Dean hears the insistent tapping but chooses to ignore it, having judged it to not be burny, stabby, or bitey. After a few minutes, the soft but steady sound peaks his interest. Through one slightly crusty, brilliantly green eye, he watches a small, round, brown and gray bird. He watches it . . . tap. Just tap. And it's kind of staring at him.
"Sammy?" Dean calls, sitting up and swinging his bowed legs off the bed, hissing when his bare feet hit the cold and filthy floor.
"Unghfm."
"Sammy. Look at this."
"Wha? Lemme 'lone."
"Sam! Wake up, bitch," comes Dean's impatient reply.
"What, jerk?! What? I'm up, what's wrong."
"This freaking bird, man." The older brother muses, suddenly less urgent than just the moment before, now that Sam is up and moving. He begins gesturing toward the small, dingy window next to his rented bed in their by-the-hour room. "What the hell is it doing?"
"Is that, is that a partridge?"
"How would I know that? You tell me."
"Pretty sure it is. Cool."
"Yeah. Feels Christmas-y, I guess. But what is it doing?"
The men stare, a bit open-mouthed without realizing it.
"I think it's trying to get our attention," Sam concludes, though it makes no sense.
"Of course, it is," Dean sighs, knowing his brother is right because, hell, in their lives nothing else would make sense.
Out in the snow, hiding in the early morning shadow of a string of red and green lights, stands the bird's master. She surveys the events at the window and tilts her head to get a better view. They are so adorably bed-headed, so deliciously confused, so perfectly beautiful, Estella thinks as she watches the brothers. Straightening the points of her ears, the elf unleashes the most devious of smiles.
"This is going to be fun."
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Sam stands transfixed before the enormous tree in what passes for a lobby as they check out. He tips the turtle dove ornaments outward with his fingertips so he can get a closer look at the cartoon-like faces drawn on them as if by a child. In fact, every ornament on this cheerfully out-of-place tree looks like it had been made by a child. Sam looks back over his shoulder at the clerk, at the man's sad expression, and realizes it looks like it's been there a very long time. Sam knows better than most that everyone has a story.
"So," Dean begins, handing over the key, this single word a clear warning to Sam that his brother is about to say something blunt. "You guys get a lot of partridges around here?"
"Huh?" is the rather obviously inebriated response.
"Partridge, you know, the bird in a pear tree."
"No pear trees growing this time of year, kid."
"Yeah, I know. I meant just the bird."
"What?"
"Know what? Never mind. Merry Christmas."
This brought an unexpected smile to the man's tired and worn face. "Merry Christmas to you, too."
"Where to, Sammy?" Dean asks with his special brand of forced bonhomie. He keeps an eye on the near sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the previously persistent partridge. If he's supposed to be following, the damn thing is doing a piss poor job of leading at the moment.
"You know, Dean, I can't think of one damn place I want to go."
"Come on, man, it's Christmas!"
"Where do you think we should go?"
Dean thinks of all the places he wants to be: home in Lawrence with his parents, in South Dakota with Bobby, in Illinois with Lisa and Ben. He'd even take that night back in another hotel room celebrating the holiday with Sammy while staring down Hell; at least then there'd been a need to do it right. But Sam's right. There's nowhere they want to be anymore. Nowhere to go.
"Dean?"
"Let's go eat, Sammy."
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"What's this?" Sam asks, pushing aside his laptop, having been surfing on hell's wifi.
"Didn't you order the Hangover Special?" The cute little waitress just starting her shift is already in a harried state since the girl working before her took off like a burning bat out of hell. It's Christmas, after all. Nobody wants to be at work.
"No," Sam says, a bit grossed out. "I definitely didn't order the grease slick on a plate. There's an extra, anyway."
"Don't be pissy, Sammy," Dean chides, then turns his never-fail smile on the girl. "There have been mornings I've needed this, sweetheart, but not today."
"Crap. I'm sorry," she mumbles while flipping through her order tickets. "Let me figure this out. Sorry again," she says a bit more brightly as she finally gets a good look at Dean, and takes the plates away.
Dean focuses his attention on his brother. Sam isn't normally rude to anyone, much less cute girls having bad days. Just as he's about to risk a chick flick moment and ask him what's wrong, Dean hears a tap on the big window to his right.
No way.
"There it is again!"
"That's just weird," Sam muses.
