Requiem for Snow
Title: Requiem for Snow
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Warnings: Violence, angst
Word Count: 7522
Notes:This story follows canon up to Changing Channels - sort of - and borrows chunks of the rest of Season Five completely at random. This story has no beta.
Trailer 1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8LXZM9nRC4
Summary: The January before he went to Hell, Dean and his brother Sam faced the Last Calusa in Key West, Florida. Following the defeat of this ancient curse, the brothers left, barreling straight into their destiny and the inevitable showdown against Lilith and her minions. But what they assumed was just another hunt was actually a key part in the plans of the Apocalypse. A plan not laid by the powers below, but by the ones up above.
Summary This Chapter: Sam returns to South Dakota with Castiel - and the both have separate conversations with Heather. Nate sees something odd at the evening Mass - something he's pretty sure no one else can see. Dean and Melpomene have an uneasy truce as they head off to regain the Colt from Crowley and Nate has a few thoughts on what he saw in church.
Sam's boots crunched in the snow as he made his way up to Bobby's house. The ruts made by the Impala when they'd driven out of here on Thursday were gone - they'd been filled in and covered over by more snow. Bobby's truck was half buried in the white powder. The only tracks in the snow were those made by Heather, though why she'd been outside, he didn't know. Although from the tracks, he could tell that she'd been wearing boots that didn't quite fit her. The ramp had been shoveled off and salted and as he mounted it, he got his answer to as why the girl had been outside - there was a massive pile of firewood that hadn't been on the porch when he and Dean had left several days ago. Even though this was the closest thing he had to a home, he didn't feel he had the right to just walk in. He'd told Cas that before they'd left, and the angel remained passive as he saw Heather peer out the blind before opening the door.
“Mr... uncle Bobby, Sam's back.” She stepped aside to let the pair in. “So is Castiel.”
“Where's Dean?” Bobby said, coming into the room.
“He's gone to get the Colt.” He replied. “What's with the firewood?”
“Call it being prepared.” He gave the angel a sideways glance and watched as Heather shut the door and locked it. “You haven't found God yet, have you?”
“No.” His voice remained passive but he didn't miss the look the girl gave the old hunter. She actually looked - disgusted. He saw her face go back to being straight as she shuffled out of the room. A moment later, a door slammed upstairs.
“That kid...” Bobby said as he rolled himself over to the fridge. “I think she's getting a little tired of this place already.”
Sam took the beer that he was handed. “Maybe she just needs to get out a bit - other than to get firewood.”
“Probably. I'm not to crazy about being holed up in here for days on end either.” He opened his beer. “She also doesn't talk much...”
Castiel moved out of the kitchen unnoticed. The two hunters were talking about what had happened in Little Rock and on Bobby Singer's plan to renew the wards on the house. He knew that while Bobby and Sam could sympathize with the girl some, they really didn't know how to act towards her. Then again, neither did he. He stood outside her door, frowning. He knocked once, not expecting her to answer.
“I had a big lunch, Sam. I'm not hungry.”
“Heather.” He said in reply. “I am not Sam.” He heard a shuffle and then the door cracked open.
“Sorry, Castiel.” She looked down at the floor. “I thought you'd left again.”
“No.” He tilted his head to the side and caught a thought from her. “Is that really how you feel?”
“It's what I am, isn't it?” She was a little wigged out by the fact he'd answered her thought about feeling like an orphan.
“No one is ever completely abandoned, Heather.” He kept his head tilted to the side and his eyes narrowed slightly. “The reason Dean treats you the way he does is because he does not know how to treat you.” He saw her open the door a little wider and she leaned against it for support. “And it not wrong to want your old home or your parents back.”
She still wouldn't look up at him, but she felt the tears start to slide down her cheeks. “Why is it all those expressions they tell you about getting through hard times sound great until you have actually apply them?”
“I am afraid I cannot answer that.” He heard her sniffle. “No one expects you to deal with your grief alone.”
“That's news to me.” The was an edge to her voice. “Everyone else around here seems to just bury their emotions away.”
“You are allowed to be angry.” He said firmly. “You have done remarkably well considering the number of things you've had to deal with in the past week.” He caught another thought from her. “And you still have your faith.”
“Faith is the one thing that no one can ever take from you.” She finally looked up. “Even if I did first hear that from an animated movie.” She sniffled.
“It is true. You are also allowed to cry.” He tilted his head to the side again as he caught another thought from her. “I also do not think that wanting to go to church on a Sunday is an irrational wish.”
“I don't think anyone around here would be willing to go with me, and I doubt the bus line is this city goes by the salvage yard.”
The angel blinked in surprise. “There, I believe, you are mistaken.”
She shifted her weight. “I don't want to inconvenience anyone.”
“I do not consider it that.” The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “You are a Catholic, correct?”
“Yes.” She blinked and then her eyes widened. “You don't mean...”
“Is this a problem?” Castiel thought his solution was perfectly logical. Heather wished to go to his Father's house - and he wanted to find his Father. There was nothing preventing him from entering a church - of any denomination. Nor did he need to fear being harmed there. He had to think of the last time he actually attended or watched any kind of church service - and then remembers - he'd watched over a Baptist service in Pontiac, Illinois - two days before he asked Jimmy Novak to be his vessel. Why did no one ever call him James? “It would be best if you put on a coat before we left.” He gave her another fraction of a smile. He was glad to see her return it.
*
The silence in the Impala was deafening. The two of them had been driving in utter silence for the past three hours - and there were seven more to go. It was dark now and Dean knew that driving through the night wasn't going to be an option. He'd need sleep sooner or later - he wasn't going up against a powerful demon without resting. He glanced over at the woman in the passenger seat for the millionth time and finally, she broke the silence.
“If you're that bloody pissed at me, Dean Winchester, we can pull over in the next roadside park and unload a clip full of bullets into me.” She shrugged. “Granted, all you'll succeed in doing is wasting thirty bullets and ruining the coat I'm wearing, but if will make you feel better, I won't object.” She flicked a glance at him. “Though I wouldn't suggest punching me in the face... that would probably hurt you more than me.”
He gave her a look. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” She turned her gaze back out the front window.
“Is this how you normally are?” He swerved the car into the passing lane. “This... aloof smart-ass?”
“Aloof no, smart-ass, yes. I felt you had more of the right to start the conversation than I did.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You ever tell any of the others?”
“What others?”
“The other fathers... I'm guessing Heather isn't the only child you've had.”
“No, she isn't. Although she is the only girl.” She leaned back slightly in the seat, involuntarily rubbing the small stone that hung from a chain around her neck. “And no, I never told any of the others.”
“And how many is that?” He snorted. “You've got to be close to the same age as Cas, so that'd be what... least a hundred...” The Impala suddenly spun around as if it had hit a patch of black ice. He had to struggle to right the car and when he did, he glance over to see that Melpomene's face was black with rage.
“I have four children.” She said through clenched teeth. “The sister with the largest number of children is Euterpe and she has had eleven. But that is only if you count the mortal children.”
He blanched as they started forward again. “Wait a minute... did you just...”
“Be glad this car is still in one piece.” She growled. “I could crush it and you as easily as you could crush a bug.”
He swallowed. “Mortal children?”
“Only a few of us have straight mortal children - I'm one of them, along with Clio and Urania. The rest of my sisters have had a few...” She stiffened. “Let's just say that the two I mentioned and I have only ever been interested in humans... most pagan gods are, by their very nature, arrogant bastards.”
“You're not arrogant?” Dean knew he was probably pushing it by asking that.
“I can be. But not as bad as some. I've also found that the bigger a man's ego, the worse they are at intimacy.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would like to state for the record, I knew you were going to Hell. I just didn't think you'd be getting out.”
“You knew?” He said, incredulously.
“Anyone who's made a deal with a cross-roads demon has a certain scent upon them. That's the reason the Last Calusa didn't take you hostage in Key West. There's an honor among demons... you don't take what belongs to someone else.” She shook her head. “I went down there to get away from everyone.”
“Muses take vacations?”
“I don't exactly have a time when I'm particularly busy...” She held her palm out, as if explaining things to him a matter-of-fact way. “But all those writers were going on strike - I figured I'd take a few days off.”
Dean laughed. “You the one who got Lost started?”
“No, that would be Clio.” She shook her head. “Trouble with the stuff I help out on are loved by fans and hated by networks.” She frowned. “Breaks my heart that Joss's shows keep getting tossed aside.”
“Joss? You mean Joss Whedon?” He glanced at the sign stating there was food and lodging at the next exit.
