Supernatural fic: Three Spirits 1/1 [PG-13] Sam, Dean - 6.11 coda
Title: Three Spirits
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.11
Notes: Coda to 6.11
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take.
Sam gets a message on Christmas Eve.
12/22/10 08:55:52 AM
Three Spirits
"I'll be fine," Sam repeated for the fifth time. His smile wasn't brilliant, but it was real, and his hand on Dean's shoulder was a warm weight that felt right instead of strange. Dean's shoulder was given a slight squeeze before the hand fell away. "Bobby and I will watch 'It's a Wonderful Life' or something, eat grilled cheese sandwiches and get drunk. Or, I'll get drunk and he can watch me pass out."
Sam's tone was just the right touch of wry. He'd heard something about what had preceded his return and while he'd been appalled, and apologized to Bobby a couple of hundred times even though no apology could possibly cut it for trying to sacrifice your own extended family father figure, Bobby had hugged him hard enough, and thwapped him upside the head enough times to make it an acceptable joke.
"But I just got you back," Dean protested softly, even though they'd already been all over it multiple times.
"Right, and I'm not going anywhere. So, go. Ben deserves a Christmas surprise. Now get out of here. And call Lisa, okay? Don't just show up. Got Ben's gift?"
Sam knew the answer was yes, he'd watched Dean wrap it, in real Christmas paper instead of newsprint. It was sitting in the trunk of the Impala sheltering in a brown paper bag to protect the stuck-on bow.
With a little help from Bobby, Sam finally got Dean out the door and behind the driver's seat, on his way to Battle Creek.
Sam knew Bobby was watching him when they went back inside, but he didn't begrudge it. He didn't try to pretend false cheer, just settled on the old worn couch that had bedded Winchester brothers (and fathers) too many times to count. Bobby decided on BLTs instead of grilled cheese, and the old TV was thumped into acceptable reception. Sam fell asleep on the couch well before Clarence won his wings.
Bobby finished the book he'd been reading to the light of the cathode ray tube and got up, looking down at Sam's sleeping face for a long time. Finally he spread a blanket lightly over the boy, so he still thought of both of them, and went upstairs without turning off the television. They were showing holiday movies all night. Bill Murray's face came on as Bobby left the room. Comedy wouldn't hurt Sam and having the noise of voices on was sometimes better than a quiet house, with its creaks and echoes.
There were protections up to shield the building from angels as well as demons, in case Balthazar took it into his head to come back for a visit. Cas knew his way. Bobby figured he could make a phone call or knock if he wanted to come in.
It didn't take Bobby all that long to fall asleep in his bed that night. Maybe he should have stayed awake, maybe he should have needed to, but it had been a long haul for everybody. He had time to wish Dean a safe trip in his thoughts before he was breathing regular and even, days and months of worry and stress finally taking their due in oblivion.
I. (Spirit the First)
When Sam woke up, the television screen had gone to snow and a soft murmur of static. Coming awake was always sudden these days, and yet it left him feeling drugged and sticky, swallowing a hint of bile on the back of his throat. The itchy sensation in the back of his mind was most noticeable then, but he'd been warned to ignore it, and ignore it he did, sitting up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Get a drink of water, turn off the TV, and probably go back to sleep, those were his thoughts.
At least until he saw the other soft glow, the one that didn't come from the static-y screen.
The television's light flickered, but this other glow didn't. It was diffuse and soft and golden. It emanated from a figure who seemed to be sitting in Bobby's chair, if it weren't for the fact that Sam could see the seat and back of Bobby's chair through the figure. It wore features that were indelibly imprinted into Sam's memory, not from long acquaintance but from sheer significance, and because those features were the last thing Sam had seen before he'd fallen into the Pit.
Sam was on his feet before his body had time to register the impulse.
"Adam?!"
It was, of course, impossible for Adam Milligan to be sitting there.
"Yeah, Sam, it's me. Try not to freak out, too much. I don't have a lot of time."
Apart from being transparent, Adam looked... well, nearly the same as the last time Sam remembered seeing him. Maybe a little tired.
"It can't be you," Sam whispered. But oh, he wanted it to be.
Adam's mouth pulled to one side. "What, you mean like you can't be back, soul and all? Yeah well. We both know how that goes, don't we? Just shut up, okay? I said I don't have much time. So just listen."
"But..."
Are you okay? wasn't quite what Sam wanted to say, but Oh god, Adam, I am so, so sorry... wouldn't cut it either.
