2

After settling in and washing the effects of his road weariness away, Sam spent some time with Markus in his family's study. Markus handed him a beer, and sat opposite his friend.

"So, Samuel. How are you? You look like a f~cking hobo. Seriously, are you ok?"

Sam smiled and shook his head. "Aw man..don't get deep on me already, Markus. I just walked in the door. Right now I'm just glad to be parked on some seating that isn't worn, black and sticking to my ass. Man, this is comfortable!" He leaned back into the overstuffed suede wing chair and laughed.

Markus leaned forward. "Sam, I know I shouldn't pounce on you right off, but I can't help it. You have promise. Jesus christ-you're smarter than any of us. Jess knew it-it was the thing she loved most about you. And so I gotta ask you...why are you wasting your life touring around pointlessly with your brother? You belong here. You know it, I know it. And Jess knew it.. And I think your brother knows it too. I know he thinks I'm a dick. But if it comes down to my efforts to convince you to come back here, then I'll take him on. I have nothing against Dean. But I just think he's holding you back." He paused then, and searched for the words to persuade him. "Sam, I know family is important. But sometimes you just have to cut loose, for your own sake. I mean, what the hell do you want?"

Sam was broadsided. He knew this was coming, he just didn't expect it so soon. But Markus had thrown it out there, and he had no choice now but to try to explain.

"oh god...what I want.." He sighed and stared at his hands for a moment. "Markus, there's shit going on that I can't even hope to explain. But the reality is, Stanford just isn't going to happen for me right now. And before you say any more, it isn't Dean keeping me away, ok? My Dad's dead. Jess is dead. I just need some time to figure out why all this happened...what it all means. I'm not turning my back on it, or on you guys. But Dean's my brother, and he's all I have left, and he's as deep in this as I am. I need him...I need his perspective, his uncomplicated way of cutting through the crap and dealing with what's in front of us. I can see your doubt-it's written all over your face. But you've got to get past his rough edges. He's not really like that. Not only like that, anyway. Yeah, he's different. He's crude, and wild, and unpredictable. But he's also strong and reliable and...loyal. He grew up fast and hard, thanks to my Dad, and what happened when we were kids. But he was more of a father figure to me than my old man ever was. Markus, I don't know if you can even relate-you grew up so differently than I did. You had a mom and dad there, you had stability, money, comfort. We never stayed anywhere for more than a few months. My mom was gone, and dad was obsessed and bitter and gone half the time. Dean looked out for me every minute of every day. If it was cold out, he made sure I had mitts, even if they were his. If I was hungry, he got me something, I never asked where it came from. And if I was getting picked on, he stepped in and took the bullies on. He took the punches that were meant for me, and he never once complained. We moved around, constantly. Neither one of us ever made any friends-we were never in the same place long enough. He did his best to keep me from being alone. I learned every thing from him. Hell, he's the one who gave me the "talk", not my old man. I can't tell you how awkward that was. And he's the one who tried to fill in all the gaps that my Dad left. It wasn't always a success, but he tried. He gutted himself to give me some piece of childhood that he never had. And I owe him for that, more than I can say." He sighed. "Nothing about this is perfect right now. I'd love to be back at school; christ-I can't even tell you. But this is where I am right now. I have to figure a few things out, and I need my brother to do that. And he needs me..." As he heard himself speak, he was cut by a deep guilt. And here I am having Christmas without him...

Markus nodded. Whether or not he was convinced, he let it drop for now. "Well. I guess there's always screwed-up angles to everything. How about we lighten up and go stuff our faces? My mother's been fussing all afternoon because you were coming. I swear to god she'd trade me in for you in a heartbeat. It ought to be a good spread." He stood then, and Sam did too. "Come on, Winchester. You're going to get fattened up whether you want to or not!"

Relieved at the thought of a distraction, Sam grinned. "Bring it on. She can try all she wants, I'm up to it!"