“The very one. Thalia's still pissed I swiped him out from under her nose... though it's nothing new. My sisters and I are always snatching artists from one another the way other children steal each other's toys.” She chuckled. “The only people whose calls we don't return is anyone from Disney - after they insulted my sisters and I in Hercules, we bailed on them.” She folded her arms and shook her head. “I'm surprised Tia didn't kill someone.”
He shot her a look. “You're joking, right?”
“For some reason, they thought she was a four hundred pound soul singer who tosses her own head around for kicks...In reality, she's still able to pass for a student at movie theaters.”
He remembered what he and Sam had found when they discovered there were fans of Chuck's Supernatural books and what they said about him and his brother. “Yeah... I think I can sort of relate.”
“We all walked out of that movie...” She shook her head. “Now all they have are those straight to DVD sequels...” She smirked and folded her arms. “Polly was actually the last one to bail on them. She's actually glad they abandoned Narnia out and someone else grabbed it up.”
“Please tell me that you're not responsible for Twilight.”
“None of us put that idea in her head. People can always come up with bad ideas all on their own. That's why there's fan fiction. However, Meyer is inadvertently the reason we can get the Colt back from Crowley easily.”
“How so?” He steered the car onto the off-ramp.
“I've had to keep a lot of good vampire stories from being published until after that series was well underway.” She shook her head. “That woman is going to wig out before her ten years are up. She won't be the first or the last.”
“Seriously?” He said incredulously.
“Not all those accidental drug overdoses are accidental.” She closed her eyes. “It's horrible to watch people who haven't made deals get into drugs and then destroy themselves...case in point, River Phoenix.” She sighed. “I've lost dozens of artists who had such promise...” She swallowed. “and the ones that are accidental...like that poor Ledger boy...”
“You need a drink, I need a drink...” Dean said as he turned into a diner. “And food... preferably something with a lot of grease.”
“Well, we are in Georgia.” She smiled faintly. “That means good food just about anywhere.” She peered out the window at the diner. “I wonder if this place has goober-burgers. “
“What's that?”
“A burger with peanut butter.” The smile became more pronounced. “Just like the people who created Ranch dressing, Mr. Kellogg was not paid enough for his invention.”
*
Castiel sat placidly in Holy Spirit Church, letting his mind slowly skim across the people there. Some were praying for the winter to be mild, others were asking for help getting through the week, others for health - and in the minds of a few of the children, there were Christmas wishes. The service hadn't begun yet and for the first time in several weeks, he felt calm. He caught more snatches of prayers, someone was praying they'd win the lottery. There was a bottomless pit in a corner of Heaven where that sort of request was tossed. Castiel knew the only reason he was focusing on other prayers was so that he wouldn't hear Heather's.
He merely glanced at her and caught an internal tirade that he'd only seen the likes of before in Sam Winchester. He knew it would do no good to tell the child that no, she wasn't being punished. She wasn't mad at God, she was just wondering if she'd accidentally gotten two people's worth of troubles. Then he caught other things and one of them actually made him focus on what was racing through her mind: I don't know what Mr. Singer was thinking, asking an angel if they've found God. If anyone knows where God is, it's an angel.
Heather shifted uncomfortably and rose from the kneeler, reaching for the hymnal that was tucked into a shelf in front of her and she checked the number on the stand by the altar. She flipped through the pages and gave a small smile. “I know this one - always liked it too.” She looked over at Castiel. “Thank you, by the way.”
“You are welcome, Heather.” The angel glanced down at the hymnal - he knew this song too. Granted, he knew all the songs in the book - but some were a little better than others. “It is my pleasure.”
The cantor came to the lectern next to the piano and welcomed them to the church for the celebration for the second Sunday of Advent and asked for the congregation to turn off or silence their pagers. “Please turn to number four-oh-four in the green hymnal, 'Gather Us In' number four-oh-four.”
The sound of two hundred and sixty people standing didn't deaden the sound of the opening strains of music. On the left side of the church, halfway back, Nate Turabian took a deep breath and looked up - and the first notes of the song promptly got caught in his throat. Three pews up on the other side there was something he was certain he'd never seen before.
The man was tall with black hair and a red-headed girl who was shorter than he was. That wasn't what made him start. It was the other person in the pew with them - or should he say, the other being with them. Standing next to the trench coated man was a nearly nine foot tall winged creature - is that... what I think it is? Nate turned away from the vision across the isle and resumed singing. It was pretty obvious no one else was aware of the fact that there was - an angel - standing in the middle of their church.
*
Dean had decided to call it a night in a small town in South Carolina rather than driving straight through the night to Raleigh. The city was just four hours away from where they were, but after driving twelve hours - and being in a car for sixteen, he'd rather get to their final destination rested than half exhausted. He also wasn't about to let Melpomene drive the Impala. He figured that if she could just transport herself all over the planet, odds were, she didn't know much about driving and he didn't feel like asking.
The motel was mostly empty, it being Sunday night. Dean set his two bags down on one of the beds while Melpomene merely took her coat and shoes off and sat down on the other. “You're not going to go taking off in the middle of the night, are you?”
“No.” She yawned. “I think I'm a little to tired to go anywhere. I only sleep about once or twice a week.”
“Really?” He set a large bladed knife under his pillow. “Is that all you need?”
“Usually.” She stretched her arms over her head. “If it's been a busy week, I might sleep two whole days straight... right now I just need a few hours.”
“Yeah.” Dean took a tin of salt from his bag and put a line down by the door and the window and then went to put one in the bathroom. “This stuff doesn't affect you, does it?”
“No.” She fell back on the bed, covering her eyes with one of her arms.
“Does anything affect you?” He asked as he put the container back into his bag and got out his tooth brush.
“Yes, but I'd say it's highly unlikely you have it in the trunk of that car. I'd say there's a better chance that you'd find a hundred and twenty-five million dollar winning power-ball ticket in that car than a weapon that will actually harm me.”
“So you're almost invulnerable.”
“Yes. No, that does not extend to any of mine and my sister's children - except for an immunity to the Croatoan virus and a bunch of other illnesses.”
Dean stared at her. “Well, that's some good. I don't suppose you can tell me why Heather can see Cas in both forms, can you?”
She lowered her arm and kept her gaze on the ceiling. “That, Dean Winchester, is a very long and very complicated story. One that I am forbidden to discuss.”
“Forbidden by who?”
“Several people, firstly, by my father - and I am not even allowed to say who else there is and who handed down the curse.”
“It's a curse?”
“In a manner of speaking...” She rubbed her face. “It's not something I care to talk about. It's also something that affects only three of the Muses, including me.”
Dean decided not to press the matter and went to brush his teeth. When he came back, Penny was already under the covers of her bed, the blankets pulled over her head. He tried not to notice the clothes folded at the foot of that bed as he went and checked the locks on the door one last time before turning out the light, undressing and getting into his own bed. By this time tomorrow, the Colt would be back in his possession and the two of them would be on the road back to South Dakota. She'd travel with him as far as the outskirts of Sioux Falls. He didn't want to think about the fact that it'd take a day and a half to get there. He sighed. “You awake?”
“No.” Melpomene grumbled from under her covers. “If you want to stay up and talk, I won't object, but I think rest is something you're in dire need of.”
“That's freaky.” He replied under his breath and closed his eyes. Sleep came blessedly quick and as he drifted off, he hoped it would last more than four hours. It was six hours later, at three in the morning, when a sound he couldn't place woke him up. He rolled over towards the other bed, wondering what the hell is brother was up to when he remembered - Sam was in South Dakota. Across the room, Melpomene was sitting up, watching the television and doing her best to keep her laughter restrained and, in his opinion, failing badly. He glanced across to the set. Some movie or something was on the screen, that looked as if it had been shot on location on a stage. “What the hell are you watching?”
“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged-” She said between chuckles. “the Reduced Shakespeare Company is brilliant...” She blew her nose. “I'm sorry if I woke you up... I can turn this off...”
“No... it's okay.” He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I usually get up at this time of the night.” He frowned. “My extent to this Shakespeare stuff extends to watching that really old version of Romeo and Juliet one week in high school.”
“That work has to be one of the most if not the most misunderstood stories in the world.” She rubbed her nose with the handkerchief. “This just started...” She grinned. “I think I was at this performance.”
Dean frowned. “Is that guy wearing a skirt?”
“Yes...” She snickered. “I wish I could get Quentin Tarantino into Shakespeare... that man could make a damn fine Macbeth.”
“Lot of killing in that one?” He snorted. “There has to be plenty of bloodshed for a Tarantino film...”