The apparition of the youngest Winchester brother shook his head.
"I know, Sam. Okay? I just know. It's not your fault. I wanted to tell you that it's okay. It's not... great down here, but Michael won't let anything happen to me. He promised, and he might be a dick, but he takes his word seriously. That's kind of how this all started after all, right? Or some of it. So don't worry about me. Got it?"
"Adam... I..."
Sam moved towards the seated figure, who rose, and held up his hand. "I don't have time, and don't even think about a hug, okay? Your arms would go right through me. Just... don't mess with the wall, Sam. Seriously. Don't."
Sam stopped in his tracks, mouth open, unable to untangle thoughts, feelings, or words to express them. He swallowed hard.
"I hear you," he managed finally. "I... I won't."
Adam's mouth pulled to the side again. "You will," he said, and shook his head. "But I had to tell you not to."
He turned and looked behind him, but Sam couldn't see anything there. "Gotta go... don't give her a hard time, okay? This was a favor."
"Her... who?" Sam stuttered, but Adam was fading quickly, his form melted away to nothing.
The gold glow, however, remained.
It intensified at its center and Sam stepped back now, heart thumping hard in his chest from the shock of what had just occurred. His brain was already starting to rebel a little but something about the warmth of the glow, something about Adam's faded presence, something about Sam himself, a weariness, a quiet at his center, that blank space he couldn't see into and had been told not to try, held him still.
The glow solidified and formed a figure, more solid than Adam had been, the light subsiding into a soft gleam that edged blond tresses. The shape was familiar. Sam had seen her as a young woman, and he had seen her older both in his own delirium, and in Heaven, neither time the real deal.
"I'm not your mother, Sam," said the being who looked like Mary Winchester.
Sam tried to reply and choked a little before he was able to manage it.
"Then why look like her?" he rasped, low, not smiling.
"Your mind picked the shape," the being said. "I'm sorry, it's the way we work. I could try and shift to another form but you don't have the archetypes your race used to. Your mind is full of cartoons and actors in makeup. I'm a ghost, Sam, but not the kind you and your brother deal with."
"Then what kind?" the question felt meaningless, pointless. If this were some supernatural creature who meant to harm him, or Bobby, he'd have to find a way to stop it. The thought had no anger, only resignation. And mostly for Bobby's sake.
"The kind you don't have to fear, Sam," she said gently. "I'm not here to hurt you, or use you. I won't stay long. I have other visits to make tonight - so many. But your brother asked to give you a message, so I needed to manifest, instead of just watching you, as I've done, as we've done, for so many years before."
Something in Sam knew he ought to be angry at the idea that something else was watching him, had been watching him. That well was all but empty these days, though. Like a hole had been drilled in the bottom, letting all the bile out.
"So what do you want?" he asked, after a moment, trying not to feel anything for the compassion he saw on features he could not help but yearn towards.
"Nothing, Sam. To let your brother give his message, which he's done." She approached him and Sam stood very still. Her hand raised as if to cup the side of his face but she did not touch him. "I could show you many things, Sam, images of the past, but you don't need those reminders. They live in your heart. There was a year when they dimmed almost to nothing, but you recovered them on your own. You've endured so much... you don't need our lessons. There's only one vision I could show you that you don't already keep. But perhaps you're better off without it..."
"I know who you are..." Sam whispered suddenly.
The Spirit smiled.
"Do you want the vision, Sam? Do you want to see your brother's last Christmas?"
Something in the back of Sam's mind itched.
"Yes," he whispered. "Show me."
"Touch my sleeve, Sam."
She showed Sam more than just Dean's last Christmas with Lisa and Ben. The Spirit took him to the homes of people he and Dean had saved and let him feel the warmth of those families, where people held tight to loved ones because they knew how precious time was and how short. She gave him whatever gifts she could to carry in his heart against the trials he had endured, and the ones to come.
They returned to Bobby's and Sam dropped back onto the sofa as if he'd run miles in only a few minutes. She did caress his cheek this time, and it tingled along his skin. Lethargy seeped into his limbs and his eyes closed.
II. (Spirit the Second)
The next time Sam woke up, the television had been shut off. Maybe Bobby had come downstairs for a glass a water and done it. Maybe Bobby was still up. There was a light coming from under the kitchen door, which was usually left open, and shut now. Shut like Bobby might do if he didn't want to wake Sam up while he got a drink and maybe a midnight snack.
