naw, Keith explained it to me. I owe you for that, too.”

“For what?”

Theo’s otherwise pleasant, bland face slowly evolved a wolfish, salacious grin that was every bit as wicked as Dean’s on a good day. Sam laughed out loud, and Dean shook his head.

“I guess we’ll find out tomorrow night. If this was what George needed.”

They returned to the house for their share of leftovers. And pumpkin pie. With Cool Whip.

~~~

The next day they returned to the hospital to keep an eye on Celeste, and anyway no sense passing up good money. They worked late into the night, past normal.

“I would have seen him last night, I’m sure. I didn’t. The family all says ‘they all felt him.’ Oh, and Keith took the day off.” Celeste smiled, puffy eyed, but at ease.

Dean kept his head stuck in a duct, muttering. It sounded like “not one nurse under Dean’s tree...”

The evening shift saw most of the staff head home, but with Celeste to cover for them, the boys could keep working. Dean was scouting the halls with the EMF meter; Sam was cutting cable in a utility room.

The static on his testing monitor refused to clear, and it was getting frustrating. The drop in temperature should have alerted him, even though it was chilly outside now. He kicked himself for being sloppy. Too much good food, maybe.

The utility room was small and off in a corner of the building, not near the patient’s rooms. He doubted Celeste was nearby, he knew Dean wasn’t. He felt George rather than saw him. Though the atmosphere was chilled, it wasn’t threatening. The static on the monitor moved in unnatural sea-like waves

“George?” He spoke tentatively. A shotgun with rock salt was the normal drill. But he’d dealt with a benign spirit before. More than once. Once in particular.

The monitor sputtered. He reached to switch it off, but something stayed his hand. He pulled the stool he’d been sitting on closer. The screen was flickering; snow and static, but there were images faintly visible. Sam could recognize them. Long coats and tall hats, beards and muttonchops. The little boy with the crutch.

“Your family all got together with you again, George. We all watched ‘A Christmas Carol.’ Celeste was there. It meant a lot to her. It meant a lot to all of us. Was that enough? Will that allow you your freedom?”

The images sputtered. He could make out a slight figure, a candle burning, in a white robe.

“Yes, George, the Ghost of Christmas Past. Theodore made a toast.”

After a moment, and more erratic and flickering of the images, another figure appeared. A jolly and bearded figure, in a voluminous robe.

“The Ghost of Christmas Present? What is it, George?”

The snowy static vanished, replaced by a clear, bright video picture. Sam blinked at the harsh, vivid light. Dean climbing a ladder, shaking his head. The view was jiggling, as Dean’s face zoomed into close up. He was adjusting the camera. There was no sound, but Sam thought he recognized the moment, as the shot aimed down, and Sam saw himself at the foot of the ladder, looking at the testing monitor at his feet. Then Dean’s face again, as he made an adjustment. Must have been that afternoon a couple of days ago when... And then pain shot across Dean’s face. Sam sat forward.

“George, what is it? Did Dean get hurt? What are you showing me?” Sam had been right there, Dean hadn’t hurt himself.

A flicker, and the sequence repeated. Dean climbing the ladder, shaking his head. Dean’s face zoomed into close up. This must have been just after Keith had caught Dean on his way to Celeste. He could see Dean’s lips moving, Sam tried to make out the words. ‘We’re busted...’ or something. What had they been talking about? It could be important. Again the slash of pain across Dean’s face. It wasn’t physical pain. Starting with annoyance, his expression grew to show true injury. Sam tried to reconstruct the moment.

“Oh, God. I said...”

A third repetition. “That’s it, isn’t it, George? I said his EMF... Oh, man...”

Sam leaned back. The scene played again.

“Okay, I get it. Don’t show me again. I hurt him. I didn’t know he took it like that. We’re always kidding each other, saying things like... I’ll...”

The indictment repeated.

“Do I need to...? Oh, damn, damn.”

Sam forced himself to put aside his remorse for the moment. There was a mission in progress.

“Are there two more spirits, George? You’re showing me something about today, the present, something I can appreciate. I can correct this. Your family was the past, and... ”

The snow returned to the screen and with it the roaring laugh of the bearded and garlanded Francis De Wolff, as the Ghost of Christmas Present.

“That’s a great present, George. Thank you. I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know...”

And the screen went dark.

“George? Is there one more? Before you can move on? The Ghost of Christmas Future?”

Silence. Whistling from down the hall. Sam stepped to the door, and looked at Dean approaching.

“Nothing on four. Looks like we got... What’s up with you? Dean regarded Sam quizzically, Sam’s strange expression being evident. “You look funny. Have you been watching Audrey Hepburn movies in here while I’ve been working?”

Sam blinked and tried to laugh, and turned away.