“Oh, there's plenty of killing... stabbing, poisoning... sword fights, the whole nine yards.”
**
Sam did a quick perusal of the kitchen on Monday morning and started making a shopping list. He knew that Dean wouldn't be back with the Colt until Thursday - at the earliest. He'd not given much thought of what he'd do these few days, other than do laundry and help out if Bobby needed it. Since he'd learned the old hunter had teaching Heather a few things, there probably wasn't any harm in him doing the same. It wasn't like he wanted the girl to become a hunter like him and Dean, but knowing how to at least defend yourself was a good idea. Given how trouble and danger seemed to find the Winchesters, no matter how they tried to avoid it - there was no way of getting around it.
“Morning.” Heather said blearily as she came into the kitchen.
“Hey.” He handed her a mug. “You don't like this stuff yet, do you?” He indicated the coffee pot.
“I don't drink that much of it.” She went over to the fridge and filled the mug half-full of milk. “I miss juice.”
“Well, it looks like we need to go to the store today so we'll pick some up.” He leaned against the counter. “That work?”
“Sure.” She added coffee to her mug, but not much. “Uh, you want me to go dig out Uncle Bobby's truck?”
“Not right now.” Sam shook his head. “What'd you do last week?”
“Learned how to clean a shotgun.” She shrugged. “Figured out I'm going to have to learn Latin if I want to read half of the books in this house.”
“Latin's pretty easy to pick up once you start.” He spoke from experience.
“I don't know all that much...I do know the last people to use Latin as their official language was the Hungarian Aristocracy.” She slunk into a chair at the table. “I learned that in social studies this past semester.” She looked up. “Uh... speaking of... do I ever get to go back to school or am I headed for a really bizarre form of home-schooling?”
Sam sat down across from her and chuckled. “I imagine we can probably get you into school in January - wait for the second semester to start.”
“I guess that works.” She took a sip from her mug. “Probably be easiest.”
“You like school?”
“For the most part.” She managed a small smile.
“Favorite subject?”
“Lunch. It's the only one they don't grade you in.” The smile grew more genuine. “But of the things they do grade you on... I'd say English is my favorite...or Art.”
“I liked English too.” Sam was relieved he'd found a subject he could talk to her about - he seriously doubted Dean would have this conversation with her. “You like to read?”
“Love to read.” She took another sip of her drink. “Though it'd be really hard for me to pick a favorite book.”
“Have you read Harry Potter?”
“I'm thirteen years old, what do you think?” She grinned. “But I enjoyed Pendragon more - mainly because the villain in that series makes Voldemort look like a wuss.”
“That bad, huh?” He took a sip from his own mug.
“Voldemort has no hair because he's old. Saint Dane has no hair because Bobby Pendragon set him on fire.”
Sam gagged and grabbed a napkin from the pile on the table. He hacked once before responding. “The guy lived?”
“Oh yeah... he also survived being impaled with a sword.” She frowned. “There aren't any demons that can survive that, right?”
“I'm... not entirely sure, but most of them do burn to a crisp when set on fire.” He cleaned up the spilled coffee. “Is that what Saint Dane is? A demon?”
“Kind of...” She bit her lip, thinking. “It's sort of hard to explain without ruining the series.”
Sam thought for a moment. “You mind if I ask you one of the most standard questions all adults ask kids?”
“That being?” She raised an eyebrow in response.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” He said with a laugh.
Heather grinned. “Not been asked that in a while...” Her smile remained. “I'd like to either illustrate books or be an art teacher.”
He smiled over his coffee mug. “So you want to go to college then?”
“Are you joking? Of course I do! Did you go?”
“For a few years...I went to Stanford... didn't finish though.” His smile faltered. “Some things came up.”
“You ever think of going back?”
“I... no.” He shook his head. “I can't go back to a.. I guess what you'd call a normal life.” He pushed his mug away. “Tell you what... why don't you go start to dig out the truck...” He wanted to avoid this subject for a while. “Maybe we can get the shopping done before noon.”
“Sure.” She stood and went to retrieve the coat and galoshes she'd worn yesterday. Getting out of the house sounded good - getting away from it sounded even better. Even if it was just going into town. When she came back into the kitchen, he gave her an odd look. “What's wrong?”
“I think that coat used to be mine.” He chuckled. “A long time ago.”
“Well, I knew it was a boy's coat when I first put it on.” She shrugged. “But if I find any loose change in the pockets, I'll give it back to you.”
In response, Sam laughed.
***
The early December morning was cool and sunny in North Carolina. Dean had managed to get back to sleep shortly after three - and was grateful for the three more hours of sleep he had gotten. He was used to functioning on three or four hours of sleep - and the odd nights when he actually got six was a rare and welcome treat. He glanced over at Melpomene, who was clicking away in her phone again. “What exactly are you doing anyway?”
“Research.” She shook her head. “The way things are going, it won't be long before Heaven and Hell start coming to the pagan gods to see if they can whip up some support.”
“Why would they do that?” Dean frowned. “I mean, there can't be that many of you left... and no offense or anything, are any of you all that powerful?”
“The ones to worry about are all the Hindu gods... all Buddha asks one to do is sit down and have a cup of tea and talk about enlightenment.”
“You know all these gods?”
“Most of them...Eastern Civilization gods and Western Civilization gods aren't exactly known to be on good terms with each other. It's sort of like a popularity contest on a nearly biblical scale.” She leaned back in the seat. “Since the Hindu gods still have a large amount of followers, they've maintained most of their power. I also know what power they have they aren't going to want to give up - so they will play neutrality until a temple or two gets ruined and then they'll try to fight both sides. They've also been pretty livid over the whole situation in Tibet for years, so what you have there is a powder keg.”
He drained the last of the coffee from the thick cardboard cup and shook his head. “This is just plain... have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“Well, this is the Apocalypse, Dean... there's only one of those.” She frowned. “Though if the angels are under the impression that humanity is currently at it's worst, they've clearly forgotten a lot of the past.” She shuddered. “I think what the issue is is that now there's six point five billion humans on this earth....so it seems worse than other times.”
“What was worse?” Dean shifted into the passing lane and they raced past a slow pick-up truck.
“You really don't want to know... when there were just around twenty million people running around on this planet, five hundred thousand of them seemed to be determined to make it a living hell. I've seen men eat the hearts of their fallen adversaries, thinking it'd give them the slain one's power. They also used to impale one another, crucify people and I've seen Spartans that make the Nazis look like boy scouts.”
“That's sick.” He replied, glancing at a sign that said Raleigh was fifty miles away. “So this Crowley... are we just going to knock on his door and he'll give us the Colt?”
“Depends on what kind of day he's having...we may have to knock aggressively.” She turned her device off and stuck it in her pocket. “But if he likes the deal he's got, he probably won't put up much of a fight.”
“So he's a crossroads demon, then?”
“Yes. He was pretty much Lilith's most industrious lackey... and like most people who love power, he was looking for any edge he could get. Since that Bela Talbot woman gave him the Colt and not Lilith he basically got one of the biggest bargaining chips there is. It was probably straight self preservation that kept him from killing her.”
“So she wasn't exactly anyone's favorite demon, I take it?”
“I suppose Lucifer liked her well enough... but I have a feeling he used her as a means to an end. Angels and demons aren't friends... until he got out of his prison, the majority of demons didn't even believe the devil existed... he was their greatest myth, as it where.”
“But some myths are real.” He shot a look at her. “Right?”
“A lot of them are... but so many stories get embellished as time goes by.” She unconsciously bit her lip. “Some of them get down right bastardized...
Dean frowned. “I can probably think of a few of them.”
“Probably more than a few. Can you believe I've seen over ten thousand versions of Hamlet?”
“Very easily. I think I may have seen one...or part of it in some English class in high school.” He swung the Impala into the passing lane and raced past a delivery truck. “Unless you count The Lion King.”
“It sort of counts...the musical is a bit closer than the movie.” She cleared her throat. “However, they made that modern version with Ethan Hawke... and for all the negative reviews, I actually liked it.”
“Why was that?”
“Because the director got Hamlet's age right. Mel Gibson and Kenneth Branagh are brilliant actors - but the Prince of Denmark is not a man headed into middle age - he's actually around nineteen or twenty.”
“Seriously?” He was starting to wish Sam had come with them - he might actually be able to help him follow the conversation.
“Well, think about it...” She rubbed her nose. “If he was thirty something, when he got home, wouldn't it have made more sense to tell his Uncle Claudius to get the hell out of his chair? I mean, if he was nineteen, then the events that occur in the play make sense.”