Sam was sitting up, and standing, his intention to tell Bobby about the really weird dream he'd had (which part of him wasn't entirely sure was a dream), and raz him for leaving the TV on to populate that dream.
Bobby had to be cooking, because Sam caught a whiff of wonderful smells as he pushed the door open.
It wasn't Bobby in the kitchen.
"Rufus?!"
Sam hung in the doorway, goggling a little at the sight of Rufus Turner standing in the middle of Bobby's kitchen in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Not just standing there, but cooking.
The kitchen table and every available counter and surface was loaded with dishes, boxes and baskets of food. Rufus, sporting an apron that had 'Never Trust a Skinny Cook' printed on it, placed several big pieces of fried chicken on top of a plate full of the same and turned off the fire under the skillet. In addition to fried chicken Sam could see (and smell, making his mouth water), slices of glazed ham, a big aluminum pan full of brisket, sausage and ribs, next to big bowls of mashed potatoes, greens, corn on the cob, macaroni salad, cabbage with bacon, and a dozen pies, a few cakes with frosting...
"I'm not Rufus Turner," said the man who looked like Rufus Turner. His apron now read, "Kiss the Cook" with a picture of a mistletoe sprig, and he had a bit of holly pinned to his collar. He licked a little chicken grease off one finger. "Sis said you were smarter than that."
Sam realized that there was a soft green glow coming from the man.
"You're kidding."
Not!Rufus grinned with all of Rufus's teeth.
"Don't give me hassle, boy, I only get one shot at this, and I'm taking my family's word for it that you're worth the time and effort. They like you, Sam. The way I hear it, they check on you every year, and have, ever since you were a baby. Your first Christmas was a bad time, Sam, you don't remember but your family was in pieces, and you'd already been touched by your destiny. We couldn't help, but the family decided to keep an eye on you. One of my brothers and sisters has visited you every year."
He turned and picked up a kitchen knife and cut into one of the pies. "Want a piece? Sweet potato. It's fantastic." He served a big slice up to Sam on a paper plate.
Sam held the plate, and stared, and tried to think of something to say.
"I'm dreaming."
Rufus swallowed a bite of pie and shook his head. "If it makes it easier for you, kid, sure, you're dreaming. That's all it ever has to be."
Sam took a bite of pie.
It was the best damn pie he had ever had. Dean would be pissed that he'd missed this pie, if there wasn't any left when he got back.
"Your brother's got his own pie. Apple. Not my favorite, but that's what Lisa Braeden decided to make," Not!Rufus said. "Plop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it, with the pie warm, and who would care if she isn't the best cook." He winked and grinned.
Sam just nodded, and ate another bite of sweet potato.
"So this is it? You showed up just to give me some pie and rag on Lisa's cooking?"
"Boy!" the Spirit shook his head. "I'm not ragging on the good woman's cooking. It's this shape you put me in... don't blame me if some things come out as bit more smart-ass than I might have meant them to."
His grin said otherwise.
"We come together, package deal," he added. "My older sister had that message to deliver so we all stop by. Anyway, it's just a dream, right?"
He took off the apron. "Would you like to go check up on your brother? I can take you."
"I don't need to check up on Dean," Sam said firmly.
In the back of his mind, something itched.
"Might do you good, though, to see that he's okay?" the Spirit suggested. "Or is there anyone else you want to check on? Just to make sure all's well?"
Sam looked down at the empty paper plate and licked his lips.
"Okay. The Braedens. But promise we won't disturb them."
"They won't even know we're there."
Sam was actually glad he'd agreed to go. He didn't feel like an outsider, watching. He was an outsider, to this family. It was Dean's, but another chance to see Dean with Lisa and Ben was something that he'd keep close and carefully. He didn't miss that Dean seemed to be thinking about something else from time to time. He didn't kid himself about what or who that might be. There was less tension in Dean's shoulders than last year. He drank less. Sam watched Lisa watching Dean. Ben liked his present.
When Dean glanced at his watch (only for the third time) and got up, Sam realized he didn't have much time and looked at his companion. The Spirit had been pretty quiet, seeming to enjoy the scene they witnessed in a non-partisan way. He touched Sam's chest and suddenly Sam was standing outside of Bobby's (on the wrong side of a locked door, in the snow).
"Remember, kid, don't scratch the itch." The admonishment was a cold whisper in his ear as the Spirit disappeared to make the most of the time he had left.