"Yeah," Dean agrees. "And for us, that's really saying something. Let's go. I'm not losing it this time."
Before the boys can leave their seats, the waitress is back with an apologetic look. "Guys, I'm so sorry, but your order never made it into the kitchen. I don't know what got into Jenny. She ran out of here as soon as I got here. Would you mind telling me what you want?"
"It's okay. We have to get going anyway," Dean says. He's in a hurry, but never in too much of a hurry to talk to a pretty girl. "Ever find out who had the hangovers?"
"Yes, actually," she giggles, pointing to three very bedraggled young women. "Those French girls down there are recovering from the blonde girl's hen night."
"What now?"
"Bachelorette party survivors," Sam translates.
"Ah," acknowledges his brother. "French, huh?"
"Well, French-Canadian. This is Maine."
"Right. Thanks, um..."
"Estella."
"Thanks, Estella. Merry Christmas," Sam says in a way that feels like an apology for his earlier rudeness.
"Merry Christmas," she grins as she watches them leave, freeing her ears from her hair.
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"The damn thing keeps getting lost in the sun," Dean growls, squinting through the windshield of the Impala.
"It's following the highway north," Sam says with a small smile. "This has got to be the strangest thing we've ever done."
"Really?" Dean asks, incredulous. "Sam, I was a dog once."
"Well, there's an idea."
Dean is not exactly thrilled by that tone of voice. "What's going on in that egghead of yours?"
"When you could talk to the dog - "
"The Colonel," his brother corrects.
"Yeah, the Colonel, whatever. Anyway, you could talk to all animals then, right?"
"Yeeeeahh," Dean drawls, still not . . . quite . . . getting it. Then, "No, Sammy. Just no."
"Look, Dean, we catch it, you talk to it and find out what it wants, then we can stop this wild partridge chase."
"Useless discussion. We don't have any of the potion left."
"Potion? It was a spell, not Polyjuice, Dean."
"Shut up."
"Ingredients are easy enough to get; I have the recipe in my phone."
Dean squints into the sun just in time to see the bird alight on a branch. Freaking waiting for them, he just knows it. "Fine, Sam. Let's get somewhere quiet so you can get your Hermione on."
An hour and a half later, the boys are checking out of their second motel room of the day. Dean still has the disgusted I-just-ate-earwax look on his face.
"That is so gross."
"Yeah, well, if it works again, it'll be worth it. Maybe."
"Time to find out." Dean turns his face up to the sky and yells, "Bird! Hey, bird."
"Will any bird do, or you looking for someone in particular?"
"Whadda ya mean 'Bird'? We have names, ya know."
"We can fly, mister. How 'bout some respect."
"Ohhh, I like your car. So shiny."
"Can you hear that?"
"No. Do you hear something?"
"Yeah. Those four crows. They're calling out to me. Winged dicks."
"Guess it worked. Ask them," Sam responds with a laugh.
"You enjoy this too much," his brother snaps. "Sorry, um, Crow. Crows. I need some help."
"Spit it out. We have somewhere to be."
"Yeah, South ain't getting any closer."
"We've been following this partridge. Have you seen it?"
"Ha! You're THAT guy, huh?"
"What's that mean?"
"We have a message for you."
"What, Dean?" Sam never really can stand not being in the loop.
"They know me. Apparently the partridge has been expecting me." Lifting his voice back to the birds on the wire above him, he asks, "What's the message?"
"Meet them at Twinkie's Diner in the next town. She says it's time the two of you got something to eat."
"Them?"
"Dean?" Sam asks, frustrated.
"Sammy, we have somewhere to be on Christmas after all.
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Sitting in Twinkie's Diner, Twinkie himself on duty, Dean circles his fingertips over the five golden-stained coffee rings clustered on the battered counter on which he leans. And waits. He shakes his head and lets out a small chuckle, gaining Sam's attention.
"What's so funny?"
"We're waiting for a bird, Sammy."
"Yeah. But at least we're not waiting here alone."
The brothers let their eyes wander around the grease-smelling room and look at the silent people dotting the booths and wobbly tables. Each one alone. On their own. But not the boys. They have each other.
"Yeah. Not alone," Dean smiles. "But still in a diner waiting for a bird."
They both turn to their menus, hoping to ease the growling bellies they've been hauling around all morning. They don't get far down the laminated page before they hear the tapping.