He shrugged in response as he steered the car back into the left lane. “The girl in that story is Ophelia, right?”
“Ah, Hamlet and Ophelia...” She took a breath before continuing. “A thousand times more tragic than Romeo and Juliet will ever be. Unlike the lovers in Verona, the couple in Elsinore castle actually cared about one another. All Romeo wanted to do was to shag Juliet.”
“Wasn't Juliet supposed to be around thirteen years old?” He grimaced. “Now that...that is pretty sick.”
“Well, Romeo was supposed to be around sixteen and the life expectancy of the story's time frame was around forty.” She chuckled. “Ah, William Shakespeare - quite the lucky individual. My sister Thalia tapped him on the shoulder and he wrote sixteen plays that were all very similar. My sister Clio gave him a pat on the back and he wrote a bundle of histories that were all pretty good. I smacked the man upside the head...and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“What that a literal smack or a figurative one?” Dean asked more to be obnoxious than serious.
“Literal... the man had horrible breath.” She snorted. “That's actually another reason I have so few children...there was a very, very, very long period when bathing regularly was not practiced...it was really nice when people started taking baths once a week, as opposed to once a year.”
He grimaced in response. “Must be why the angels think we smell.”
“Most angels think anyone who isn't one of them smells.” She rolled her eyes. “And it's not just the stench that causes most of them to hate beings like me.”
“Cas doesn't seem to have a problem with you.”
“I'm not going to answer that. The reason a lot of angels don't particularly care for me and my sisters is because we somehow tend to get lumped in as being angels ourselves. Needless to say, they don't really like that idea... then again, I hate being thought of as a demon.”
“I can see your point.” He slowed down as they started to come into the suburban area around Raleigh. “Does Crowley live out here or in the city proper?”
“He lives on the north side of the city - if you get on the five-forty loop west we can avoid the majority of the city itself.”
“Sounds good.” He checked his watch. “We've made good time.”
“That's because you insisted on leaving at the ungodly hour of five-thirty.”
**
Heather often wondered where certain ideas came from - right now she was wondering what idiot thought that muzak was an acceptable form of music - particularly Christmas music turned into muzak. Of course, that was better than the days she'd gone to the store with her mom and some sports game was being blared at twice the needed volume over the speakers. She leaned against the cart as Sam turned the corner of the basket down another isle. “I know Christmas is a big holiday, but do they have to shove it down our throats?” She glared at the Coca-Cola bottles covered with pictures of Santa Claus. “By the time the actual day gets here, we want to to be over.”
Sam shook his head. “You're asking the wrong person... I mean, what'd you have for Christmas dinner last year?”
“I've always had homemade meatballs and spaghetti for Christmas dinner.” She shrugged. “We had it so rarely, it was always a treat.”
“I would have thought you'd have ham.”
“Mom can't... couldn't have ham. It made her sick.” She straightened up as he put a large bag of pretzels into the basket and then pulled it down to the corner and they turned into the bread isle. “What do you and Dean do for Christmas?”
“Have a dinner furnished by Boston Market and drink a carton of Egg Nog.” He said flatly. “I don't... we never really had a traditional Christmas... ever.”
“That's awful.” Heather was shocked and it sounded in her voice. “I mean, doesn't Uncle Bobby celebrate the holiday?”
“He does - usually in the same way my brother and I do.” He set two bags of sandwich bread into the basket. “So don't expect much holiday cheer.”
“Sheesh, is everyone in this family a grouch?” She didn't mean to be rude, but she was starting to get frustrated at everyone's sullen behavior.
“No, we're realists.” He shook his head. “I'm amazed you can remain so optimistic after all that's happened in the past two weeks.”
“I was probably on the receiving end of a boatload of recessive genes that keep me from being a pessimist.” She snorted. “It's either I believe things can become better or I can pull the spoiled brat routine.”
Sam stared at her. “You're just a kid, Heather.”
She let out a sarcastic gasp. “You noticed!”
He wasn't sure if he should laugh or yell at her. “What I mean is...” He shook his head. “Is this how you usually are and the quiet routine was all an act?”
“I'm not sure...” She shrugged. “I mean, I'd like to be happy but if I do feel happy, I feel bad for feeling that way.”
He pulled the cart up the isle and she followed him. “I've not spent a lot of time with optimists... so I find their outlook to be frustrating.” He looked back at her. “So don't take anything personally.”
“Oh, that won't be a problem.” She helped him turn the cart and head down the long isle in the back of the market. “I was blessed with a very long fuse... you know what I mean?”
Sam nodded, not looking back at her. “I know exactly what you mean.” He scanned the date on a roll of sausage meat before adding it to the cart. “What kind of juice did you want to get it?”
“I'll drink pretty much anything - as long as there's no pomegranate in it.”
“Don't like that particular fruit?” He said, steering the cart down the isle that held the cereal and other breakfast foods.
“Nope, I'm allergic.”
“Allergic to pomegranate?” He turned around. “That's different. Cranberry's okay though, right?”
“Cranberry is great.” She said in response. “One of these days I'm going to figure out how to make cranberry pie... of course, I probably need to figure out how to make pie crust first.”
“You like pie?” He had a feeling about where this conversation was going.
“I love pie...and rice krispe treats.” She responded as Sam added a bottle of cranberry-grape juice to the cart. “One is the best dessert ever and the other is the greatest cookie that doesn't contain chocolate.”
**
Nate Turabian stared blankly at the blackboard as his math teacher started to go over the questions that had been missed the most on last Friday's test. He glanced down at the perfect score on his own paper and then rested his chin on his hand, studying the problems. He knew he had to give the semblance of paying attention as if he hadn't gotten the one hundred percent. Personally, he'd rather die than admit to being Nate the Nerd. He'd rather be Nathan Turabian - the all star goalie, the future hope of the Lincoln High Patriots state championship in soccer.
He winced at the thought. Even in his imagination it sounded arrogant. He was only thirteen and still had another year of middle school to go through. What he really, really wanted however, was to be back at his old school - back with his class at Holy Spirit. Patrick Henry had been his school for the past two years - and most days he still wanted back in his old school. Hell, he even missed the uniforms. He'd lied to his friends about what his parents had said about focusing on academics. His parents had taken him out of their parish's grade school when they realized that the local Catholic high school was going to be beyond their means if they still wanted their son to go to college. At least, without the benefit of scholarships.
So here he was, racing at the front of the academic pack and trying not to appear to. He dreaded to think what high school would be like with honors classes and the inevitable AP classes. His mom had read some book about children who are forced into becoming overachievers and suddenly seemed to plan things out so it wouldn't be quite so rough. Thus the reason for just one sport rather than the three he was perfectly capable of playing and maintaining his grades. Nate knew it was important, but honestly, at thirteen, it was hard to give a crap.
“Mr. Turabian, could you please join us?” The teacher's voice cut through his thoughts.
“What?” He smiled sheepishly. “Uh... sorry.”
The rest of the class laughed as the teacher shook his head and went on to explain the question that had stumped the most people in the class - number eleven. He glanced down at his own paper. He didn't care if the others laughed at him. He stood up a little straighter and followed along, but something else edged in the corner of his mind.
The girl and her companion at church two days ago - it was so odd, so unthinkable. There'd been an angel in the building and only he had seen it. No one else... except, perhaps - the girl herself could see it too. Since he'd never seen the girl here at Patrick Henry or at Holy Spirit, maybe she was just passing through town. Of course - that made sense. Maybe he hadn't been the only one who'd seen them. Well, if there was some kind of Christmas miracle thing going on, the pair had probably stopped in Sioux Falls to look for someone in need of their help. But what could a girl his age and an angel do in South Dakota? His mind was about to take off in a million possibilities when the voice of his grandmother resounded in his head bringing him back down to reality.
Nathan Edward Turabian, I swear child, you have five times the imagination of anyone else - sometimes I wonder how you keep your feet on the ground!
He'd never let his imagination completely runaway with him - at least, not out of the confines of his own head. While he never would admit it, there were times when he had to sit and wonder which of his biological parents he'd picked the trait up from. But thinking about those two people were a forbidden subject to him as well. Well, maybe not so much forbidden as it was - uncomfortable. He didn't want to think about them - not out of disloyalty to his mom and dad, or out or resentment for being put up for adoption. Nathan suspected that not knowing the truth and making up his own story as to why he was a Turabian and not... whoever was better than what really happened. For all he knew, his dad could be in prison and his mom could be some crack-head.
The lie, he told himself, was better than that.