Dean stopped when he found a coffee joint. He needed to stretch his legs-he hadn't been out of the car since long before he'd ferried Sam to his destination. He entered and looked over the meager donut offerings left on the wire racks behind the counter, settling on an apple fritter that didn't look too stale, and an extra large coffee. When he'd paid, he carried his feast back to the car, and sat for a while, consuming them, and thinking. He hadn't been wholly honest with Sam. He did have a little gift, to mark the season. Nothing much, just a little thing to include his brother in the club, as it were. He sipped at the bitter coffee, frowning at it's ashen overtone, and he leaned forward and popped open the glove compartment. He rummaged and retrieved a little cardboard box. He flicked the lid off with his thumb and picked up the thing it held. It was a band. Silver, size ten, plain but for a simple incised groove running down the middle. It was a beer opener ring, almost identical to his own. He'd seen it by chance, a few months ago, at a pawn shop. At the time, it seemed like a perfect little thing to give him. Now he wasn't so sure. What the hell was he thinking? He was giving his brother a ring, for god's sake. That was just weird. He probably wouldn't even wear it anyway, his tastes were hardly like his own. Feeling stupid, he squashed the lid back down and tossed it back into the glove box.

When the remnants of his coffee had cooled, and it had lost any redeeming qualities it might have had, he dumped it out and threw the cup onto the floor beside him. It had started to spit rain, and it irritated him. He was more determined than ever to head toward snow country, and once again he pointed the Impala eastward.

He didn't know exactly how far he'd have to go. The area was new to him, nothing inhuman had needed killing out this way yet. He scanned the roadside for signs, and finally saw something directional. "Twain Harte-45 Miles" Twain Harte? Well that was too weird to ignore. He'd never heard of the place, but the name was intriguing. And it was straight east of where he was, which meant foothills, cooler temps and hopefully a break from the damned rain that had plagued him for the last half hour. He wanted his snow. Snow like the kind that kids picture when they think of winter-big fat flakes, sparkly with perfect crystals. He figured he deserved that, at the very least. He decided to make Twain Harte his goal. Hell, how bad could it be? Anything was better than the jarring combination of palmetto fronds and green grass with leering Santa cut-outs and seizure-inducing flashing light strands that assaulted his senses on the coast. Snow made sense at this time of year. It made you appreciate things because it reminded you that it could always get colder and harsher. As he drove, he found his mind drifting to past Christmas fiascos. Like one of the many times that Dad had been a Christmas Eve no-show, and Dean had taken it upon himself to pilfer a proper Christmas from a nearby house. Turned out he'd stolen gifts that were decidedly girl-oriented. He remembered Sam's crestfallen face. He remembered the pain of disappointment, the uncomfortable weight of failure. They laughed about it, years later. But it still hurt anyway. He spent so much time trying to explain to Sam that it was all ok, because Dad was really a hero, and he was saving the world. He wished the world could have taken a back seat every now and then.

He shook the ghosts away, and realized that the weather had changed during his bitter reverie. The rain no longer obscured his view, instead, snow came now in hypnotizing vortexes that rushed past his wipers and swirled away into the trees at the roadside. Good. At least something was gonna go his way for a change. The oaks that he'd been driving through had given way to thick conifers as the elevation rose steadily. The snow had only just started, but already it was collecting on the feathery, needled branches. It was pretty. He found himself enjoying the scene, and his sour mood lightened. He slowed down, careful of the increasingly treacherous road conditions. But he started to hum to himself. When he realized what the tune was, he smiled a little and sang the words under his breath, at least the ones he knew. Oh the weather outside is frightful, something something Delightful, and hmm hm hm hm hmm, Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

By the time Twain Harte greeted him, the road was white and thick with the stuff. The wind was gentle, and the branches of every tree hung heavy and crystaline. He hoped there was some place to grab dinner, the donut hadn't been half-satisfying and he was starving, and he needed gas, not to mention some facilities. He admired the streetscape as he passed. The houses were set back amongst the trees, and lit up, but quietly, much more demure than in the place he'd left Sam. He hoped his brother was busy scarfing down some fancy dessert about now. He hoped to do the same himself soon enough. His wish showed promise of being granted when he came up to a restaurant. The windows and eaves were twinkling with tiny multi-coloured lights. It was well surrounded by cars and trucks, and there were people standing around the entrance, laughing and clearly enjoying themselves...festive. It looked to be suitable for his needs. The sign said McLaren's Landing. Smaller text advertised Bar & Grill. The order of words was just about perfect, Dean turned into the parking lot, buoyed by high hopes for his evening.