Spinning around so fast that his hair has to catch up, Dean blurts, "There it is!"
Only, it isn't.
Tapping against the window, trying to gain the boys' attention, stands the cute little waitress from earlier.
"The hell?" Sam asks.
"She a stalker? Sam, are we being stalked?"
The panic shows on their faces and Estella giggles as she reassures them, "I'm not a stalker. boys. I'm headed into Santa's Village and stopped for a coffee. I saw you in here, is all. Finally getting a chance to eat?"
"Yeah, time for breakfast," Sam tells her, the first to regain his composure. Dean is still checking out her ass. "Santa's Village, huh? Don't normally see grown ups headed that way without a kid."
"No kid for me. I'm an elf."
"Excuse me?" That statement gets Dean's attention. With all the winged crazy following them around today, even this comment deserves consideration. It is Christmas.
"In the Village. I have a holiday job there. You should come. It's fun even if you aren't seven years old."
"We're waiting for, uh, someone at the moment, but maybe we'll see you later."
"We will?" This is news to Sam.
"Hope so," Estella winks. Thanking Twinkie for her coffee, she grabs the to-go cup and swings her hips out the door, not forgetting to look back and throw Dean a wink. That's sure to encourage him to follow her - and the partridge - wherever she wants him to go. Giving a high but quiet whistle, she signals her little accomplice. "Go get them."
As Sam and Dean watch Santa's Elf turn the corner, they hear a small tap.
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"It's gone."
"I think you're right. I don't see it anywhere," Sam agrees, he being the one squinting into the sun this time.
"Have we been wasting our damn time? I mean, have we just been chasing a bird that missed the southbound bus? Is it really just one bird?"
"No one ever needs to know," Sam says. And means it.
"I definitely won't tell if you won't," Dean nods. "Now can we finally get something to freaking eat? That bird hates breakfast."
"What's the closest diner? Or is there a Biggerson's?"
"No, I was thinking they must have a cafeteria at Santa's Village," Dean says with a deliberately straight face.
"Santa's Village," Sam huffs out.
"Local color, holiday spirit. It's Christmas."
"Is this about you getting laid?"
"Are you new? Of course, this is about getting me laid. When isn't it when there's a pretty girl winking my way?"
"Dean, no. Please no. I can't, so many kids. Sticky, whiny. No."
"Fine, Sam. God, stop sputtering. Jeez, we'll head south," he says, placating his distressed brother, making the turn to head back to the interstate. "There's a great burger place near the New Hampshire border. I wasn't really - What the hell?!"
"Are those, um, geese? Are those geese?" Sam can't quite believe it.
"Freaking birds today, man. What the hell are they doing?"
The boys get out of the car, carefully, because who knows what the hell a freaking goose will do to a man.
"Shut the door, Sam. I don't want one of those things in my car."
"Yeah, and maybe the sound will scare them away," Sam says, taking the opportunity to slam a door on the Impala without his brother threatening to shave his head. "Nope," he sighs when the noise doesn't even disturb a feather.
"They're just laying there."
"Mm hmm," Sam mutters, pondering.
"I know that look," Dean says as he stares at a suddenly contemplative Sam. "What?"
"There are six of them. Six geese laying in the road."
"So? We need more?"
"Really, Dean? The song. The Days of Christmas or whatever. This is a line in a Christmas carol. So is a partridge. You quoted it earlier, dumbass."
"Oh. Oh, yeah. Weird."
"You think that's all it is?"
"Unless Santa is messing with us, I just think it's the universe giving me another shot to get into the elf's pants."
"That sounds so bad."
"Shut up. I'm not running over or touching those geese, so Santa's Village it is."
"Awesome," Sam sighs as they get back in the car and turn around. But he doesn't mean it. He really thinks it is so not awesome at all.
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"This is starting to feel way too familiar," Dean says a bit tremulously. "Where were we when those gods of Christmas Past tried to eat us?"
"Michigan. But this is a lot like that."
"If I see any meadow sweet, we're fudging leaving."
"I hate this place," Sam states. Not whining, just a simple fact.
"Let's just eat and find my elf," Dean smirks but tries to placate. "Depending on whether things go as I hope, we'll be out of here soon or sooner."
"Your appetites are killing me."
"A man has to eat, Sammy."
Sam figures it's best not to ask what's on his brother's menu.