Chapter Eight
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Warnings: Violence, angst
Word Count: 7522
Notes:This story follows canon up to Changing Channels - sort of - and borrows chunks of the rest of Season Five completely at random. This story has no beta.
Trailer 1 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8LXZM9nRC4
Summary: The January before he went to Hell, Dean and his brother Sam faced the Last Calusa in Key West, Florida. Following the defeat of this ancient curse, the brothers left, barreling straight into their destiny and the inevitable showdown against Lilith and her minions. But what they assumed was just another hunt was actually a key part in the plans of the Apocalypse. A plan not laid by the powers below, but by the ones up above.
Summary This Chapter: Sam returns to South Dakota with Castiel - and the both have separate conversations with Heather. Nate sees something odd at the evening Mass - something he's pretty sure no one else can see. Dean and Melpomene have an uneasy truce as they head off to regain the Colt from Crowley and Nate has a few thoughts on what he saw in church.
Sam's boots crunched in the snow as he made his way up to Bobby's house. The ruts made by the Impala when they'd driven out of here on Thursday were gone - they'd been filled in and covered over by more snow. Bobby's truck was half buried in the white powder. The only tracks in the snow were those made by Heather, though why she'd been outside, he didn't know. Although from the tracks, he could tell that she'd been wearing boots that didn't quite fit her. The ramp had been shoveled off and salted and as he mounted it, he got his answer to as why the girl had been outside - there was a massive pile of firewood that hadn't been on the porch when he and Dean had left several days ago. Even though this was the closest thing he had to a home, he didn't feel he had the right to just walk in. He'd told Cas that before they'd left, and the angel remained passive as he saw Heather peer out the blind before opening the door.
“Mr... uncle Bobby, Sam's back.” She stepped aside to let the pair in. “So is Castiel.”
“Where's Dean?” Bobby said, coming into the room.
“He's gone to get the Colt.” He replied. “What's with the firewood?”
“Call it being prepared.” He gave the angel a sideways glance and watched as Heather shut the door and locked it. “You haven't found God yet, have you?”
“No.” His voice remained passive but he didn't miss the look the girl gave the old hunter. She actually looked - disgusted. He saw her face go back to being straight as she shuffled out of the room. A moment later, a door slammed upstairs.
“That kid...” Bobby said as he rolled himself over to the fridge. “I think she's getting a little tired of this place already.”
Sam took the beer that he was handed. “Maybe she just needs to get out a bit - other than to get firewood.”
“Probably. I'm not to crazy about being holed up in here for days on end either.” He opened his beer. “She also doesn't talk much...”
Castiel moved out of the kitchen unnoticed. The two hunters were talking about what had happened in Little Rock and on Bobby Singer's plan to renew the wards on the house. He knew that while Bobby and Sam could sympathize with the girl some, they really didn't know how to act towards her. Then again, neither did he. He stood outside her door, frowning. He knocked once, not expecting her to answer.
“I had a big lunch, Sam. I'm not hungry.”
“Heather.” He said in reply. “I am not Sam.” He heard a shuffle and then the door cracked open.
“Sorry, Castiel.” She looked down at the floor. “I thought you'd left again.”
“No.” He tilted his head to the side and caught a thought from her. “Is that really how you feel?”
“It's what I am, isn't it?” She was a little wigged out by the fact he'd answered her thought about feeling like an orphan.
“No one is ever completely abandoned, Heather.” He kept his head tilted to the side and his eyes narrowed slightly. “The reason Dean treats you the way he does is because he does not know how to treat you.” He saw her open the door a little wider and she leaned against it for support. “And it not wrong to want your old home or your parents back.”
She still wouldn't look up at him, but she felt the tears start to slide down her cheeks. “Why is it all those expressions they tell you about getting through hard times sound great until you have actually apply them?”
“I am afraid I cannot answer that.” He heard her sniffle. “No one expects you to deal with your grief alone.”
“That's news to me.” The was an edge to her voice. “Everyone else around here seems to just bury their emotions away.”
“You are allowed to be angry.” He said firmly. “You have done remarkably well considering the number of things you've had to deal with in the past week.” He caught another thought from her. “And you still have your faith.”
“Faith is the one thing that no one can ever take from you.” She finally looked up. “Even if I did first hear that from an animated movie.” She sniffled.
“It is true. You are also allowed to cry.” He tilted his head to the side again as he caught another thought from her. “I also do not think that wanting to go to church on a Sunday is an irrational wish.”
“I don't think anyone around here would be willing to go with me, and I doubt the bus line is this city goes by the salvage yard.”
The angel blinked in surprise. “There, I believe, you are mistaken.”
She shifted her weight. “I don't want to inconvenience anyone.”
“I do not consider it that.” The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. “You are a Catholic, correct?”
“Yes.” She blinked and then her eyes widened. “You don't mean...”
“Is this a problem?” Castiel thought his solution was perfectly logical. Heather wished to go to his Father's house - and he wanted to find his Father. There was nothing preventing him from entering a church - of any denomination. Nor did he need to fear being harmed there. He had to think of the last time he actually attended or watched any kind of church service - and then remembers - he'd watched over a Baptist service in Pontiac, Illinois - two days before he asked Jimmy Novak to be his vessel. Why did no one ever call him James? “It would be best if you put on a coat before we left.” He gave her another fraction of a smile. He was glad to see her return it.
*
The silence in the Impala was deafening. The two of them had been driving in utter silence for the past three hours - and there were seven more to go. It was dark now and Dean knew that driving through the night wasn't going to be an option. He'd need sleep sooner or later - he wasn't going up against a powerful demon without resting. He glanced over at the woman in the passenger seat for the millionth time and finally, she broke the silence.
“If you're that bloody pissed at me, Dean Winchester, we can pull over in the next roadside park and unload a clip full of bullets into me.” She shrugged. “Granted, all you'll succeed in doing is wasting thirty bullets and ruining the coat I'm wearing, but if will make you feel better, I won't object.” She flicked a glance at him. “Though I wouldn't suggest punching me in the face... that would probably hurt you more than me.”
He gave her a look. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” She turned her gaze back out the front window.
“Is this how you normally are?” He swerved the car into the passing lane. “This... aloof smart-ass?”
“Aloof no, smart-ass, yes. I felt you had more of the right to start the conversation than I did.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You ever tell any of the others?”
“What others?”
“The other fathers... I'm guessing Heather isn't the only child you've had.”
“No, she isn't. Although she is the only girl.” She leaned back slightly in the seat, involuntarily rubbing the small stone that hung from a chain around her neck. “And no, I never told any of the others.”
“And how many is that?” He snorted. “You've got to be close to the same age as Cas, so that'd be what... least a hundred...” The Impala suddenly spun around as if it had hit a patch of black ice. He had to struggle to right the car and when he did, he glance over to see that Melpomene's face was black with rage.
“I have four children.” She said through clenched teeth. “The sister with the largest number of children is Euterpe and she has had eleven. But that is only if you count the mortal children.”
He blanched as they started forward again. “Wait a minute... did you just...”
“Be glad this car is still in one piece.” She growled. “I could crush it and you as easily as you could crush a bug.”
He swallowed. “Mortal children?”
“Only a few of us have straight mortal children - I'm one of them, along with Clio and Urania. The rest of my sisters have had a few...” She stiffened. “Let's just say that the two I mentioned and I have only ever been interested in humans... most pagan gods are, by their very nature, arrogant bastards.”
“You're not arrogant?” Dean knew he was probably pushing it by asking that.
“I can be. But not as bad as some. I've also found that the bigger a man's ego, the worse they are at intimacy.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I would like to state for the record, I knew you were going to Hell. I just didn't think you'd be getting out.”
“You knew?” He said, incredulously.
“Anyone who's made a deal with a cross-roads demon has a certain scent upon them. That's the reason the Last Calusa didn't take you hostage in Key West. There's an honor among demons... you don't take what belongs to someone else.” She shook her head. “I went down there to get away from everyone.”
“Muses take vacations?”
“I don't exactly have a time when I'm particularly busy...” She held her palm out, as if explaining things to him a matter-of-fact way. “But all those writers were going on strike - I figured I'd take a few days off.”
Dean laughed. “You the one who got Lost started?”
“No, that would be Clio.” She shook her head. “Trouble with the stuff I help out on are loved by fans and hated by networks.” She frowned. “Breaks my heart that Joss's shows keep getting tossed aside.”
“Joss? You mean Joss Whedon?” He glanced at the sign stating there was food and lodging at the next exit.