III. (Spirit the Final)
"You couldn't have left me inside the house?" Sam said aloud, watching his breath smoke in the chilled air.
Next step decide if he wanted to try and break in, knowing Bobby had great locks, or wake Bobby up and try to explain why he was outside.
One thing - Sam was pretty sure he was awake, anyway.
He started looking around in the yard for a small enough stone that he could throw at Bobby's window without breaking it when something he'd heard earlier in the evening came back to him.
My older sister had that message to deliver so we all stop by.
A cold chill that had nothing to do with the temperature ran down his spine and spiked at the base of it.
It wasn't the cold that made him turn, though. It was the utter, dead silence.
It was standing by the front walkway. Tall, dark, shrouded. Apparently he did have some of those archetypes in his brain somewhere.
He stared, the figure was still.
Nothing happened.
Swallowing, Sam suddenly wondered if he just... turned his back and threw the pebble at Bobby's window, if it would just disappear.
Maybe it had to show up, but it didn't have to stay.
It didn't seem to want to talk.
It didn't beckon or gesture him closer.
Sam started to turn away.
Something in the back of his mind itched.
Sam walked towards the tall, dark, shrouded figure.
"I know who you are," he said, his voice sounding strange in the quiet. "The way I hear it, you don't talk much. But you could show me the future, right?"
The figure did not move, simply stood, as Sam came closer.
The shadow under the hood was deep, without even a glimmer of eyes.
"Can you show me... what will happen if I... if the wall in here," he tapped his temple, "goes down? Can you show me what will happen to me?"
The figure did not stir.
"You could if I asked, right? If I asked..."
Sam stared into the darkness inside that shroud and saw nothing.
"You could show me... what would happen... to Dean... if I..."
The Spirit did not answer. It never answered. It could see so much more than the others. It could see the handiwork of its other brother on this mortal. Death was not a maker, or a builder, and his building was crude. It seemed even Death was willing to use these boys for his own purposes. And after lecturing Dean Winchester about it, too.
"I'm not asking..." Sam whispered.
One arm lifted from the figure. Pointed to the front door of the house.
The lock clicked open.
Go, mortal.
Sam did not hear words, only the lock. For a moment he stayed where he was, unable to understand what he was supposed to do.
"I didn't... ask," he whispered.
Licking his lips, Sam turned and suddenly bolted.
When the Impala drove up, Dean didn't expect anyone to come outside. He trudged up the walk and used his key. There was still part of him that felt torn about leaving, still a part that felt torn about having gone in the first place. He and Lisa still needed to talk, but everything had been suspended for Ben's sake, for Christmas Eve.
Coming inside, Dean saw that the television was still on, some infomercial about a rotisserie oven or something.
"Hey Dean."
Sam was sitting on the couch.
"Hey... hey Sam. I thought you'd be asleep."
"I was," Sam smiled. "Fell asleep a couple of hours after you left." He got up and stretched. "Heard the car," he added, and nodded to the door.
"Yeah, she's hard to miss," Dean murmured.
"Lisa and Ben okay?" It almost sounded like Sam knew the answer already. At least now, he actually sounded like he really cared.
"Good," Dean nodded. He sniffed, then. "What is that?"
"Sweet potato pie," Sam said, beckoning to the kitchen. "I think there might be one piece left, if you're hungry."
"Well," Dean started, following Sam out of habit, or just for the company, "actually, I'm pretty stuffed. Lisa did the whole nine yards..."
Sam laughed. "Yeah but you've had a couple of hours drive to digest. One piece of pie isn't going to hurt."
Dean sniffed again, and sat down at the empty kitchen table. Sam put a paper plate and and fork in front of him and sat in another chair. "Well, that's true... damn, Sam, this is... really good... where did you... don't tell me Bobby made this...?"
"Oh, no, someone dropped it by," Sam answered, watching the wedge disappear. He smiled. "Merry Christmas, Dean."
Dean Winchester licked crumbs off his fork and put it down.
"Merry Christmas, Sammy," he said, looking at his brother intently. Everything he saw made him feel grateful, humbly so, for more than just a good piece of pie.
They both heard Bobby coming down the stairs. He peered from one brother to the other, and shook his head when they both turned and grinned at him.
"Well, what the hell are you two sitting around and waiting on? God bless us every one?"