Before they can reach the candy cane themed cafe at the center of the bright yet cheesy roadside kid-mecca, Dean's beeline is interrupted by Sam's less than enthusiastic alert. "There she is."
"The partridge?"
"No, Dean. Oh, my God. Estella. She's over there by Santa, headed this way," he points.
"Welcome to Santa's Village!" The boys put on smiles as they are greeted by Estella, but they are a bit strained.
"I feel like I've been here before," Dean remarks. "You've seen one Christmasville, you've seen them all, I guess."
"Nope. Not true. Every town has one, but not all are the same. Some suck. Some aren't authentic at all. Some are just plain creepy. This is one that gets it right," she informs them in one huffed breath.
"No need to get defensive. Really, it's okay," Dean responds, a bit shocked at her passionate justification of this sugary tourist trap. Sam raises his hands in a no harm gesture.
"I'm sorry. I just really like Christmas. Hope I see you around. Sorry again," she mutters, obviously embarrassed, and turns around to go back to Santa.
"Hey, don't go," Dean says quickly as he reaches out to grab her arm before she can get away. And then he can't say anything else. He just takes a deep breath.. The air is suddenly so full of the smell of hot cocoa that he wonders if Estella spilled some on him. He doesn't feel a burn, but he checks anyway.
"Dean? What's wrong?" Though Sam is used to his brothers occasional weirdness, sometimes he just has to ask.
"Huh? Oh, ah, nothing. You guys want some cocoa? I want some cocoa."
Smiling a completely innocent smile, Estella tells the grinning Dean, "I'm not that cheap a date. I need excitement to go with with my sweet."
And that's how the Winchester boys found themselves riding not-so-merrily along in the front of a seven-car-long flotilla of holly-festooned swans on the water ride that It's A Small World forgot.
Sam looked at his brother, Dean's arm around a happily bouncing Elf. "I hate this place."
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"Wouldn't even let me cop a feel on the swan ride," Dean mumbles to Sam. He shakes his head as he watches Estella standing in line at the cafe getting more cocoa and please God something to eat. She's so happy. "Man, this chick has me confused."
"Why? Because she wouldn't let you hit it on the kiddie ride?" Sam chuckles as he, too, is watching the happy little elf bouncing on the balls of her feet because a small child gave her a candy cane.
"Nah, not because of that. She really wanted me to come here. She all but took my hand, Sam."
"Uh huh."
"No, really. I can read a woman, little brother. She was definitely shaking some come-get-me hips at Twinkie's." He leans forward onto the tabletop, being careful to avoid resting his forearms in the sticky spots, and continues, "But we get here, and she's not into me like those hips promised she would be. She's just so . . . jolly?"
Sam barks real laughter at this, but struggles valiantly to say, "I think she just loves Christmas, Dean. Like, really loves it."
"Stop being a girl. Get your big egg head on this. She wanted us here. I half expect to see that damn bird."
"I think you're seeing more to this than there is. She's a pretty girl who was just being nice."
"Sam-" Dean begins his frustrated rebuttal but is interrupted by a chirpy elf bearing sweets.
"They're making more cocoa so I got milkshakes instead."
"That's cool, but, uh, Estella?"
"Yes, Sam?"
"Why did you get eight?"
"Oh, for the little kids in line, of course. They were so disappointed when the milkmaids behind the counter said there was no cocoa," she says matter-of-factly, like she expects Sam to see this as the most obvious idea.
"Sure," Sam replies, pretending that he does.
"So, Estella," Dean says, sidling up to her, trying one last time to salvage what he thought was going to end up being a very good day. "What do you say we find somewhere quieter, somewhere with fewer ankle biters?"
"Oh, Dean, I'm sorry. I promised these kids a brain freeze contest and then I have to get back to my post at Santa's side. That other elf on duty is a slacker. She doesn't pinch the children's rosy cheeks or anything!"
Dean steps back and watches the sexy little elf race these loud kids, and, of course, she finishes her milkshake first. He sighs when they all hold their foreheads and moan, knowing he has lost all chance of getting laid today. When a little boy wipes his sticky hands on his pant leg then throws up at his feet, Dean has had enough. "Sam, get me the hell out of Satan's Village."
"You mean Santa's Village," comes the laughing correction.
"I know what I said," mutters the angry, sticky man as he stomps toward the exit, a small bird following discreetly behind.
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"A strip club, Dean? How'd you even find this in Maine?"
