In Thanksgiving
By: Ridley C. James
Beta: Tidia
A/N: This is a standalone Wee-Winchester story, but it would be a great idea to have read Gone But Not Forgotten and Home for Christmas as important side characters are introduced in those stories. Besides, they are guaranteed to get you in a festive mood. ;-) As a side note, I am so grateful for all the readers and reviewers who make mine and Tidia's days with your lovely comments about The Brotherhood AU. It is even better to see so many talented writers dipping their pens into the well and writing beautiful stories that only expand this universe. So, unlike Samuel Winchester in this tiny tale, I am very thankful, thankful for all of you. Enjoy. PS. Tidia and I have a story coming up hopefully in time for Christmas. Keep an eye out soon!
RCJ
"Though we are not always singing, we should always be giving thanks." –Matthew Henry
It was nearly Thanksgiving and Samuel Winchester was not one bit thankful. In fact, the eight year old was committed to declaring the holiday null and void. Cancelled. For Good. Never mind that he loved turkey and was assured one of the coveted drumsticks this year seeing as how half of his real competition would not be present. With Caleb out, Uncle Bobby was far too slow to offer much of a threat at the dinner table and Sam's dad only liked white meat. That left Atticus Finch and Scout, who, being dogs, had the distinct disadvantage seated beneath the table, or depending on their manners, banished to the barn. Despite the turn of good luck, Sam would not partake in any part of the unfortunate bird.
He was prepared to even forget the tart, tangy cranberries and pomegranate salad, too, along with the special cornbread stuffing and dumplings Pastor Jim still made in his grandmother's old metal pot right over the roaring fire. Fluffy, buttermilk biscuits would also suffer the ban. Determined, Sam would deprive himself dessert as well. It was not a huge sacrifice. Sam doubted that even his favorite pumpkin pie would taste as sweet in light of the events that had transpired. No, Sam Winchester would not celebrate Thanksgiving this year, not unless his demands were met. He would not even pretend to be the tiniest of tiniest tads grateful.
"There you are, my boy."
Sam was sitting in front of the fireplace with Scout fast asleep in his lap, an arm draped over Atticus Finch as he regarded the flames in front of them when Pastor Jim entered the library. Sam had taken the old Golden Retriever and Black Labrador puppy into his close confidences, revealing his plan, assured from past experiences that the dogs were not only great listeners, but excellent at keeping a secret. Atticus's tale thumped against the braided rug and Sam looked away from the waning fire as Pastor Jim joined them. When Sam didn't speak the pastor took the high back leather chair nearest the mantel. Sam looked away.
"I was hoping you might help me with the pumpkins," the pastor said. "The longer I can keep Robert out of the kitchen, the better chance my deviled eggs have of actually making it to the table. Besides, you're much better at removing the seeds, smaller swifter fingers you know. We could even toast up a batch like we did last year and…"
"I'd rather not." Sam knew he sounded surly, but was confident he was just outside of disrespectful, a fine line he understood from watching his big brother navigate to avoid invoking the wrath of grownups.
"I see." Pastor Jim picked up the poker and nudged the fire. It popped and jumped, the flames becoming brighter to cast dancing shadows on the floor. Scout growled in her sleep, shifted so that her boxy head tucked under Sam's arm. At almost six months she was nearly half as big as Sam, but still believed herself to be a pup. "With your father and Mackland away on a hunt and not expected back until in the morning I was truly counting on your help in the kitchen. Tomorrow is a very important day and…"
"I'm not doing Thanksgiving this year." If the look on the pastor's face was any indication, Sam might have made a misstep verging into the territory that often got his brother a good tongue lashing or a spanking from their father. However, Pastor Jim was much more indulgent. It wasn't anger or rebuke that lit his blue eyes, it was deep disappointment.
"I hate to hear that." Pastor Jim returned the poker to its rightful place. "Thanksgiving will not be the same without you."
"I'm sorry." Sam truly was. He loved Thanksgiving, and he loved Pastor Jim even more. Making his friend sad was not something Sam had figured into the equation, but now that it was set, Sam had to stick to his plan. He was steadfast as Mac liked to put it. Sam's big brother Dean used the word stubborn often with adjectives like very and extremely in front of it. Their father chose other phrases, ones that succeeded in provoking even Pastor Jim's darker side. "I'm boycotting the holiday."
"Boycotting?" Pastor Jim tilted his head to the side like Scout often did when Sam was explaining something the dog didn't quite understand. "You don't say?"
"That means refusing to deal with something or someone as a protest against it. It can be a good bargaining chip." Sam nodded. "I looked it up in my dictionary."
"I'm sure Mackland would be quite pleased to hear that, the scholarly pursuit part, not that you've decided not to celebrate with us this year. He was looking forward to having one person with which to carry on an adult conversation."