“The very one. Thalia's still pissed I swiped him out from under her nose... though it's nothing new. My sisters and I are always snatching artists from one another the way other children steal each other's toys.” She chuckled. “The only people whose calls we don't return is anyone from Disney - after they insulted my sisters and I in Hercules, we bailed on them.” She folded her arms and shook her head. “I'm surprised Tia didn't kill someone.”
He shot her a look. “You're joking, right?”
“For some reason, they thought she was a four hundred pound soul singer who tosses her own head around for kicks...In reality, she's still able to pass for a student at movie theaters.”
He remembered what he and Sam had found when they discovered there were fans of Chuck's Supernatural books and what they said about him and his brother. “Yeah... I think I can sort of relate.”
“We all walked out of that movie...” She shook her head. “Now all they have are those straight to DVD sequels...” She smirked and folded her arms. “Polly was actually the last one to bail on them. She's actually glad they abandoned Narnia out and someone else grabbed it up.”
“Please tell me that you're not responsible for Twilight.”
“None of us put that idea in her head. People can always come up with bad ideas all on their own. That's why there's fan fiction. However, Meyer is inadvertently the reason we can get the Colt back from Crowley easily.”
“How so?” He steered the car onto the off-ramp.
“I've had to keep a lot of good vampire stories from being published until after that series was well underway.” She shook her head. “That woman is going to wig out before her ten years are up. She won't be the first or the last.”
“Seriously?” He said incredulously.
“Not all those accidental drug overdoses are accidental.” She closed her eyes. “It's horrible to watch people who haven't made deals get into drugs and then destroy themselves...case in point, River Phoenix.” She sighed. “I've lost dozens of artists who had such promise...” She swallowed. “and the ones that are accidental...like that poor Ledger boy...”
“You need a drink, I need a drink...” Dean said as he turned into a diner. “And food... preferably something with a lot of grease.”
“Well, we are in Georgia.” She smiled faintly. “That means good food just about anywhere.” She peered out the window at the diner. “I wonder if this place has goober-burgers. “
“What's that?”
“A burger with peanut butter.” The smile became more pronounced. “Just like the people who created Ranch dressing, Mr. Kellogg was not paid enough for his invention.”
*
Castiel sat placidly in Holy Spirit Church, letting his mind slowly skim across the people there. Some were praying for the winter to be mild, others were asking for help getting through the week, others for health - and in the minds of a few of the children, there were Christmas wishes. The service hadn't begun yet and for the first time in several weeks, he felt calm. He caught more snatches of prayers, someone was praying they'd win the lottery. There was a bottomless pit in a corner of Heaven where that sort of request was tossed. Castiel knew the only reason he was focusing on other prayers was so that he wouldn't hear Heather's.
He merely glanced at her and caught an internal tirade that he'd only seen the likes of before in Sam Winchester. He knew it would do no good to tell the child that no, she wasn't being punished. She wasn't mad at God, she was just wondering if she'd accidentally gotten two people's worth of troubles. Then he caught other things and one of them actually made him focus on what was racing through her mind: I don't know what Mr. Singer was thinking, asking an angel if they've found God. If anyone knows where God is, it's an angel.
Heather shifted uncomfortably and rose from the kneeler, reaching for the hymnal that was tucked into a shelf in front of her and she checked the number on the stand by the altar. She flipped through the pages and gave a small smile. “I know this one - always liked it too.” She looked over at Castiel. “Thank you, by the way.”
“You are welcome, Heather.” The angel glanced down at the hymnal - he knew this song too. Granted, he knew all the songs in the book - but some were a little better than others. “It is my pleasure.”
The cantor came to the lectern next to the piano and welcomed them to the church for the celebration for the second Sunday of Advent and asked for the congregation to turn off or silence their pagers. “Please turn to number four-oh-four in the green hymnal, 'Gather Us In' number four-oh-four.”
The sound of two hundred and sixty people standing didn't deaden the sound of the opening strains of music. On the left side of the church, halfway back, Nate Turabian took a deep breath and looked up - and the first notes of the song promptly got caught in his throat. Three pews up on the other side there was something he was certain he'd never seen before.
The man was tall with black hair and a red-headed girl who was shorter than he was. That wasn't what made him start. It was the other person in the pew with them - or should he say, the other being with them. Standing next to the trench coated man was a nearly nine foot tall winged creature - is that... what I think it is? Nate turned away from the vision across the isle and resumed singing. It was pretty obvious no one else was aware of the fact that there was - an angel - standing in the middle of their church.
*
Dean had decided to call it a night in a small town in South Carolina rather than driving straight through the night to Raleigh. The city was just four hours away from where they were, but after driving twelve hours - and being in a car for sixteen, he'd rather get to their final destination rested than half exhausted. He also wasn't about to let Melpomene drive the Impala. He figured that if she could just transport herself all over the planet, odds were, she didn't know much about driving and he didn't feel like asking.
The motel was mostly empty, it being Sunday night. Dean set his two bags down on one of the beds while Melpomene merely took her coat and shoes off and sat down on the other. “You're not going to go taking off in the middle of the night, are you?”
“No.” She yawned. “I think I'm a little to tired to go anywhere. I only sleep about once or twice a week.”
“Really?” He set a large bladed knife under his pillow. “Is that all you need?”
“Usually.” She stretched her arms over her head. “If it's been a busy week, I might sleep two whole days straight... right now I just need a few hours.”
“Yeah.” Dean took a tin of salt from his bag and put a line down by the door and the window and then went to put one in the bathroom. “This stuff doesn't affect you, does it?”
“No.” She fell back on the bed, covering her eyes with one of her arms.
“Does anything affect you?” He asked as he put the container back into his bag and got out his tooth brush.
“Yes, but I'd say it's highly unlikely you have it in the trunk of that car. I'd say there's a better chance that you'd find a hundred and twenty-five million dollar winning power-ball ticket in that car than a weapon that will actually harm me.”
“So you're almost invulnerable.”
“Yes. No, that does not extend to any of mine and my sister's children - except for an immunity to the Croatoan virus and a bunch of other illnesses.”
Dean stared at her. “Well, that's some good. I don't suppose you can tell me why Heather can see Cas in both forms, can you?”
She lowered her arm and kept her gaze on the ceiling. “That, Dean Winchester, is a very long and very complicated story. One that I am forbidden to discuss.”
“Forbidden by who?”
“Several people, firstly, by my father - and I am not even allowed to say who else there is and who handed down the curse.”
“It's a curse?”
“In a manner of speaking...” She rubbed her face. “It's not something I care to talk about. It's also something that affects only three of the Muses, including me.”
Dean decided not to press the matter and went to brush his teeth. When he came back, Penny was already under the covers of her bed, the blankets pulled over her head. He tried not to notice the clothes folded at the foot of that bed as he went and checked the locks on the door one last time before turning out the light, undressing and getting into his own bed. By this time tomorrow, the Colt would be back in his possession and the two of them would be on the road back to South Dakota. She'd travel with him as far as the outskirts of Sioux Falls. He didn't want to think about the fact that it'd take a day and a half to get there. He sighed. “You awake?”
“No.” Melpomene grumbled from under her covers. “If you want to stay up and talk, I won't object, but I think rest is something you're in dire need of.”
“That's freaky.” He replied under his breath and closed his eyes. Sleep came blessedly quick and as he drifted off, he hoped it would last more than four hours. It was six hours later, at three in the morning, when a sound he couldn't place woke him up. He rolled over towards the other bed, wondering what the hell is brother was up to when he remembered - Sam was in South Dakota. Across the room, Melpomene was sitting up, watching the television and doing her best to keep her laughter restrained and, in his opinion, failing badly. He glanced across to the set. Some movie or something was on the screen, that looked as if it had been shot on location on a stage. “What the hell are you watching?”
“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Abridged-” She said between chuckles. “the Reduced Shakespeare Company is brilliant...” She blew her nose. “I'm sorry if I woke you up... I can turn this off...”
“No... it's okay.” He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “I usually get up at this time of the night.” He frowned. “My extent to this Shakespeare stuff extends to watching that really old version of Romeo and Juliet one week in high school.”
“That work has to be one of the most if not the most misunderstood stories in the world.” She rubbed her nose with the handkerchief. “This just started...” She grinned. “I think I was at this performance.”
Dean frowned. “Is that guy wearing a skirt?”
“Yes...” She snickered. “I wish I could get Quentin Tarantino into Shakespeare... that man could make a damn fine Macbeth.”
“Lot of killing in that one?” He snorted. “There has to be plenty of bloodshed for a Tarantino film...”