The salmon wasn't the only thing grilled at dinner. Howard and Leslie Matthews simply could not understand why Sam would let his educational opportunity slip from his fingers. And he certainly couldn't tell them the truth. After an hour of dining and squirming, Sam finally had to promise that he would reconsider. Markus's mother beamed at her victory, and after more discussion, they were finally able to retreat and escape to a quiet corner of the vast house.

"Sorry about that, Sam. Man, you just got gunned at from every direction, didn't you?"

Sam shook his head and groaned, slouching in his chair. "Markus, I love your folks, but you know that was just to shut them up, right..?"

"Yeah, I know. And thanks, by the way. I thought we'd never get the hell out of there. But you're not off the hook yet, just so you know. You've got the rest of them just waiting to pound some sense into you. Or else they'll just kidnap you and to hell with your brother and everything else. Aw, don't make that face! I'm just kidding you...mostly. So, are you ready to hit the strip and meet up with everybody?"

Sam stretched away some of his tension. He did want to see his friends, but he was tired, after all the driving, and the big dinner, -not to mention the third degree. For a moment, he felt a pang of loss. It would have been good to go out with Dean and have a little fun. Their lives had been too grim lately, they so rarely did that. But Markus didn't let him wander down that path.

"Oh don't think you're bailing on us tonight, Winchester! I've had this thing planned for ages. Come on, I don't care how whupped you are-you're not pussying out on me-we're partying tonight.." Markus hauled him out of his comfortable chair and the two made their way down to the garage, pausing only to grab their coats. Sam pulled his jacket on, and hung back.

"Hang on, Markus. I just want to give Dean a quick call-" He punched the speed dial and put the cellphone to his ear. Markus snatched it from his hand and snapped it shut.

"Not tonight, buddy. Big Brother can just chill for a while. You don't have to report in every hour, for christ's sakes. Cut loose from the leash, will you?" He didn't wait for an answer, he tossed the phone onto the seat of a hall bench and pushed Sam out the door. Sam's protests fell on deaf ears, and Markus directed him toward a gleaming sportscar, distracting him from his purpose.

"You like?" Markus grinned. It was a Solstice, cherry red and almost brand new. The top was down, and Sam leaned over the door to admire the slick interior.

Sam whistled appreciatively. "Oh man...beautiful! Tell me it isn't yours, you spoiled, snotty bastard!"

"Sorry, dude. Mine. A little easier on the eyes and arse than that junk-yard escapee your brother drives, isn't it? Come on, get in. We're late."

Sam shook his head as he stepped over the side and plunked down in the passenger seat. "Markus, may you choke on your silver spoon, you lucky sonofabitch."

Markus laughed. He revved the engine as the garage door lifted, and peeled out into the street. Once on the highway, he opened it up and Sam felt the bracing wind whip his hair back. He laughed out loud at Markus's running commentary as the scenery flew by. A feeling overwhelmed him, something exquisite and rare and dangerously exhilarating. It was freedom.


Dean had eaten his fill. Roast chicken platter...it was damned good, and as close to a christmas turkey as he could hope to get. And it was worth every penny-apparently McLaren's Landing knew their chicken. He chased the crumbs of his apple pie around the plate, but they could not escape him. When they were gone, he took his draft refill and settled at the bar. At the far end of the room, a band was tuning up on a raised stage. He saw no cowboy hats, and his hope was that maybe they were more classic than country.

"They any good?" he asked of the bartender.

The man laughed ruefully. "Well they start out half decent, usually. But the thirstier they get, the more it kinda falls apart."

Fair warning. Dean wasn't sure how long he'd be staying in the establishment. Maybe he'd escape and find a motel when they started to really lose it. "Hey, any half decent motels here in town?"

"You're kidding me, right? Hell, it's Christmas! Nothing's available now. You'd have to go back down the highway, probably all the way to the city. Everything, including the B&B's, are booked up. You don't have family to visit?"

..That stung. The barkeep hadn't meant anything by it, and Dean half-smiled. "Nope. Sent my brother off to hang with his college geeks for the holidays. I sorta forgot it was Christmas. I guess I should settle up then, if I have to get back on the road. I think it's still snowing."