~
12:08:05 PM
♥ season 6 codas
~
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean, Bobby
Spoilers: up to & incl. 6.11
Notes: Coda to 6.11
This takes place in the space between what we know and what we don't. It is not intended to be accurate, just to be one possible take.
Sam gets a message on Christmas Eve.
12/22/10 08:55:52 AM
Three Spirits
"I'll be fine," Sam repeated for the fifth time. His smile wasn't brilliant, but it was real, and his hand on Dean's shoulder was a warm weight that felt right instead of strange. Dean's shoulder was given a slight squeeze before the hand fell away. "Bobby and I will watch 'It's a Wonderful Life' or something, eat grilled cheese sandwiches and get drunk. Or, I'll get drunk and he can watch me pass out."
Sam's tone was just the right touch of wry. He'd heard something about what had preceded his return and while he'd been appalled, and apologized to Bobby a couple of hundred times even though no apology could possibly cut it for trying to sacrifice your own extended family father figure, Bobby had hugged him hard enough, and thwapped him upside the head enough times to make it an acceptable joke.
"But I just got you back," Dean protested softly, even though they'd already been all over it multiple times.
"Right, and I'm not going anywhere. So, go. Ben deserves a Christmas surprise. Now get out of here. And call Lisa, okay? Don't just show up. Got Ben's gift?"
Sam knew the answer was yes, he'd watched Dean wrap it, in real Christmas paper instead of newsprint. It was sitting in the trunk of the Impala sheltering in a brown paper bag to protect the stuck-on bow.
With a little help from Bobby, Sam finally got Dean out the door and behind the driver's seat, on his way to Battle Creek.
Sam knew Bobby was watching him when they went back inside, but he didn't begrudge it. He didn't try to pretend false cheer, just settled on the old worn couch that had bedded Winchester brothers (and fathers) too many times to count. Bobby decided on BLTs instead of grilled cheese, and the old TV was thumped into acceptable reception. Sam fell asleep on the couch well before Clarence won his wings.
Bobby finished the book he'd been reading to the light of the cathode ray tube and got up, looking down at Sam's sleeping face for a long time. Finally he spread a blanket lightly over the boy, so he still thought of both of them, and went upstairs without turning off the television. They were showing holiday movies all night. Bill Murray's face came on as Bobby left the room. Comedy wouldn't hurt Sam and having the noise of voices on was sometimes better than a quiet house, with its creaks and echoes.
There were protections up to shield the building from angels as well as demons, in case Balthazar took it into his head to come back for a visit. Cas knew his way. Bobby figured he could make a phone call or knock if he wanted to come in.
It didn't take Bobby all that long to fall asleep in his bed that night. Maybe he should have stayed awake, maybe he should have needed to, but it had been a long haul for everybody. He had time to wish Dean a safe trip in his thoughts before he was breathing regular and even, days and months of worry and stress finally taking their due in oblivion.
I. (Spirit the First)
When Sam woke up, the television screen had gone to snow and a soft murmur of static. Coming awake was always sudden these days, and yet it left him feeling drugged and sticky, swallowing a hint of bile on the back of his throat. The itchy sensation in the back of his mind was most noticeable then, but he'd been warned to ignore it, and ignore it he did, sitting up slowly, rubbing his eyes. Get a drink of water, turn off the TV, and probably go back to sleep, those were his thoughts.
At least until he saw the other soft glow, the one that didn't come from the static-y screen.
The television's light flickered, but this other glow didn't. It was diffuse and soft and golden. It emanated from a figure who seemed to be sitting in Bobby's chair, if it weren't for the fact that Sam could see the seat and back of Bobby's chair through the figure. It wore features that were indelibly imprinted into Sam's memory, not from long acquaintance but from sheer significance, and because those features were the last thing Sam had seen before he'd fallen into the Pit.
Sam was on his feet before his body had time to register the impulse.
"Adam?!"
It was, of course, impossible for Adam Milligan to be sitting there.
"Yeah, Sam, it's me. Try not to freak out, too much. I don't have a lot of time."
Apart from being transparent, Adam looked... well, nearly the same as the last time Sam remembered seeing him. Maybe a little tired.
"It can't be you," Sam whispered. But oh, he wanted it to be.
Adam's mouth pulled to one side. "What, you mean like you can't be back, soul and all? Yeah well. We both know how that goes, don't we? Just shut up, okay? I said I don't have much time. So just listen."
"But..."
Are you okay? wasn't quite what Sam wanted to say, but Oh god, Adam, I am so, so sorry... wouldn't cut it either.