~~~

Then came Christmas Eve, no work, and they stayed at the motel. They had an invitation from Mrs. Williford, but declined. Sam didn’t like seeing Dean feeling awkward in a situation where he didn’t feel he could fit in, Dean felt guilty watching Sam in that same situation where he fit in so easily.

They watched television, and ate pizza and drank beer. Christmas commercials were vomitable. It was quiet for a long while.

“Dean...”

Dean grunted absently, and then went on alert. That tone of voice meant trouble. “Hang on, gotta pee.”

“Take your time.”

The timbre of Sam’s voice was a red flag. Damn. That meant it was serious and stalling wouldn’t help. Dean took as long as he could washing his hands, feeling chicken.

“No gifts, Sammy. We said no gifts, we can’t aff...”

“That’s not it. And I got you a new belt.”

“Aw, we said...”

“Cause I found the gloves you bought.”

Damn. So hard to hide things in a car...

“You know why it was so important to me to go to college?”

Dean stared. High fly, way into left field...

“It was the one thing I thought I could be good at.”

“You were always smart, Sammy...”

“You were smarter. And faster. And stronger.”

“Huh? Where is this coming from? Dude, you’re the ubergeek...”

Sam shook his head.

“No, I was only trying to find something I could excel at. One thing. You weren’t in to studying that much, I was. Reading, yeah, but tests... But you were always smarter. Problem solving, figuring things out...”

“What is bringing this on? Sure when we were kids I was...”

“You were a better shot. A faster learner. At everything. I had to work at everything so much harder than you. Dad made me feel...”

“Dad.” That wound would be tender for the foreseeable future.

“Yeah, Dad. But the book smarts, that was so I could be something you weren’t. I thought I could do college and be the master of something. Not even because I had the ability, but because you weren’t interested in it.

“Sammy, I’m the big brother, the big brother is always going to...” He tried to laugh it off gently, but Sam was not to be diverted.

“You pretend to be dumb sometimes, but it’s a total joke and sometimes I forget it’s a joke.”

“Sammy, every person has...”

“I was never a person. Not to Dad. Not to you.”

This flummoxed Dean utterly. He hated being flummoxed.

“That’s what you said when you left...”

“I left to get away from Dad. I’d never grow up, never be anything but a thing for him to make ‘Dean’s Responsibility’ unless I made a break. Something for you to resent.”

“Huh? Sam, I swear, I never...”

“Let me finish. I'm not finished. Yes, you did. I was a burden and you resented me. You were right to; I was a pain in the ass. Still am. I finally realized what I was doing to you, then, and it helped me decide where to go. I had to be something on my own, and college could do it. My own person, not a duty.”

Sam held up a hand to silence Dean’s continued protests. Dean forced himself to hold his peace. He tried to count beer bottles without looking away from Sam.

Sam took a deep breath. He wasn’t that drunk.

“I’ll say this and then we’ll go back to Lara Croft and it’s commercials now anyway. I don’t mean now. Now we’re a team and we’re together because we want to be, not because we have to be. I’m better at some things and you’re better at some things. But I am not smarter than you and I don’t think I’m better than you and if I ever say anything to hurt you I expect you to tell me. I know we joke and that’s okay but when it really hurts it’s not okay and I’m sorry for everything I’ve said that hurt and I didn’t know. I’m sorry and I didn’t know.” Maybe he was that drunk.

“Dude. Would you please, for the love of Angelina, tell me what the hell are you...?”

“And your EMF meter is great.”