"Well that's a shame. But you oughta stay here at least for the party. We do it every year, our Christmas Eve-Eve bash. That way we can all take the day off on the real Christmas Eve to nurse our hangovers before the inlaws show up and all the beeping and flashing kiddie toys come out of the boxes."

Dean laughed. That made good sense. He turned and looked around the place. It was packed with noisy, happy people., laughing, talking. The band was near ready to start, and a dance-floor was cleared in front. Silly, over done christmas decorations were everywhere, big fat silver garland, giant red tissue ornaments of the kind that opened up like accordions, and festoons of fake spruce greenery. And at least a half dozen christmas trees, all the real thing. Dean was loath to leave the warmth and fun of the place to go back out to the cold car and drive away from his chosen winter wonderland. Especially if it meant going back toward the place he'd left Sam. And there were a lot of pretty women. Who knows...maybe he would find a pleasant accommodation after all...

He nursed his beer, absorbing the festive atmosphere, and for a moment he was tempted to check in with Sam. But he decided to wait. His brother and he had only been apart for a few hours, he didn't want to come across as needy. Besides, Sam was probably enjoying himself, and he didn't want to interfere with that. It was the point, after all. He glanced at the couple sitting beside him. A fit, stocky guy, average looking. And a girl, maybe mid twenties. She was slender and had long loose blondish hair. Dimples formed when she laughed. She reminded him of Jo Harvelle, and she had the same slight build that probably hid a confident right hook if she ever needed it. She was cute...too cute for the guy she sat with. He tuned in to their conversation.

They were arguing good-naturedly about cars. He sat and listened for a little while, keeping to himself.

"Ugh, Ryan. You are seriously nuts. I never have to add anything to my car. Nothing ever falls off. I never see any warning lights. If god-forbid I do have some issue, it'll more than likely be under warranty. I get twice the mileage you do, and I can park on a postage stamp and turn on a dime. Why would I give any of that up?"

The one named Ryan laughed and shrugged. "Apples and oranges, Stace. Or maybe more like iron vs tin-foil. How long do you think that thing of yours will be reliable? Assuming you would keep it 'til it was done and not trade it in every two years."

She laughed, rising to the challenge. "Why would I even need to think like that? You're missing the point, as usual. The whole benefit is that I can trade it in every two years. It will still be worth it, and I'll have a brand new, up-to-date model every time. But you-you're stuck with the same rusting dinosaur forever. You spend every weekend under the damned thing, calling and hoping the wrecker has some pieces to replace what you left on the highway, and if he doesn't, you either have to make something out of left over duct work or you're screwed. You drive around, belching blue smoke and rumbling like a train, looking for new parts to cannibalize just so you can keep it on the road. What's the point there? Stubbornness? Nostalgia? Defiance? Step into the new millenium, Ryan. That beater will do nothing but cost you time and money and sleep. No thanks!" She laughed.

Ryan looked wounded. "Well...chicks dig it. What kind of real woman wants a guy who drives around in some gutless little foreign shoe-box?"

She snorted. "Sorry to burst your bubble, babe, but chicks do not dig those things. -Strickly a dumb guy thing, trust me."

Dean was intrigued by the exchange. Ordinarily he'd have just sat and minded his own business, but he couldn't let her end with such a profound wrong. He leaned forward and added his two cents. "Uh...sorry to interrupt, but I overheard your debate here. Are we arguing old vs new when it comes to wheels...?"

Ryan regarded him with a friendly expression. "Depends. Who's side do you plan to defend..?"

Stacy leaned over and smiled, meeting his eye. "Better think about your choice, hun. " she teased.

He smiled back. "Sorry, sweetheart, but I have to throw in with this guy here. Nothing, and I mean nothing, will ever compare to an old school American muscle car. Sure, you can talk all you want about the benefits of your shiny new fibreglas shitbox, but nothing can beat the lines, and power and solidity of a real classic. My car might take a bit of upkeep, but she can outrun any tricked out foreign job, and I can plow into a brick wall, drive away, put a ballpean and a spot prime and a touch of paint to her and be back on the road in a day. But you-if you tried the same thing, they'd be shipping you and your car back in quarter sized bits. Thanks, but no thanks. I don't need wipers on my headlights and heated seats. I just want to get from A to B in one solid piece with a little style and power, and maybe do the same tomorrow, not to mention in ten years. The right car's a part of you. You shouldn't change your wheels like they were a pair of shoes."