The apparition of the youngest Winchester brother shook his head.
"I know, Sam. Okay? I just know. It's not your fault. I wanted to tell you that it's okay. It's not... great down here, but Michael won't let anything happen to me. He promised, and he might be a dick, but he takes his word seriously. That's kind of how this all started after all, right? Or some of it. So don't worry about me. Got it?"
"Adam... I..."
Sam moved towards the seated figure, who rose, and held up his hand. "I don't have time, and don't even think about a hug, okay? Your arms would go right through me. Just... don't mess with the wall, Sam. Seriously. Don't."
Sam stopped in his tracks, mouth open, unable to untangle thoughts, feelings, or words to express them. He swallowed hard.
"I hear you," he managed finally. "I... I won't."
Adam's mouth pulled to the side again. "You will," he said, and shook his head. "But I had to tell you not to."
He turned and looked behind him, but Sam couldn't see anything there. "Gotta go... don't give her a hard time, okay? This was a favor."
"Her... who?" Sam stuttered, but Adam was fading quickly, his form melted away to nothing.
The gold glow, however, remained.
It intensified at its center and Sam stepped back now, heart thumping hard in his chest from the shock of what had just occurred. His brain was already starting to rebel a little but something about the warmth of the glow, something about Adam's faded presence, something about Sam himself, a weariness, a quiet at his center, that blank space he couldn't see into and had been told not to try, held him still.
The glow solidified and formed a figure, more solid than Adam had been, the light subsiding into a soft gleam that edged blond tresses. The shape was familiar. Sam had seen her as a young woman, and he had seen her older both in his own delirium, and in Heaven, neither time the real deal.
"I'm not your mother, Sam," said the being who looked like Mary Winchester.
Sam tried to reply and choked a little before he was able to manage it.
"Then why look like her?" he rasped, low, not smiling.
"Your mind picked the shape," the being said. "I'm sorry, it's the way we work. I could try and shift to another form but you don't have the archetypes your race used to. Your mind is full of cartoons and actors in makeup. I'm a ghost, Sam, but not the kind you and your brother deal with."
"Then what kind?" the question felt meaningless, pointless. If this were some supernatural creature who meant to harm him, or Bobby, he'd have to find a way to stop it. The thought had no anger, only resignation. And mostly for Bobby's sake.
"The kind you don't have to fear, Sam," she said gently. "I'm not here to hurt you, or use you. I won't stay long. I have other visits to make tonight - so many. But your brother asked to give you a message, so I needed to manifest, instead of just watching you, as I've done, as we've done, for so many years before."
Something in Sam knew he ought to be angry at the idea that something else was watching him, had been watching him. That well was all but empty these days, though. Like a hole had been drilled in the bottom, letting all the bile out.
"So what do you want?" he asked, after a moment, trying not to feel anything for the compassion he saw on features he could not help but yearn towards.
"Nothing, Sam. To let your brother give his message, which he's done." She approached him and Sam stood very still. Her hand raised as if to cup the side of his face but she did not touch him. "I could show you many things, Sam, images of the past, but you don't need those reminders. They live in your heart. There was a year when they dimmed almost to nothing, but you recovered them on your own. You've endured so much... you don't need our lessons. There's only one vision I could show you that you don't already keep. But perhaps you're better off without it..."
"I know who you are..." Sam whispered suddenly.
The Spirit smiled.
"Do you want the vision, Sam? Do you want to see your brother's last Christmas?"
Something in the back of Sam's mind itched.
"Yes," he whispered. "Show me."
"Touch my sleeve, Sam."
She showed Sam more than just Dean's last Christmas with Lisa and Ben. The Spirit took him to the homes of people he and Dean had saved and let him feel the warmth of those families, where people held tight to loved ones because they knew how precious time was and how short. She gave him whatever gifts she could to carry in his heart against the trials he had endured, and the ones to come.
They returned to Bobby's and Sam dropped back onto the sofa as if he'd run miles in only a few minutes. She did caress his cheek this time, and it tingled along his skin. Lethargy seeped into his limbs and his eyes closed.
II. (Spirit the Second)
The next time Sam woke up, the television had been shut off. Maybe Bobby had come downstairs for a glass a water and done it. Maybe Bobby was still up. There was a light coming from under the kitchen door, which was usually left open, and shut now. Shut like Bobby might do if he didn't want to wake Sam up while he got a drink and maybe a midnight snack.