“Oh, there's plenty of killing... stabbing, poisoning... sword fights, the whole nine yards.”
**
Sam did a quick perusal of the kitchen on Monday morning and started making a shopping list. He knew that Dean wouldn't be back with the Colt until Thursday - at the earliest. He'd not given much thought of what he'd do these few days, other than do laundry and help out if Bobby needed it. Since he'd learned the old hunter had teaching Heather a few things, there probably wasn't any harm in him doing the same. It wasn't like he wanted the girl to become a hunter like him and Dean, but knowing how to at least defend yourself was a good idea. Given how trouble and danger seemed to find the Winchesters, no matter how they tried to avoid it - there was no way of getting around it.
“Morning.” Heather said blearily as she came into the kitchen.
“Hey.” He handed her a mug. “You don't like this stuff yet, do you?” He indicated the coffee pot.
“I don't drink that much of it.” She went over to the fridge and filled the mug half-full of milk. “I miss juice.”
“Well, it looks like we need to go to the store today so we'll pick some up.” He leaned against the counter. “That work?”
“Sure.” She added coffee to her mug, but not much. “Uh, you want me to go dig out Uncle Bobby's truck?”
“Not right now.” Sam shook his head. “What'd you do last week?”
“Learned how to clean a shotgun.” She shrugged. “Figured out I'm going to have to learn Latin if I want to read half of the books in this house.”
“Latin's pretty easy to pick up once you start.” He spoke from experience.
“I don't know all that much...I do know the last people to use Latin as their official language was the Hungarian Aristocracy.” She slunk into a chair at the table. “I learned that in social studies this past semester.” She looked up. “Uh... speaking of... do I ever get to go back to school or am I headed for a really bizarre form of home-schooling?”
Sam sat down across from her and chuckled. “I imagine we can probably get you into school in January - wait for the second semester to start.”
“I guess that works.” She took a sip from her mug. “Probably be easiest.”
“You like school?”
“For the most part.” She managed a small smile.
“Favorite subject?”
“Lunch. It's the only one they don't grade you in.” The smile grew more genuine. “But of the things they do grade you on... I'd say English is my favorite...or Art.”
“I liked English too.” Sam was relieved he'd found a subject he could talk to her about - he seriously doubted Dean would have this conversation with her. “You like to read?”
“Love to read.” She took another sip of her drink. “Though it'd be really hard for me to pick a favorite book.”
“Have you read Harry Potter?”
“I'm thirteen years old, what do you think?” She grinned. “But I enjoyed Pendragon more - mainly because the villain in that series makes Voldemort look like a wuss.”
“That bad, huh?” He took a sip from his own mug.
“Voldemort has no hair because he's old. Saint Dane has no hair because Bobby Pendragon set him on fire.”
Sam gagged and grabbed a napkin from the pile on the table. He hacked once before responding. “The guy lived?”
“Oh yeah... he also survived being impaled with a sword.” She frowned. “There aren't any demons that can survive that, right?”
“I'm... not entirely sure, but most of them do burn to a crisp when set on fire.” He cleaned up the spilled coffee. “Is that what Saint Dane is? A demon?”
“Kind of...” She bit her lip, thinking. “It's sort of hard to explain without ruining the series.”
Sam thought for a moment. “You mind if I ask you one of the most standard questions all adults ask kids?”
“That being?” She raised an eyebrow in response.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” He said with a laugh.
Heather grinned. “Not been asked that in a while...” Her smile remained. “I'd like to either illustrate books or be an art teacher.”
He smiled over his coffee mug. “So you want to go to college then?”
“Are you joking? Of course I do! Did you go?”
“For a few years...I went to Stanford... didn't finish though.” His smile faltered. “Some things came up.”
“You ever think of going back?”
“I... no.” He shook his head. “I can't go back to a.. I guess what you'd call a normal life.” He pushed his mug away. “Tell you what... why don't you go start to dig out the truck...” He wanted to avoid this subject for a while. “Maybe we can get the shopping done before noon.”
“Sure.” She stood and went to retrieve the coat and galoshes she'd worn yesterday. Getting out of the house sounded good - getting away from it sounded even better. Even if it was just going into town. When she came back into the kitchen, he gave her an odd look. “What's wrong?”
“I think that coat used to be mine.” He chuckled. “A long time ago.”
“Well, I knew it was a boy's coat when I first put it on.” She shrugged. “But if I find any loose change in the pockets, I'll give it back to you.”
In response, Sam laughed.
***
The early December morning was cool and sunny in North Carolina. Dean had managed to get back to sleep shortly after three - and was grateful for the three more hours of sleep he had gotten. He was used to functioning on three or four hours of sleep - and the odd nights when he actually got six was a rare and welcome treat. He glanced over at Melpomene, who was clicking away in her phone again. “What exactly are you doing anyway?”
“Research.” She shook her head. “The way things are going, it won't be long before Heaven and Hell start coming to the pagan gods to see if they can whip up some support.”
“Why would they do that?” Dean frowned. “I mean, there can't be that many of you left... and no offense or anything, are any of you all that powerful?”
“The ones to worry about are all the Hindu gods... all Buddha asks one to do is sit down and have a cup of tea and talk about enlightenment.”
“You know all these gods?”
“Most of them...Eastern Civilization gods and Western Civilization gods aren't exactly known to be on good terms with each other. It's sort of like a popularity contest on a nearly biblical scale.” She leaned back in the seat. “Since the Hindu gods still have a large amount of followers, they've maintained most of their power. I also know what power they have they aren't going to want to give up - so they will play neutrality until a temple or two gets ruined and then they'll try to fight both sides. They've also been pretty livid over the whole situation in Tibet for years, so what you have there is a powder keg.”
He drained the last of the coffee from the thick cardboard cup and shook his head. “This is just plain... have you ever seen anything like this before?”
“Well, this is the Apocalypse, Dean... there's only one of those.” She frowned. “Though if the angels are under the impression that humanity is currently at it's worst, they've clearly forgotten a lot of the past.” She shuddered. “I think what the issue is is that now there's six point five billion humans on this earth....so it seems worse than other times.”
“What was worse?” Dean shifted into the passing lane and they raced past a slow pick-up truck.
“You really don't want to know... when there were just around twenty million people running around on this planet, five hundred thousand of them seemed to be determined to make it a living hell. I've seen men eat the hearts of their fallen adversaries, thinking it'd give them the slain one's power. They also used to impale one another, crucify people and I've seen Spartans that make the Nazis look like boy scouts.”
“That's sick.” He replied, glancing at a sign that said Raleigh was fifty miles away. “So this Crowley... are we just going to knock on his door and he'll give us the Colt?”
“Depends on what kind of day he's having...we may have to knock aggressively.” She turned her device off and stuck it in her pocket. “But if he likes the deal he's got, he probably won't put up much of a fight.”
“So he's a crossroads demon, then?”
“Yes. He was pretty much Lilith's most industrious lackey... and like most people who love power, he was looking for any edge he could get. Since that Bela Talbot woman gave him the Colt and not Lilith he basically got one of the biggest bargaining chips there is. It was probably straight self preservation that kept him from killing her.”
“So she wasn't exactly anyone's favorite demon, I take it?”
“I suppose Lucifer liked her well enough... but I have a feeling he used her as a means to an end. Angels and demons aren't friends... until he got out of his prison, the majority of demons didn't even believe the devil existed... he was their greatest myth, as it where.”
“But some myths are real.” He shot a look at her. “Right?”
“A lot of them are... but so many stories get embellished as time goes by.” She unconsciously bit her lip. “Some of them get down right bastardized...
Dean frowned. “I can probably think of a few of them.”
“Probably more than a few. Can you believe I've seen over ten thousand versions of Hamlet?”
“Very easily. I think I may have seen one...or part of it in some English class in high school.” He swung the Impala into the passing lane and raced past a delivery truck. “Unless you count The Lion King.”
“It sort of counts...the musical is a bit closer than the movie.” She cleared her throat. “However, they made that modern version with Ethan Hawke... and for all the negative reviews, I actually liked it.”
“Why was that?”
“Because the director got Hamlet's age right. Mel Gibson and Kenneth Branagh are brilliant actors - but the Prince of Denmark is not a man headed into middle age - he's actually around nineteen or twenty.”
“Seriously?” He was starting to wish Sam had come with them - he might actually be able to help him follow the conversation.
“Well, think about it...” She rubbed her nose. “If he was thirty something, when he got home, wouldn't it have made more sense to tell his Uncle Claudius to get the hell out of his chair? I mean, if he was nineteen, then the events that occur in the play make sense.”
