A/N: I'm not really sure what this is, as such. I think, maybe, it's probably just a random little (one shot?) of how I might like to see the series end. Something like this would be nice, I think. c: Anyhoo, enjoy!
The library is a vast, peaceful place; shelves stocked with colourful books of every imaginable size and age. The air smells like a mixture of furniture polish, the must of old paper and some strange incense that burns almost constantly. Wooden tables stretch the empty length of the room, cluttered with books and papers, the spaces sporadically lit by small table lamps. Jared is smaller than all the other students and far less interested in his classes and so the library has become something of a sanctuary for him. There is a chair tucked into a small alcove not immediately visible from the door that he likes to sit in. There hadn't been a table there before, but he had found a small end table and donated a good hour of his time and his entire body weight to the task of dragging it to his chair.
The nest of books surrounding him are dog eared and torn, the covers fading with age and much handling, but Jared touches them like they are precious. He runs tiny fingers over the cover, tracing the letters of the title by memory and hugs the book to his chest like it is an old friend. He spends hours in this library, reading these books instead of attending to his lessons. Mr Tran doesn't mind, and sometimes even covers his escape with the Headmaster; Jared likes Mr Tran a lot more than some of the other instructors. He's not an ungrateful child, he loves the school, and it gave him a home after the Bad Thing, but he just doesn't like hunting as much as the others. He can shoot and stab and make his own weapons like the others, but he likes the library the most. He can remember things he read from ages ago, and he always gets good scores on his theories.
"Winchester Chronicles again, Jared?" The voice startles him, and the way his skinny frame jerks is enough to send several of his books toppling to the floor. His favourite stays firmly within his grasp, however, clutched as though it would cause physical pain to release it. Headmaster Smith stands over him, and for a moment Jared thinks he is in trouble. But there is softness in Mr Smith's eyes and a smile just beginning to show at his mouth and Jared relaxes. Mr Smith is a nice man and Jared remembers that he always has candy in the pockets of his suit jacket and that he never gets mad, so Jared loosens his grip on the book and offers it up for Mr Smith's inspection.
"It's my favourite," His voice is a barely audible mumble, and he is quick to duck his head and hide behind his hair. For a moment, Mr Smith looks sad, but then he smiles again and drags a chair over to sit.
"This one is also my favourite. Do you know all of their stories?" The book is taken from his grasp so gently that Jared cannot miss its absence, and instead he is riveted by the gentle melancholy of Mr Smith's voice. Mr Smith gently opens the cover of the book, his eyes flicking over the first pages far too rapidly for him to be reading them, and Jared thinks that perhaps Mr Smith already knows the words.
"I've read every single one, sir!" Shyness is forgotten now, in favour of a child's delight in a shared interest. He reaches down and picks up another, one with the cover still mostly intact. The words Great Pumpkin are just barely visible,
"Some I don't like so much. Are they really true, sir?" Jared carefully places the book down again, scooting forward in his chair as Mr Smith looks up again. He seems to think for a moment, one hand rasping across his stubbled chin and that sadness is in his eyes again, but for a moment there is also great joy. He nods once, and for a moment Jared thinks he will not say anything more, but then he leans forward and there is something almost conspiratorial in the way he does so. Intrigued despite himself, Jared leans forward so far he almost falls from his chair.
"All the stories are true, Jared. They were two real and quite human men. They were brave and stubborn and insecure and self-sacrificing. I think, sometimes, the other students forget that they were mortal men. Dean used to brush his teeth with alcohol most mornings and Sam would quite often pass out across his books at strange hours of the evening." Mr Smith's voice fades into silence and his face is so fond, so reminiscent, that he is beautiful and Jared could not look away if he tried. There is a light in Mr Smith that wasn't there before; something missing that has been rediscovered. The sadness still lurks in his eyes, but now there is also warmth, like a sputtering candle given a little more life. He seems lost now, his gaze far away and the silence grows longer until Jared can no longer stand it.
"What happened to them, sir?"
And this seems to be the question that ends the conversation, for Mr Smith smiles a moment more and then gets to his feet, brushing at imaginary dirt on his slacks.
"No one knows. They simply vanished one day, and no one has seen them since. We have their legacy, however. The school and four journals of hunting knowledge gathered over a lifetime." Mr Smith leans down and ruffles the messy bangs of Jared's hair and though he would normally never tolerate such a touch from anyone else, there is something soothing and safe about Mr Smith. "Now, should you not be returning to your lessons? I believe Mr Tran is discussing the Four Horseman today. We wouldn't want to miss out on a topic of which you are so knowledgeable, would we?" Mr Smith is smiling again as he hands the book back, and Jared finds himself tracing the letters Swan Song again almost unconsciously.
"No, sir!" The other books are forgotten for the moment, as Jared scrambles to his feet and beats a hasty retreat for the library door.
"Oh, and Jared?" He pauses in the doorway, half his body in the hall while he leans back in towards the library. Mr Smith is grinning now, and there is a twinkle in his eyes Jared does not remember from the beginning of their conversation.
"You may call me Jimmy."
And with that, Mr Smith – Jimmy – simply disappears, with only the rustling of his trench coat and the barely audible flap of distant wings to mark his exit.