Dean stared. He sat. He opened his mouth. He closed it again. Angelina rescued him. He groped for another bottle. Yay, beer.

~~~

The rest of the night passed uneventfully. Sam turned in right at the end of the movie, saying something about needing his strength for dreamtime. Either he was worried about his visions returning, or he was planning a visit to Porn Land starring Angelina, which was a really good idea. Either way the beer sent him to his pillow quickly. Dean stayed up a for a while, letting his head clear. Mostly thinking ‘the fuck?’

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come didn’t come to Sam that night, though, but to Dean.

The dream must only have lasted an instant, the speed of thought. His eyes snapped open. The gasping squeal of a semi’s brakes from the highway must have awakened him. Neon crept through the blinds, making dim lines on the ceiling. Dean spent a few moments controlling his breathing, trying to sort dream memory from reality. He ventured a movement of his head to the right, to see the bedside clock. 3:30 a.m. He’d turned in at two, at the end of ‘The Vikings.’ Kirk Douglas. Yay, Kirk Douglas. He had fallen asleep to his favorite and only lullaby, the familiar sound of Sam sawing away in the next bed.

Dean rarely remembered his dreams. They always involved being naked in public, or being chased with his legs trapped in thick mud. Psyche 101 ‘fear of inadequacy’ material. If asked, he said his dreams were about unhinged and violent sex, which mostly shut people up. But he could remember every vivid, rich, complex, horrible detail of this dream. Nightmare. Motherfuckin’ Mother of All Nightmares.

Just a single moment of time, a snapshot instant. A few words spoken, nothing else actually happened. But he could recall with HDTV clarity every detail of the year preceding that moment.

He remembered the place and time: Shortly before Christmas. Tacoma, Washington. The dingy one bedroom Sam had rented near the hospital.

He remembered the way it had happened: He’d been cocky. Fatally so, or as good as. Worse. He had done this to himself. He’d done this to Sam. That was unpardonable, that he’d done it to Sam.

He remembered Miss Monette singing in the kitchen earlier that afternoon, and talking to Dean in the bed across the small apartment, as always. Never waiting for an answer, of course. She’d put her soaps on while she did dishes and cleaned up. Sam had been at work. Dean had learned to like the soaps. Not that he had a choice, but not having a choice saved him the embarrassment of admitting he was now quite the addict, after so many months. Except the one that started with the hourglass, and ‘like sand through the hourglass.’ Cut too close.

He remembered the first time he’d heard Miss Monette’s voice. It was like oven-fresh raisin bread. She’d been talking to him for several weeks already, but he hadn’t been entirely conscious, so it was new and familiar at the same time. “Honey, that baby brother of yours is a little bit of God’s sunshine. He said he couldn’t pay for our visits, me and those nice boys from downstairs, and we should just stop coming by. Lord forgive me, what a thing to say. If he tries to give me money one more time, I am going to slap him right across his face even if I have to stand on a chair to do it. Now I hope you’re enjoying the television, Dean, because unless it’s the Archangel Gabriel blowin’ his horn on the Day of Judgment, I am not going to miss my shows.” She sang Baptist hymns and did sewing through the afternoons.

He remembered Stan, nurse practitioner, and William, home care worker, first from the hospital, then here. They lived downstairs, and had helped Sam get the place with no references. He hated them for the humiliation of being taken care of and loved them for trying to take care of Sam, too.

He remembered William’s hands. Strong, confident hands, and a ditzy, flaming voice, talking a mile a minute. “Hey there, Deano, did you get a good night’s sleep? What time does Sam get home? Ruth from the bakery is just going to happen to come by... I know he’s been a pill, but we’ll find the right girl for him. Stan says you’ve been breathing without oxygen, that is such incredible, wonderful, positive news! Our whole church is praying for you, and for beautiful, beautiful Sam. We are so getting him together with Ruth. Or Alicia! Does he like blondes? She’s kind of quiet though. But built like the Queen Mary. Stan says it’s leg muscles today, shall we get some exercise?” The mornings went quickly. William’s hands were kind and strong and sure, working the body, moving the joints. The first thing Dean would do with his hands is strangle Will for being a rattletrap chatterbox, and kiss him for sneaking food into the cupboard.

He remembered Stan’s voice, steady low like his father's had been: “Did Will give you a proper workout or did he just babble like an idiot? I’ll slap him around tonight. But in a good way. It may be annoying at times, but stimulation is the best thing for you, both physical and mental. Your vitals are strong and you’re breathing unassisted. That’s good. I know Sam’s not getting out much cause it’s hard for him to trust anyone else with you, but he’s got to take care of himself, too. I know you’re worried about him. But we’ll do everything we can, if he’ll let us, that’s a solemn promise.” Every other night was a check-up, and with it some hope, and more despair.

He remembered nights when Sam fell asleep at his computer desk, trying to get just a few more files processed. He remembered days when Sam sat staring out the window at the city, his hand on Dean’s shoulder, for longer and longer periods. Dean ached for that hand, ironic after all those years of distain of ‘PDA,’ but the empty silence was terrifying. At first it had been comforting and companionable, those quiet moments, like old times in the Impala, Dean at the wheel, Sam staring at the highway, nodding to the radio, his long arm stretched across the seat back, his thumb just about touching the neck of Dean’s jacket. But after a while the companionship was absent, and Sam was just staring, blank and empty.

He could remember exactly how it started: Sam had said they should wait for Doc Silas and his team to take on the ‘brain eaters,’ because they sounded nasty as fuck and might need expert handling. But no, you had to just see what was up, do a bit of recon before those others got there. And you got your brain eaten, didn’t you, smart guy? There was the abandoned house on the fire road where people had gone missing, and then there was a man. Your instincts screamed, but it was too late to do anything, you had let it get too close. ‘It,’ not ‘him.’ It played with you a while first, letting you feel its hands, letting you see its true face, the one with the tentacles, as they coiled softly around your head. It thought you a splendid catch. Last laugh went to you, though, as consciousness faded, at its surprise and then shock when Sam turned out to be immune to its mental whammy and the bullets blew that monstrous head into jelly.