"He's letting Caleb opt out. I should get a pass, too." Sam folded his arms over his chest, careful of Scout who grunted and kicked her paws at the sudden shuffling. Atticus whined a little at Caleb's name, his tale brushing against the rug now instead of thumping. "Dean can have both the drumsticks. I don't want my share."
"I'm afraid that without you or Caleb at the table, your brother might not have his usual appetite either."
It was another facet Sam hadn't considered. Dean was already sad about Caleb blowing them off for a girl he'd met at college. Dean had told Sam that was the real reason Caleb wasn't coming home to Kentucky for the holiday, not impending finals and a pressing project like he had proclaimed to Mac. Dean hadn't told Sam he was hurt by his best friend's disloyalty, not in actual words, but Sam had heard Dean's end of his and Caleb's conversation, seen Dean's face when he'd hung up the phone with Caleb the night before. Sam knew his big brother better than anyone. Dean hadn't even told his best friend goodbye, even refusing Sam's offer to share his hidden stash of M&M's, going to bed without so much as a goodnight or reading Sam a story. Sam was most certainly not thankful for this awful new girl named Rachel.
Still, Sam knew what he had to do. "He'll have Atticus and Scout. They'd probably love a turkey leg."
"As wonderful company as Mr. Finch and his sidekick Scout are, I'm afraid they can't make up for your absence."
"People can't be replaced." Sam had heard Pastor Jim say that just the day before at Pastor Solomon O'Shaughnessy's funeral. It was the first funeral Sam had attended, except for the one Pastor Jim at Sam's insistence had given to Bunnicula, a baby rabbit that had fallen victim to Atticus Finch's rough play a few years before. Sam's father hadn't thought it a good idea for Sam to go to Solomon's funeral, but Sam in all his steadfastness had insisted. Sam had come to regret the victory. Quickly lost in the sea of mourners who had turned out for the former pastor's wake, he'd soon discovered human funerals were not really the 'celebration of life' Mac had painted them to be, but were much sadder and more complicated than those given for misfortunate bunnies.
"But they can be remembered." Pastor Jim folded his hands in front of him, leaned closer to Sam. "It's important we collect memories of those we love, because memories are magical things. They can sustain us long after a separation. They keep us warm on cold nights; fill us up when we are running on empty from miles of bad road. They can stir laughter in the least likely of times and bring tears even in the happiest of moments, but I tell you the truth when I say they are true treasures, more precious than silver or gold."
Sam stared at the Pastor, blinking rapidly. Solomon had penned similar words on the last page of his journal just a few days before his death. Solomon had written that those words were shared with him by a very special and wise wee little boy some years ago. That wee boy had been Sam.
"Memories can also make you angry." It was something no one had mentioned to a five year old Sam when he'd launched a noble quest to recover Solomon's memory for him during one of the pastor's visits to the farm. Solomon had been Pastor Jim's mentor in both his callings of hunting and ministry. He held a special place in Jim's heart, and had found one in Sam's as well. Sam had been instantly enamored with the old man who looked more like a retired mall Santa than a respected battle tried hero of The Brotherhood and much-loved man of the cloth. Sam had never met a hunter who smelled like peppermint and pipe tobacco, or one who could pull quarters from little boys' ears. Sam had vowed to help Solomon reclaim his failing memory after he'd overheard two of the women from Jim's church gossiping about Solomon's poor state. Now that Sam was eight, practically a grown up and no longer a baby, he could see that his mission was flawed, but it had made Solomon happy at the time, which had more than satisfied Sam in all his young naiveté.
"I suppose they can at that." Pastor Jim ran a hand over his chin. "It is all in the way we choose to look at them."
"Anyway I look at it, Pastor Solomon is still dead. He won't be coming for Thanksgiving like you said." Sam no longer cared if he was on the right side of the disrespect line. Pastor Jim had promised Sam he could sit next to Solomon, who was to be the honored guest at tomorrow's festivities as it would also be a celebration of Solomon's 89th birthday that would fall on the following Wednesday.
"I take it that Solomon's absence is what has spurned this sudden boycotting of one of your favorite days."
"Thanksgiving is all about taking a day to be grateful to God for what we have." Sam had studied the history behind Thanksgiving in school for the last month, enjoying the special books and coloring sheets his teacher, Mr. Connely had presented. Dean had even helped Sam make a shoebox diorama of the first Thanksgiving complete with tiny Indian figures and pilgrims played by toy soldiers. They'd even constructed a teepee from toothpicks. "I'm not grateful to God. Not one bit. In fact, I'm mad at him."
"I have been where you are, Samuel." Pastor Jim touched the silver band on his hand, the one he'd worn for Miss Emma, not the one he wore as Guardian."It is not an easy place to be, Son."
"I don't care." Sam narrowed his gaze, bit his lip to hold the tears he could feel building at bay. He was not a baby anymore. He would not cry. "I'm going to stay mad until God changes his mind."