Sam was sitting up, and standing, his intention to tell Bobby about the really weird dream he'd had (which part of him wasn't entirely sure was a dream), and raz him for leaving the TV on to populate that dream.
Bobby had to be cooking, because Sam caught a whiff of wonderful smells as he pushed the door open.
It wasn't Bobby in the kitchen.
"Rufus?!"
Sam hung in the doorway, goggling a little at the sight of Rufus Turner standing in the middle of Bobby's kitchen in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Not just standing there, but cooking.
The kitchen table and every available counter and surface was loaded with dishes, boxes and baskets of food. Rufus, sporting an apron that had 'Never Trust a Skinny Cook' printed on it, placed several big pieces of fried chicken on top of a plate full of the same and turned off the fire under the skillet. In addition to fried chicken Sam could see (and smell, making his mouth water), slices of glazed ham, a big aluminum pan full of brisket, sausage and ribs, next to big bowls of mashed potatoes, greens, corn on the cob, macaroni salad, cabbage with bacon, and a dozen pies, a few cakes with frosting...
"I'm not Rufus Turner," said the man who looked like Rufus Turner. His apron now read, "Kiss the Cook" with a picture of a mistletoe sprig, and he had a bit of holly pinned to his collar. He licked a little chicken grease off one finger. "Sis said you were smarter than that."
Sam realized that there was a soft green glow coming from the man.
"You're kidding."
Not!Rufus grinned with all of Rufus's teeth.
"Don't give me hassle, boy, I only get one shot at this, and I'm taking my family's word for it that you're worth the time and effort. They like you, Sam. The way I hear it, they check on you every year, and have, ever since you were a baby. Your first Christmas was a bad time, Sam, you don't remember but your family was in pieces, and you'd already been touched by your destiny. We couldn't help, but the family decided to keep an eye on you. One of my brothers and sisters has visited you every year."
He turned and picked up a kitchen knife and cut into one of the pies. "Want a piece? Sweet potato. It's fantastic." He served a big slice up to Sam on a paper plate.
Sam held the plate, and stared, and tried to think of something to say.
"I'm dreaming."
Rufus swallowed a bite of pie and shook his head. "If it makes it easier for you, kid, sure, you're dreaming. That's all it ever has to be."
Sam took a bite of pie.
It was the best damn pie he had ever had. Dean would be pissed that he'd missed this pie, if there wasn't any left when he got back.
"Your brother's got his own pie. Apple. Not my favorite, but that's what Lisa Braeden decided to make," Not!Rufus said. "Plop a scoop of vanilla ice cream on it, with the pie warm, and who would care if she isn't the best cook." He winked and grinned.
Sam just nodded, and ate another bite of sweet potato.
"So this is it? You showed up just to give me some pie and rag on Lisa's cooking?"
"Boy!" the Spirit shook his head. "I'm not ragging on the good woman's cooking. It's this shape you put me in... don't blame me if some things come out as bit more smart-ass than I might have meant them to."
His grin said otherwise.
"We come together, package deal," he added. "My older sister had that message to deliver so we all stop by. Anyway, it's just a dream, right?"
He took off the apron. "Would you like to go check up on your brother? I can take you."
"I don't need to check up on Dean," Sam said firmly.
In the back of his mind, something itched.
"Might do you good, though, to see that he's okay?" the Spirit suggested. "Or is there anyone else you want to check on? Just to make sure all's well?"
Sam looked down at the empty paper plate and licked his lips.
"Okay. The Braedens. But promise we won't disturb them."
"They won't even know we're there."
Sam was actually glad he'd agreed to go. He didn't feel like an outsider, watching. He was an outsider, to this family. It was Dean's, but another chance to see Dean with Lisa and Ben was something that he'd keep close and carefully. He didn't miss that Dean seemed to be thinking about something else from time to time. He didn't kid himself about what or who that might be. There was less tension in Dean's shoulders than last year. He drank less. Sam watched Lisa watching Dean. Ben liked his present.
When Dean glanced at his watch (only for the third time) and got up, Sam realized he didn't have much time and looked at his companion. The Spirit had been pretty quiet, seeming to enjoy the scene they witnessed in a non-partisan way. He touched Sam's chest and suddenly Sam was standing outside of Bobby's (on the wrong side of a locked door, in the snow).
"Remember, kid, don't scratch the itch." The admonishment was a cold whisper in his ear as the Spirit disappeared to make the most of the time he had left.