He shrugged in response as he steered the car back into the left lane. “The girl in that story is Ophelia, right?”
“Ah, Hamlet and Ophelia...” She took a breath before continuing. “A thousand times more tragic than Romeo and Juliet will ever be. Unlike the lovers in Verona, the couple in Elsinore castle actually cared about one another. All Romeo wanted to do was to shag Juliet.”
“Wasn't Juliet supposed to be around thirteen years old?” He grimaced. “Now that...that is pretty sick.”
“Well, Romeo was supposed to be around sixteen and the life expectancy of the story's time frame was around forty.” She chuckled. “Ah, William Shakespeare - quite the lucky individual. My sister Thalia tapped him on the shoulder and he wrote sixteen plays that were all very similar. My sister Clio gave him a pat on the back and he wrote a bundle of histories that were all pretty good. I smacked the man upside the head...and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“What that a literal smack or a figurative one?” Dean asked more to be obnoxious than serious.
“Literal... the man had horrible breath.” She snorted. “That's actually another reason I have so few children...there was a very, very, very long period when bathing regularly was not practiced...it was really nice when people started taking baths once a week, as opposed to once a year.”
He grimaced in response. “Must be why the angels think we smell.”
“Most angels think anyone who isn't one of them smells.” She rolled her eyes. “And it's not just the stench that causes most of them to hate beings like me.”
“Cas doesn't seem to have a problem with you.”
“I'm not going to answer that. The reason a lot of angels don't particularly care for me and my sisters is because we somehow tend to get lumped in as being angels ourselves. Needless to say, they don't really like that idea... then again, I hate being thought of as a demon.”
“I can see your point.” He slowed down as they started to come into the suburban area around Raleigh. “Does Crowley live out here or in the city proper?”
“He lives on the north side of the city - if you get on the five-forty loop west we can avoid the majority of the city itself.”
“Sounds good.” He checked his watch. “We've made good time.”
“That's because you insisted on leaving at the ungodly hour of five-thirty.”
**
Heather often wondered where certain ideas came from - right now she was wondering what idiot thought that muzak was an acceptable form of music - particularly Christmas music turned into muzak. Of course, that was better than the days she'd gone to the store with her mom and some sports game was being blared at twice the needed volume over the speakers. She leaned against the cart as Sam turned the corner of the basket down another isle. “I know Christmas is a big holiday, but do they have to shove it down our throats?” She glared at the Coca-Cola bottles covered with pictures of Santa Claus. “By the time the actual day gets here, we want to to be over.”
Sam shook his head. “You're asking the wrong person... I mean, what'd you have for Christmas dinner last year?”
“I've always had homemade meatballs and spaghetti for Christmas dinner.” She shrugged. “We had it so rarely, it was always a treat.”
“I would have thought you'd have ham.”
“Mom can't... couldn't have ham. It made her sick.” She straightened up as he put a large bag of pretzels into the basket and then pulled it down to the corner and they turned into the bread isle. “What do you and Dean do for Christmas?”
“Have a dinner furnished by Boston Market and drink a carton of Egg Nog.” He said flatly. “I don't... we never really had a traditional Christmas... ever.”
“That's awful.” Heather was shocked and it sounded in her voice. “I mean, doesn't Uncle Bobby celebrate the holiday?”
“He does - usually in the same way my brother and I do.” He set two bags of sandwich bread into the basket. “So don't expect much holiday cheer.”
“Sheesh, is everyone in this family a grouch?” She didn't mean to be rude, but she was starting to get frustrated at everyone's sullen behavior.
“No, we're realists.” He shook his head. “I'm amazed you can remain so optimistic after all that's happened in the past two weeks.”
“I was probably on the receiving end of a boatload of recessive genes that keep me from being a pessimist.” She snorted. “It's either I believe things can become better or I can pull the spoiled brat routine.”
Sam stared at her. “You're just a kid, Heather.”
She let out a sarcastic gasp. “You noticed!”
He wasn't sure if he should laugh or yell at her. “What I mean is...” He shook his head. “Is this how you usually are and the quiet routine was all an act?”
“I'm not sure...” She shrugged. “I mean, I'd like to be happy but if I do feel happy, I feel bad for feeling that way.”
He pulled the cart up the isle and she followed him. “I've not spent a lot of time with optimists... so I find their outlook to be frustrating.” He looked back at her. “So don't take anything personally.”
“Oh, that won't be a problem.” She helped him turn the cart and head down the long isle in the back of the market. “I was blessed with a very long fuse... you know what I mean?”
Sam nodded, not looking back at her. “I know exactly what you mean.” He scanned the date on a roll of sausage meat before adding it to the cart. “What kind of juice did you want to get it?”
“I'll drink pretty much anything - as long as there's no pomegranate in it.”
“Don't like that particular fruit?” He said, steering the cart down the isle that held the cereal and other breakfast foods.
“Nope, I'm allergic.”
“Allergic to pomegranate?” He turned around. “That's different. Cranberry's okay though, right?”
“Cranberry is great.” She said in response. “One of these days I'm going to figure out how to make cranberry pie... of course, I probably need to figure out how to make pie crust first.”
“You like pie?” He had a feeling about where this conversation was going.
“I love pie...and rice krispe treats.” She responded as Sam added a bottle of cranberry-grape juice to the cart. “One is the best dessert ever and the other is the greatest cookie that doesn't contain chocolate.”
**
Nate Turabian stared blankly at the blackboard as his math teacher started to go over the questions that had been missed the most on last Friday's test. He glanced down at the perfect score on his own paper and then rested his chin on his hand, studying the problems. He knew he had to give the semblance of paying attention as if he hadn't gotten the one hundred percent. Personally, he'd rather die than admit to being Nate the Nerd. He'd rather be Nathan Turabian - the all star goalie, the future hope of the Lincoln High Patriots state championship in soccer.
He winced at the thought. Even in his imagination it sounded arrogant. He was only thirteen and still had another year of middle school to go through. What he really, really wanted however, was to be back at his old school - back with his class at Holy Spirit. Patrick Henry had been his school for the past two years - and most days he still wanted back in his old school. Hell, he even missed the uniforms. He'd lied to his friends about what his parents had said about focusing on academics. His parents had taken him out of their parish's grade school when they realized that the local Catholic high school was going to be beyond their means if they still wanted their son to go to college. At least, without the benefit of scholarships.
So here he was, racing at the front of the academic pack and trying not to appear to. He dreaded to think what high school would be like with honors classes and the inevitable AP classes. His mom had read some book about children who are forced into becoming overachievers and suddenly seemed to plan things out so it wouldn't be quite so rough. Thus the reason for just one sport rather than the three he was perfectly capable of playing and maintaining his grades. Nate knew it was important, but honestly, at thirteen, it was hard to give a crap.
“Mr. Turabian, could you please join us?” The teacher's voice cut through his thoughts.
“What?” He smiled sheepishly. “Uh... sorry.”
The rest of the class laughed as the teacher shook his head and went on to explain the question that had stumped the most people in the class - number eleven. He glanced down at his own paper. He didn't care if the others laughed at him. He stood up a little straighter and followed along, but something else edged in the corner of his mind.
The girl and her companion at church two days ago - it was so odd, so unthinkable. There'd been an angel in the building and only he had seen it. No one else... except, perhaps - the girl herself could see it too. Since he'd never seen the girl here at Patrick Henry or at Holy Spirit, maybe she was just passing through town. Of course - that made sense. Maybe he hadn't been the only one who'd seen them. Well, if there was some kind of Christmas miracle thing going on, the pair had probably stopped in Sioux Falls to look for someone in need of their help. But what could a girl his age and an angel do in South Dakota? His mind was about to take off in a million possibilities when the voice of his grandmother resounded in his head bringing him back down to reality.
Nathan Edward Turabian, I swear child, you have five times the imagination of anyone else - sometimes I wonder how you keep your feet on the ground!
He'd never let his imagination completely runaway with him - at least, not out of the confines of his own head. While he never would admit it, there were times when he had to sit and wonder which of his biological parents he'd picked the trait up from. But thinking about those two people were a forbidden subject to him as well. Well, maybe not so much forbidden as it was - uncomfortable. He didn't want to think about them - not out of disloyalty to his mom and dad, or out or resentment for being put up for adoption. Nathan suspected that not knowing the truth and making up his own story as to why he was a Turabian and not... whoever was better than what really happened. For all he knew, his dad could be in prison and his mom could be some crack-head.
The lie, he told himself, was better than that.
Chapter Eight