"Figured if I was going to have to deal with a no-touch policy, the girls might as well be naked," he snarks, holding up his phone.
"I'm sorry Santa got between you and Estella," snickers Sam, loving this so much.
"Santa's not a c-blocker, Sammy."
Sam laughs so hard that the boys are afraid they'll be thrown out. Dean just loves hearing him laugh. His brother has done that a lot today. At least there's something to thank elf girl for.
"Maybe you're right," Sam says, catching his breath but still smiling. "She just must not have been that into you." At Dean's face, he chuckles again then sobers. "So, where to after this?"
Dean watches the ladies dancing, nine poles set on three small stages, each one looking more depressed than the next. No one wants to work on Christmas. "I think I'm good right here for a while," he finally says, snagging them a table and signalling for a drink.
"Dean," Sam sighs, sounding more like his having-no-lucky usual self.
"What?" his brother snaps, completely channeling his own personal surly fallback attitude.
"We were having fun, man. Don't let striking out ruin it. It's Christmas."
Well, that's new.
"Feeling holly jolly now, huh? I think those two over there in the santa hats are named Holly and Jolly. I'd like to be feeling them." He tips his whiskey in the women's direction, hoping they'll gyrate their way closer to him. Sam huffs in aggravation, and Dean turns his head.
"Look, Dean, it was nice. Different. On a case but not really. Having fun with no imminent disemboweling. A funny bird, a goose crossing, a pretty girl. It's been a good day. Well, the best we've had in a while. Merry Christmas."
Dean looks down into the amber liquid in his glass and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Smiling softly, he looks into Sam's hopeful eyes. "Merry Christmas, Sammy. Can we eat now? Because holy crap, I'm starving."
"Absolutely."
As Sam raises his hand to get the attention of a waitress, the music changes and the announcer's voice rumbles over the room.
Ladies and gentlemen and everything in between, please welcome to the main stage our holiday spectacular, The Ten Leaping Lords!
The smile breaking across Dean's face breaks down completely when he realizes that by lords he means dudes. And by dudes he means naked dudes jumping all over the damn stage. Naked jumping dudes with glitter. Lots and lots of glitter.
Estella stands in the back of the room, the tips of her ears turning bright red, loving every second.
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"I think we came here on the wrong day, Dean."
"Gee, Sam, ya think?"
"Can we get out of here?"
"Yeah, yeah, let's go," Dean says distractedly. "It's just, I mean, how does a guy move like that? You can't tell me that doesn't hurt. Jumping and leaping and . . . dangling, willy nilly."
"Dude, if you want to stay, you go ahead. No judgment from me, but I have to say I'm a little uncomfortable."
"Stay? What? No! I'm just wondering."
"Well, stop wondering and get moving."
"Agreed," Dean nods as he grabs his coat and heads toward the door.
He does not get far.
Like sparkling-gazelle-like-beings-who-should-never-be-like-gazelles, the Leaping Lords begin jumping and pirouetting around the tables to the Carol of the Bells. It is so wrong.
"Oh, no, no, no, no," Dean hears coming from Sam's general direction. Hoping to help his little brother he turns back to save him from whatever fresh hell has arisen.
The Lords are dancing and shimmying around Sam like he's a tree and they are snowflakes. Naked, glitter-covered snowflakes. Dean laughs against his will, and, once he's convinced Sam can get away, resumes his plan to walk out the front door.
"I hate you," Sam snaps while he slams the Impala's door. He's angry but so very glad to have made it to the car.
"I know," Dean sighs, succeeding in clamping down on his still bubbling laughter.
They hear the giggling before she manages to knock on the window.
"Hi, guys!"
"What the hell?"
"Estella?" Sam begins. "How, how did you get here?"
"Screw how. Why? Why are you here?" Dean is not amused or comfortable with her sudden appearance. A glance to the side at his shiny brother tells him that Sam is finally sensing that something is wrong.
As if to put a bow on top of that realization, the freaking partridge lands on the windshield and taps.
"Son of a bitch!"
"Now, Dean, calm down. He won't poop on your Baby. Will you, Walter?" She ends her little speech with baby talk, cooing to the bird.