"What exactly are you hoping He will reconsider?"
"Taking Pastor Solomon away to be with Him." Sam had never known anyone who had died. Not counting his mom, but Sam could not really remember knowing her. Memories of his mother were lost to him, just like Pastor Solomon. Sam only knew about her in the way one knows a character in a story book, third hand. He knew the way she looked from pictures, that her hair shone like sunshine and that she smelled like daisies from the few things his father and brother mentioned. Dean told him stories of burnt cookies and bed time songs, but Sam didn't know her. There were no memories of her to fill him up or keep him warm on cold nights. When he thought of his mom, he felt an echo of an ache, like a week old bruise almost forgotten until someone mashed on it. Sam knew Pastor Solomon. Sam had loved Pastor Solomon. This pain of his loss was fresh and unrelenting. Like the agony Sam experienced when he broke his arm.
"I'm afraid some things are non-negotiable. Death is not a decision God takes lightly. He rarely reverses his will when it comes to those he sees fit to take."
"But it has happened. Jesus did it." Sam pointed to the Bible he'd taken from Jim's room. "Lots of times. Lazarus is a prime example. I researched it."
Jim took The Bible, ran his hand over the cracked cover reverently. "That's true. No task is too big for God. Miracles happen every day."
"Then he can give Solomon back to us."
"God does not always give us what we want, Samuel. He does what is best."
"Then we can fix it with magic." Sam was nothing if not resourceful. Mac told him there were always numerous solutions to any problem. "The Brotherhood can do anything."
"It is not our place to undo such things, my boy." Pastor Jim's voice took on a forceful edge, one he rarely used with Sam and Dean, one typically reserved for John Winchester. "The Brotherhood is here to help maintain the natural balance, to right wrongs, to keep order in this universe, never forget that. We work in the light, not in darkness. What's dead should remain dead. Do you understand me?"
Sam did understand. "Then the dragons should have saved him, Pastor Jim. They should have protected Solomon because he was one of us."
"The dragons." Jim sighed in the way only adults could. He shook his head, his hands clenching The Bible they held. When he met Sam's gaze again, the pastor's blue eyes sparkled in the firelight, like when the sun struck the surface of the pond. "Alas, some tasks are beyond even our mighty winged friends. Death is their St. George."
Pastor Jim's admission struck fear in Sam's heart. He'd come to rely on the promise that the mighty dragons of his childhood could take on any enemy, even one as strong as death. After all, they had protected his family thus far. Their castle walls had known no breech. Not one person Sam loved had died on the dragons' watch. Solomon was their first defeat. Sam would not have it. He could not bear it. It held too many untold horrors, possibilities he refused to entertain.
"Caleb says St. George is a sissy," Sam declared, eliciting another whine from Atticus Finch.
What Caleb actually said about St. George on the few occasions when the legendary man who defeated dragons was brought up was something Sam could not repeat in front of the pastor, realizing even in his distressed state that some four letter words Jim refused to tolerate even from his boys. More than once Sam had witnessed his brother and Caleb make that mistake. Sam might have been the youngest and smallest, but as Bobby pointed out to the older boys, Sam was already by far the smartest of the three.
"I know what Caleb thinks of St. George." Pastor Jim stood, tucking his Bible under his arm. "I also know he believes the dragons are incapable of defeat, that Belac is invincible. But sometimes even believing something with all our hearts does not make it necessarily true, it only makes it ones very own truth."
"What's the difference?" Sam peered up at the pastor from beneath too long bangs that had now fallen across his eyes.
"Faith." Pastor Jim bent and ran a gentle hand over Sam's hair, brushing it away from his face. "And that can make all the difference in the world."
Sam frowned, wary of the Pastor's logic. "Will it bring Solomon back?"
"No, but I promise that in time it will make his loss bearable. It will allow us to move on even though the present pain of his absence makes it seem unlikely." Pastor Jim straightened, smiling at Sam. "Come join me in the kitchen when you're ready. We'll talk some more. Conversations such as these go down much better with a cup of cocoa and cookies."
Sam watched the pastor go; feeling slightly betrayed when Atticus followed, obviously lured by one of his favorite words. 'Cookie' was in the top five of Mr. Finch's canine vocabulary along with ride, walk, bacon and Caleb. Sam had more fortitude than his furry friend. He would not be tempted by Pastor Jim's reassuring company or by oatmeal raisin confections and the hot chocolate Jim made with real Hershey bars. No, Sam was sticking to his plan. He had great faith in his ability to convince God to send Pastor Solomon back to them. Then no one would be in pain. Not only was Sam smart, he was very convincing when he needed to be.
"Come on, Scout." Sam scooted the black Lab from his lap and stood. The puppy stretched, yawning widely as her tail started to wag, a sure sign she was up to the task at hand. "We're going on our first official hunt."
To be continued…