Nothing but a hospital bed after that. Comatose for a month. Then ‘continuing vegetative state’ and ‘rare case’ and ‘no realistic hope.’ Dean was trying very hard to scream as they spoke to a silent and withdrawn Sam right over Dean’s own non-comatose body. But Dean couldn’t breathe unassisted yet. That wouldn’t come for another month. Not that they had any idea of what had really damaged his nervous system. And anyway Sam refused to accept their doomsaying.

He remembered Marc, the EMT, just out of the military, who had worked on establishing whether Dean’s mind was still in his head somewhere. He remembered Marc talking quietly to Sam. “Sometimes they can move just their eyes. You can communicate with blinking or eye movements. If we can establish that, and if the coma didn’t leave any permanent damage, that’s a big if, we can work out a system. But it’s impossible to tell. MRI isn’t worth much to indicate what’s going on, only that there is brain activity. If it’s coma, not much to be done but pray. If it’s ‘Locked-In Syndrome,’ then, well, maybe something can happen.”

He warned Sam that the customary medical position is to be dismissive and outright scornful of reports of eye signals, even tears, writing them off to involuntary twitches. “Don’t get false hopes, Sam. But don’t lose hope, either.”

He remembered Sam leaping at every shadow of hope. It was painful to hear. “We learned Morse.”

Marc had said, “Not seeing anything yet. Let’s give it time.”

He remembered Marc speaking in his deep voice, deep like Dad’s had been, as he checked temperature and blood pressure. “You want me to duct tape William’s mouth for you? Noisy little git, isn’t he? Real pal, though. He’s trying to get Sam to go out with that Rachel or Raquel chick. She’s got a bod that’ll make a train take a dirt road. I know you’re worrying about Sam, but they’re taking good care of him. Like two mother hens with one chick. Lets see how those eyes are doing.”

Fate worse than death. Involuntary muscles functioned, motor reflexes, but nothing else. He remembered Sam reading to him from all the medical texts. Recovery was rare to never, but to Sam (and of course to Dean) that meant ‘let’s get on with it.’

Sam couldn’t afford the hospital, or a round-the-clock nurse. Sam’s response to the suggestion of a permanent facility was so forbidding it had never been repeated, at least in Dean’s hearing. Sam had taken Dean back to the apartment, and at least one of the four came every day when Sam absolutely had to go out. Heart monitor, oxygen, all the conveniences of a hospital, without the hospital. He knew Sam ate peanut butter most nights. The smell was unmistakable and Dean’s senses were in fine working order. Sam went out seldom. A dingy mindless river of hours and days and weeks and then months flowed past. Dean fought for his sanity and feared for Sam’s.

They all spoke to Dean as if he could hear them, and he prayed they’d continue to do so. He prayed for the ability to make at least any signal that he was still present. He prayed William would suddenly lose his morals and do something despicable to Dean’s body, because his skin was sensitive to the slightest touch and his favorite, neglected body part responded quite normally and William was professionally adept at ignoring it. He remembered William telling Marc, quietly, and Marc promising Dean, quietly, that once they achieved any kind of communication things could happen. The army taught you to handle anything when it came to taking care of your fallen brothers. Marc included Dean in that category. Dean had always lumped the military in with ‘authority’ and thus detestable, but he took it all back.

When Dean finally managed to get his eyes to stay open for a while, he decided to work on crying. The eyes gave Sam hope, and Dean cursed himself for that. At least he could see the television now, when they aimed his head at it.

Their usual financial schemes only worked with the gypsy life style they’d lived, and a permanent address meant Sam had taken a permanent job. He processed insurance claims for the hospital where Dean had been for the last several months. The staff loved him, of course. A good portion of that job was ‘work-from-home,’ so he could stay with Dean during most days.

He remembered Sam being on the phone and Internet constantly at first, looking for medical aid, faith healers (again), psychics, anything. No one else ever visited. No one from their old life had passed through, or had contacted Sam if they had. He’d heard Sam talking to Bobby Singer, and to Ellen Harvelle, but those calls dwindled to never. Then there were no more specialists, no more leads and no more ideas.

He remembered how Sam would slip into the hallway to cry, not knowing Dean’s hearing was better than ever. Or in the shower, which gave the illusion of privacy. At first it was just for a few minutes, till he could get himself under control. Had to be strong for Dean like Dean had always been for him. One night Sam had realized he hadn’t bought groceries for weeks, and yet there was still food in the cupboards, and he had lost it completely. William and Stan had come up, unapologetic, and refused to leave when Sam tried to throw them out and Dean yelled at them, in his head, not to listen to proud, stubborn Sam, and wept for joy, in his head, when they just shut Sam up by wrapping their arms around him and not letting go for a very long time even after the sobbing had quieted.

He remembered that in the spring, Sam’s voice had been hopeful and determined, and through the summer how it had changed to resolute with a tremor, and when the leaves fell and the birds left Sam’s voice was muted and uncertain. After Thanksgiving it was only resigned and drained. Rituals were maintained by rote. The duct tape that kept the worst of the wind from swirling through the crack in the window also kept salt lines from being blown away. No defending salt against the rain, though. Not that it mattered; apparently their old life had forgotten them. Sam was blaming himself for not finding a way to wake his brother out of his coma, of course, and Dean wished he would just stop trying and if he died Sam could live, but he couldn’t move and he could blink but couldn’t control it and he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, wish himself dead.

It was midnight. He could feel the bed sheets, which Sam always made sure were better than the usual scratchy motel stuff, and the lump in the mattress permanently imbedded under his right thigh. He could smell the mildew from the closet, and musty comforter and the last of the mac-and-cheese. The water pipes groaned, and the window clattered sharply when the bleak wind slapped at it. Sam got up from his cot and put his blankets on top of Dean’s comforter and crawled in beside him, because the heat wasn’t working and it was dangerous to leave the oven going all night. He remembered Sam apologetically whispering ‘Sorry, Dean, I know you don’t like... But it’s so cold... Well, Merry Christmas, Dean.’

His voice sounded so hollow and so barren and Dean was trying desperately to move just his hand or a finger or to just say Sam’s name please God just a breath and nothing would work then the noise from the road outside the motel woke him up.