"Walter?" Dean knows there are bigger issues at hand but Walter? He should ask the damn thing about that. "Wait. Wait, wait , wait. I can't understand the bird, uh, Walter," he whispers to his right. "I couldn't talk to the geese, either. I didn't even think about it at the time. I was too caught up in thinking about-"
Both boys snap their heads to Estella. She reaches up and pulls off the hood of her coat and reaches into the car to touch Dean's cheek. The car is flooded with the smell of hot cocoa.
"No worries, Dean. The spell doesn't work on my birds."
"Why?" Sam asks, ever so quietly, knowing the answer but not believing it.
"Hi," she says. "I'm Estella. And I'm an Elf."
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She bounces to the back passenger door and jumps right into the back seat without being asked. She does, however, close the door very respectfully. The smell of cocoa is so thick that the boys almost believe they can taste it.
"Are you doing that?' Sam asks. The Elf just smiles.
"Who told you to get in my car?" Dean is not going to be sidetracked by chocolatey goodness.
"I figure you boys might like to shower," comes the chipper reply. "We can talk at your motel when you smell less like kid puke and strippers. We have some things you'd like to discuss, I'm sure."
"Damn right, we do," Dean growls.
All at once the brothers make their undiscussed yet coordinated moves. Dean strikes her Estella's forearm with a silver knife with the speed and accuracy of a cornered cobra, while Sam splashes her with holy water from a flask that comes out of nowhere. She expected nothing less, so she giggles at the intense looks on their faces.
"Why so serious, fellas? You could have just asked."
"Yeah, well, monsters don't usually offer up proof of monsterhood upon request," Dean snarks, grinning at his own comic genius.
Sam rolls his eyes.
"Not a monster," the Elf replies, offended. "Didn't the pointy ears back up my Elf claim?" She wiggles the ears and Sam wrinkles his nose. Dean can't help thinking it looks kinda cute. And maybe sexy. No, just cute. But kinda weird, too.
"There are no such thing as elves," Sam says, trying hard to convince himself.
Estella huffs. "Why can there be vamps, rugarus, and kitsune, but not elves? That's very narrow minded."
"Never been accused of that," Sam muses.
"Then you should get on fixing that misconception, because you could have fooled me," she tells him haughtily and twitches her ears self-consciously.
"That's just weird," Dean blurts.
"Not nice," Estella tells him as she cuts her startlingly icy-blue eyes at him.
"Sorry." He really is contrite.
"You're really an elf?" Sam asks, hoping for solid confirmation.
"I guess it is quite hard to believe for a boy who stopped believing at four. You never sleep. And you were always on the Naughty List, but it was the fun kind of naughty." She winks at the last part. He sure was the fun kind.
"How did you know that?" Dean asks, mouth dropping open.
"And Sam," she says, turning to face the younger man, "you were on the Good List, though it was always hard to find you. Then Dean was forced to tell you Santa wasn't real when you were eight. You really shouldn't have read your father's journal."
"Oh, my God," Sam whispers.
"No, Sam. Just Santa and his excellent bookkeeping. Need more proof?"
"No. What I need now is a shower. Can I go wash the glitter off now?"
Dean pulls the Impala out onto the highway and heads back toward the motel they left this morning. In front of a small dive bar called Paddy's, a band of eleven bagpipers plays holiday music. So strange, but beautiful, too.
"Wanna stop?" Dean suggests. "I could use a drink."
"You smell like puke," Sam reminds him.
"I promise I'll make cocoa at the motel," Estella smiles.
Dean keeps driving.
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Having both showered and been given their promised cocoas, the boys settle into lawn chairs borrowed from the cracked and frozen pool in the motel courtyard. Set up in front of their newly rented room, right on the curb of the main drag of this nearly dead town, enjoying the first parade they can remember watching in such a very long time. They raise their eyebrows in silent bemusement as Estella the Elf flops down on the ground between them. Still dressed in her costume from Santa's Village, she certainly looks to be the cliche of the creature they now believe her to be. She insisted they watch the parade and left no room for argument or discussion. She is vibrating with excitement.
"Excited, Estella?" Dean laughs.
"Isn't it wonderful? Don't you just love Christmas? Thank you for sharing this part of it with me. No one should be alone on Christmas."
Sam looks across the pool into the windows of the motel office, at the oversized and out of place Christmas tree with the child's ornaments, and sees the lonely man standing beside it. "Ill be right back."
He walks over to the office door and is sure to jingle the bells above it. He doesn't want to startle the guy.
"Hi," Sam says, getting his attention.
"You're back?" the clerk asks, confused.