Ryan hooted loudly and clapped Dean's shoulder. "Oh yeah! That's it! That's exactly it! Stacy, enjoy your little plastic wind-up toy. Me and buddy here will be still driving our iron dinosaurs when we're sixty, while you keep trading your Cracker-Jack prizes in for smaller and smaller models 'til you're pedalling your Barbie Smart Car to work. If that's what you want, then more power to ya!" he laughed.

She punched his arm and snorted. "Ugh! Hopeless! And now you have an ally here! A poet, no less!" But she liked the look of the newcomer. She let them win.

Ryan offered his hand to Dean. "Well congrats. You managed to shut Stacy Anderson up. No small feat, let me tell you! I'm Ryan...Ryan Anderson."

Dean shook his hand. "Dean...Winchester. So...you and her are..married?"

"God, no. She's my little pain-in-my-ass sister."

Dean glanced back at her. She met his gaze and pouted, but her eyes sparkled with humour. She really was arranged nicely. He almost regretted which side he'd chosen..

"Ah." he acknowledged, raising an eyebrow with renewed interest. Ryan saw it and snorted. "Good luck there, buddy! You're on your own!"

Dean liked him. Ryan was plain, solid-sounding, and he had an easy smile. He wore a tee shirt with Twain Harte FireFighters insignia embroidered on the front. His short cropped hair was failing in a shiny circle on top, but he didn't seem like the type to care. And he clearly had taste in cars. Dean asked him- "So, what is it you drive?"

"Mustang. '65 fast-back. Summer anyway, I take her off the road when they start salting. Right now I just drive a winter beater truck."

Dean nodded appreciatively..

"How about you?" Ryan asked, ordering a round of draughts for the three of them.

" '67 Impala...black four door."

Ryan whistled. "Nice. Hey Stace, why don't you tell Dean here what you've got?"

She rolled her eyes and leaned past her brother. "Something a lot prettier. And shut up. So Dean, what brings you out here? Are you here to see family for the holidays?"

The pang that time went all but unnoticed. He was busy checking out the way her blouse was tight in just the right places. "No. Pretty much the opposite. I dropped my brother off on the coast to see his friends from Stanford. Not my crowd, so I decided to tour around a while. Figured since it was christmas, I should find some snow."

Stacy perked up. "Well, good choice-we have tons of it as usual. But you're not going to be alone for the holidays, are you..?"

He shrugged. "I don't mind. I don't usually do much for it anyway. My brother and I are the only family left, so...it's pretty quiet for us. And we're not kids anymore...no point in pretending."

Stacy regarded him for a moment. Sure, he said it, but he wore a wistful expression while he did, and she didn't buy it for a minute. It was sad. "Well, at least you're here tonight. This is the place to be. Christmas Eve-Eve is the highpoint of the holidays around here, isn't it Ryan?"

He nodded and raised his glass to amen that. He was about to add something, but a clamour rose behind them by the entrance. Three men who had just arrived were already in a loud argument with other patrons. Ryan groaned and rose. "Great. The sainted Sadler brothers have made their grand entrance. Guess I'd better go talk to them." He left them, and made his way to the problem.

Dean turned to Stacy. "Does he need a hand?"

"No. He's used to it. He always gets asked to act as security at this thing. And those two idiots and their buddy are usually the biggest problem. But don't worry, they'll smarten up. As long as they aren't half-tanked already."

They both watched as Ryan talked them into behaving. He returned and reclaimed his seat, shaking his head. "Jack-asses."

"Are they going to settle down?" Stacy asked.

"Probably. Hopefully. Gary's pretty loaded, but Len's still sober enough. I don't know about Mike Harvey...he's looks like he's in a mood for trouble. We'll have to keep an eye on the three of them."

Stacy caught Dean's questioning look. She made a face that radiated her disgust. "They're the village idiots. The Sadler brothers and their shadow Mike Harvey are a rough bunch of louts and they're always getting into it. Can't ban them from these sort of things, all we can do is hope they have something better to entertain them. They like to get drunk and they like to bully people. It's a charming combination. But what can you do, right..?" She shrugged.