~~~

Dean sat up. He swung his legs out, between the two beds. He must have been hollering, jolting Sam awake; he was reaching for the bedside lamp. Dean grabbed his wrist.

“It’s okay, okay. Just a dream. Sorry, man.”

“What was it? You don’t have nightmares.” Sam was muzzy, still mostly asleep.

Dean sucked air heavily. The precise instant was perfectly and faithfully engraved in his mind. He swung his head down, then flung it back to let his chest expand. It felt glorious. It had just been a nightmare. Just a dream. He tried to adjust his brain to the different realities.

“Too much pizza and Vikings.”

“Dude, you were yelling.”

“Back to sleep, Sammy. Just a dream and indigestion.”

He could feel Sam look intently at him in the dark, not moving. Dean realized his left hand was gripping the bedclothes like Wile E. Coyote hanging on to a tiny little root on the side of a cliff; his right was locked painfully around Sam’s wrist. There was a small amount of trembling involved, which was mortifying.

“Sorry. Damn. Sorry.” He unclenched his hands, and pulled himself to his feet. He walked unsteadily around Sam’s bed into the bathroom. His balance was way off, like he hadn’t walked for... Just a dream. Sam was up on one elbow, watching Dean as he navigated in the partial light. Dean left the bathroom light off, and splashed water on his face. He wanted to just move around for a while. Move. Stretch. He wanted to run a marathon, hang glide, jet ski, line dance yee hah, ride a roller coaster about fifty times and do stunts for Jet Li. He leaned on the sink, staring at his shadowed reflection in the mirror and tried to lose the shakes.