"The lady who was at the desk before checked us in. Our plans, uh, changed, you could say."
"Plans have a way of doing that," the man agrees sadly.
"Hey, would you like to come out and join us? The parade just started and we have the perfect seats."
"No, no. You young folks enjoy yourselves. I don't want to intrude." His face says he would like to, though. Very much.
"No intrusion," Sam insists. "My brother and our friend would love to have you join us. We have cocoa."
"Well, that settles it, then. Thank you." He pulls on his coat as they make their way over to Dean and Estella. "Do you have anything stronger than cocoa?" The guy asks as they reach the lawn chairs.
Dean laughs and stands to shake hands. "I'll see what I can do. I'm Dean."
"Mike Dixon. Good to meet you. And you, pretty lady?"
"I'm Estella. Merry Christmas," she chirps from her place o the cement.
"Estella," Mike asks with furrowed brow, "are your ears pointy?"
"Nope. Ohhh, look! The drum line! I bet they've got a dozen of them, they're so loud!"
"My boy plays drums in his high school band," Mike shares as he accepts his stronger-than-cocoa beverage from a just returned Dean.
"I bet he's great," Estella encourages.
"I don't know. He doesn't want me to come see. His mom and me broke up, and she took him with her when she went. I call every couple weeks, but he's at an age where he don't want to talk much to his old man." Mike finishes his drink.
"Aw, man. I'm sorry to hear that," Sam says for want of a better reply.
"Yeah, I planned on going to see him today, but he said he had something else to do."
"That sucks on Christmas," Dean nods.
"It does. So I'm gonna drink until I can sleep away the day. And watch this parade with you nice folks," he says, trying to shake off the melancholy.
"Mr. Dixon, what school does your son play for?" Estella asks with an honest to goodness gleam in her eye. Dean can't stop staring at it.
"Kennedy."
"John Kennedy?"
"That's right."
That JFK HIgh?" she asks, pointing to the banner in front of the band.
"Yes. Yes! That's my boy!" Mike yells and waves.
A tall, skinny but handsome boy misses a step when he catches sight of Mike. A smile that makes him beautiful spreads across his young face as he raises a drumstick in salute. Mike thanks them quickly for the drink and the invite, then jogs down the sidewalk following the band.
"I guess Mr. Dixon gets to spend Christmas with Daniel after all," Estella says happily.
"Who's Daniel?" Dean asks, knowing full well who Daniel is.
"His son, of course." And with that, the Elf gathers herself up and heads inside the room.
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PEAR TREE
"What was all this about? You and us, I mean," Sam asks Estella when he and Dean step back into the warm motel room.
"An Elf has to have some fun. Our big day is over, you know. I had a plan."
"The bird?" Dean pushes.
"Walter needed to stretch his wings. He and the geese were just doing me a favor. Don't be mad at him."
"The diner?" Sam continues.
"I needed to catch your attention. Walter was afraid he wouldn't be enough to keep you following."
"And Santa's Village?"
"I needed to stall you. It wasn't close enough to parade time to let you go back to town."
"Mike. Mike and his son!" Dean has worked it out.
"Yes. That man needed his kid. But more importantly, that kid needed his dad. This was my gift to them. You two helped. Had you not been here, Mike would never have gone out to watch the parade. I needed to get him there. So, thank you!"
"Uh, you're welcome?" Sam responds uncertainly.
"What about us?' Dean asks. Of course he does.
"Dean!" Sam hisses.
"No, Sam, he's right. My gift to you is a reminder of your purpose. Not the burden Heaven attached to you, not the things Hell expected from you, but the purpose your father instilled. The great heroes' mantle you both wear. You help these people, all these people who cross your path. Dean, you think you have nowhere you want to be. Sam, you think there is no place you belong. But you are both so wrong. You want to be where the next great challenge is calling. You belong where there are people to be saved. You are needed in so many cities, and towns, and homes. And they are all blessed to have you. Like the family who lives in your old house. Like Marie and Maeve and the other girls at St. Alphonso's. Like Mike and Daniel. Go. Enjoy your day. Eat pie, and drink spiked eggnog, find a pretty girl. Tomorrow your quest resumes. We will all be the better for it."
She wiggles her ears, snaps her fingers, and she's gone. On the table behind where she stood is a piping hot cinnamon and pear pie.
Of course, there is. Dean finally gets to eat.