Dean could think of a few things. But it wasn't his place, and he had no argument with them. And it looked like Ryan could handle himself. He pointed to the logo. "You're a firefighter?"

"Paramedic. I work out of Station Two here in town. How about you?"

Dean had faced similar questions before. He had a ready answer. "Mechanic. I have a shop in..uh...South Dakota. I work with an old friend of my Dad's."

"Handy line of work, then. if you keep an old car on the road. And your brother's in school at Stanford?"

"Sort of. He was studying law. He's taking some time off, hanging out with me. He had a rough time, a while back. Lost his girl in a fire, and then our dad died, after...an accident. He needs to get his head straight about it."

Neither had anything they could say. It didn't matter, as the band had started up and conversation was nearly impossible. A raunchy version of some old rock tune filled the place. Stacy grinned and leapt to her feet. She grabbed Dean by the hand. "Come on-dance with me!"

He laughed, but was secretly mortified. He had no clue how to, and he wasn't about to try. "Catch me for a slow one-" he compromised. She promised, and headed out to join the throng of people. Dean and Ryan immersed themselves in discussion about their common interest, at times practically having to shout. They took turns picking up the tab for draughts, Ryan nursing his own much more slowly, as he was on security detail. Dean glanced at the dance floor several times, tracking Stacy. She was surrounded by her friends, and she moved so nicely that he really wished he had the guts or skill to join her. Later...he thought. Slow songs he could handle, and they could get nice and close...and he could hint at what he was very good at...

He was feeling a pleasant buzz. The beer was going down well, and he would have to slow down soon if he planned to drive at the end of the night. Ryan had been describing the restoration he'd been doing on his Mustang, but Dean had turned again to look for Stacy. When her brother's eyes followed where he was looking, he smiled. "Christ, Dean, you are sure a sucker for punishment."

Dean was going to say that he liked a challenge, when he saw one of the Sadlers making a bee-line for her. He stiffened and alerted Ryan with a look of concern. They watched tensely as the one named Gary grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. They couldn't hear the exchange, but Stacy did not take it lightly, and told him so. The man was belligerently drunk now, and he refused to let her go. Dean stood up, ready to intervene. But Ryan held him back.

"Give her her chance." he said. "She can take care of herself. Watch-"

She proved him right. Both were ready to step in, but Stacy Anderson had the situation well in hand. They witnessed as she yanked her arm free and pushed him back with a sharp rebuke. He reached out and grabbed her again by her shoulder and she spun, and delivered a lighning quick punch to his jaw. At that point he retreated. Ryan and Dean were poised to leap, but the lout glowered and stumbled back to where his own group stood hooting and pointing, and she returned to them, laughing a little shakily.

"How was that, big brother?" she said, still flushed from her altercation.

"Perfect. Let me see-" Ryan examined her hand for any hurts, but her knuckles were only reddened. "Good job. Manicure's still perfect."

She sat down and explained to Dean, who was still standing and looking perturbed. "That's Gary Sadler for you. Can't take no for an answer. I made the stupid mistake of going out with him once last year. You'd think he'd have learned from that."

Dean was attracted to her now more than ever, although it was tempered by a healthy respect. "You're ok? Should Ryan and I go talk to him..?"

She giggled. "Oooh, such chivalry! No, it's ok, relax. I think he got the message."

Dean sat down again warily. "Good. As long as you're sure.." He turned to get a look at the one in question. The man defined as a jack-ass was staring daggers in their direction. Dean didn't like it, he was a good judge of character and he was fairly sure that Gary Sadler would have more to say before the night was over. He wanted to warn as much, but his voice was drowned out. The frontman was announcing a song, the had band slowed their tempo and they began to play something better suited to Dean's comfort zone. Stacy didn't wait for him to ask. She nodded toward the floor with a smile, took his hand and they joined the rest of the half-cut romantics swaying clumsily to the music. As Dean pulled her closer and breathed in her softly perfumed warmth, he tuned everything else out, and thought that it was turning out to be a fine holiday after all. Merry Christmas, Winchester-he smiled to himself.