III. (Spirit the Final)
"You couldn't have left me inside the house?" Sam said aloud, watching his breath smoke in the chilled air.
Next step decide if he wanted to try and break in, knowing Bobby had great locks, or wake Bobby up and try to explain why he was outside.
One thing - Sam was pretty sure he was awake, anyway.
He started looking around in the yard for a small enough stone that he could throw at Bobby's window without breaking it when something he'd heard earlier in the evening came back to him.
My older sister had that message to deliver so we all stop by.
A cold chill that had nothing to do with the temperature ran down his spine and spiked at the base of it.
It wasn't the cold that made him turn, though. It was the utter, dead silence.
It was standing by the front walkway. Tall, dark, shrouded. Apparently he did have some of those archetypes in his brain somewhere.
He stared, the figure was still.
Nothing happened.
Swallowing, Sam suddenly wondered if he just... turned his back and threw the pebble at Bobby's window, if it would just disappear.
Maybe it had to show up, but it didn't have to stay.
It didn't seem to want to talk.
It didn't beckon or gesture him closer.
Sam started to turn away.
Something in the back of his mind itched.
Sam walked towards the tall, dark, shrouded figure.
"I know who you are," he said, his voice sounding strange in the quiet. "The way I hear it, you don't talk much. But you could show me the future, right?"
The figure did not move, simply stood, as Sam came closer.
The shadow under the hood was deep, without even a glimmer of eyes.
"Can you show me... what will happen if I... if the wall in here," he tapped his temple, "goes down? Can you show me what will happen to me?"
The figure did not stir.
"You could if I asked, right? If I asked..."
Sam stared into the darkness inside that shroud and saw nothing.
"You could show me... what would happen... to Dean... if I..."
The Spirit did not answer. It never answered. It could see so much more than the others. It could see the handiwork of its other brother on this mortal. Death was not a maker, or a builder, and his building was crude. It seemed even Death was willing to use these boys for his own purposes. And after lecturing Dean Winchester about it, too.
"I'm not asking..." Sam whispered.
One arm lifted from the figure. Pointed to the front door of the house.
The lock clicked open.
Go, mortal.
Sam did not hear words, only the lock. For a moment he stayed where he was, unable to understand what he was supposed to do.
"I didn't... ask," he whispered.
Licking his lips, Sam turned and suddenly bolted.
When the Impala drove up, Dean didn't expect anyone to come outside. He trudged up the walk and used his key. There was still part of him that felt torn about leaving, still a part that felt torn about having gone in the first place. He and Lisa still needed to talk, but everything had been suspended for Ben's sake, for Christmas Eve.
Coming inside, Dean saw that the television was still on, some infomercial about a rotisserie oven or something.
"Hey Dean."
Sam was sitting on the couch.
"Hey... hey Sam. I thought you'd be asleep."
"I was," Sam smiled. "Fell asleep a couple of hours after you left." He got up and stretched. "Heard the car," he added, and nodded to the door.
"Yeah, she's hard to miss," Dean murmured.
"Lisa and Ben okay?" It almost sounded like Sam knew the answer already. At least now, he actually sounded like he really cared.
"Good," Dean nodded. He sniffed, then. "What is that?"
"Sweet potato pie," Sam said, beckoning to the kitchen. "I think there might be one piece left, if you're hungry."
"Well," Dean started, following Sam out of habit, or just for the company, "actually, I'm pretty stuffed. Lisa did the whole nine yards..."
Sam laughed. "Yeah but you've had a couple of hours drive to digest. One piece of pie isn't going to hurt."
Dean sniffed again, and sat down at the empty kitchen table. Sam put a paper plate and and fork in front of him and sat in another chair. "Well, that's true... damn, Sam, this is... really good... where did you... don't tell me Bobby made this...?"
"Oh, no, someone dropped it by," Sam answered, watching the wedge disappear. He smiled. "Merry Christmas, Dean."
Dean Winchester licked crumbs off his fork and put it down.
"Merry Christmas, Sammy," he said, looking at his brother intently. Everything he saw made him feel grateful, humbly so, for more than just a good piece of pie.
They both heard Bobby coming down the stairs. He peered from one brother to the other, and shook his head when they both turned and grinned at him.
"Well, what the hell are you two sitting around and waiting on? God bless us every one?"
~
12:08:05 PM
♥ season 6 codas
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