“Go to sleep, Sammy!” Son of a bitch, Sam’s worrying would wake more people up than that damned idling truck out there. He couldn’t look at him. A good stretch or two. Shake it off.

Sam dutifully put his head back on his pillow. Dean was dried his face, and tossed the towel, and climbed into bed. He couldn’t stop shivering.

“It was just a dream, Sammy. I’m a big boy. Jeez.” He yanked the covers up, and shoved his face into the pillow. Was this what Sam had to go through with his unwelcome visions? Please, God, no.

Sam kept his breathing very steady, and tried to keep still. “Okay. Night, Dean.” The truck that had awakened Dean was still dieseling outside.

“God damn it”

Dean swore loudly into the dark. Sam was glad Dean couldn’t see him smiling.

“I’m in your bed.”

Sam couldn’t tell if Dean was angry, or drunk, or what. Maybe he was still asleep. Sleepwalking. This bed was closer to the bathroom... He closed his eyes, really wanting to asleep himself.

Sam’s voice was faint. “S’okay... It’s cold...”

A profound silence followed.

After a moment, Dean said, “Yeah... Merry Christmas, Sammy.”

Dean stayed where he was, and Sam’s surprise almost woke him all the way up, not quite. Fallout could be dealt with in the morning.

“Merry Christmas...” he murmured, and was out.

~~~

And fallout there was, because in the bright light of day Sam asked questions and Dean didn’t want to give answers, and there was a bit of sulking while Dean cleaned guns and Sam checked email. Then the Island of Misfit Toys got them laughing, and peace reigned for a while, till they were driving around looking for someplace open on Christmas Day that would serve pancakes, because it was bloody Florida not Catholic Spain for Christ’s sake (so to speak) and Dean asked about ‘durable power of attorney’ and ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ ‘cause Sam should know about lawyer stuff like that and Sam threw a five-alarm tantrum. Standing in the parking lot of the Tarpon Springs International House of Pancakes, drawn up to his full imperious height, arms clamped high across his chest, lower lip poking out, he looked twelve and Dean didn’t even put up enough of a fight to merit The Eyes.

The story came out over blueberry French Toast and orange juice. And at the end of the telling, having sat wet-eyed and mouth agape, Sam had laughed, which was not at all the reaction Dean was expecting. Sam explained that George Williford had given them the third Christmas gift, the Ghost of Christmas Future.

Dean ‘huh’d?’ and Sam flipped open the laptop and read aloud from one of their recent emails. The subject was ‘Seattle,’ and Professor Silas was calling for assistance, and could they get there in a few days? This was the point where Dean could have said ‘sure,’ and hauled ass across the length of the U.S., and rushed in to get himself macked by some tentacle-headed monstrosity. If you believed that kind of stuff about prophetic dreams. Sam’s withering glare shamed him. Of all the people to say that too...

Sam said he’d email Professor Silas and tell him they were spending Christmas in Key West, and hey, they really could, Theo and Keith had invited them and oh, and Professor? Be really, really careful in a house on a fire road.

Dean said no way were they going to bail, they just had to be careful, and hey, they had a total warning and knew exactly where the thing was hiding and how close you could get and be out of range of its whammy...

And for the next quarter-hour the waitress was thinking it was a shame that such nice young fellows would be yelling at each other top of their lungs on Christmas Day, and when she next came by their table demanded to know if it was all coal in the stockings or had Santa had skipped their house entirely cause damn, boys, and the one said something about wanting a little brother, not a little sister and the other said something about wanting a brother that didn’t hog all the blankets, and the other one came right back about how maybe Keith shares the blankets and the other said maybe Theo doesn’t share Keith and they both said they never got what they wanted anyway, ever, and they were grinning and laughing like fools and started singing "Christmas with the Devil," and she said ‘Merry whatever, boys,’ and poured the coffee.

Greetings, All

2005-06-29T21:46:34Z

I write, but have never had the impetus to publish. Finally motivated (by 'Supernatural') Aliskye/Arcfire (with much assistance from the the nice folk at the Television Without Pity Supernatural forums), I have decided it's time to put my money where my big ass vocabulary is. Which is to say, every one poked.

I have no experience with Blogging, however, so this part may take a while to figure out.

Cheers!

C.