A Christmas Miracle

Chapter Four

The first thing that Sam became aware of was the hard press of cool polished wood his cheek was smooshed against. It smelled strongly of wax, nearly driving away the lingering scent of ozone that hung heavy in the air. The second thing he was aware of was a lifeless weight draped over his back, crushing the air from his lungs. The scent and feel of the warmth was familiar. Safe, hovering, protecting, irritating. It was a presence he was used to being nearby at all times, but not directly on top of him. The sensation made him feel vaguely uncomfortable. He reared back from the floor, elbowing the weight off onto the floor.

Dean fell into a heap beside him, grunting gently. Sam braced himself on his forearms and swung around to examine his brother. Other than being dazed, he seemed to be fine. His eyes fluttered, before focusing on Sam, his gaze hazy before coming amazingly and almost frighteningly sharp.

"Sam?"

It was two questions in a single word. Just by saying Sam's name, Dean conveyed that he wanted to know if his little brother was alright, and if he knew what the hell just happened. Sam grunted noncommittally in return, speaking classic Winchester that said in one wordless breath that he was okay, and he had no idea.

Carefully they pulled themselves off the wood floor, silently checking for broken bones or internal damage that wouldn't be readily apparent. A lifetime of being thrown into walls by angry spirits had taught them the danger signs and how to spot trauma.

Finding nothing wrong, not even a bruise, Sam turned his attention to the room, frowning fiercely. The wall they had ripped out was pristine, covered in green stamped wall paper flecked in gold. The longer he stared the more he thought he could make out designs of grapes and frolicking women in the faint print. He rotated away, taking in the simple wood furniture strewn across the room and the patchwork quilt spread over the queen bed.

"Toto, I don't think we are in Kansas anymore."

Sam snapped his head towards Dean who was standing by the window, the fine white lace curtain pushed away and pinned to the wall by his large dirty hand so he could look out into the street. Sam came up behind him, using his extra height to peer over his brother's shoulder.

The architecture of the street was vaguely familiar: L-shaped with a grassy square in the center. Clapboard buildings with false fronts lined the street with hand-painted signs advertising general goods and milled grain. The unpaved street was deep with black mud, turned up by wagon wheels and foot traffic. Wood sidewalks hid beneath brightly colored awnings that stretched out from the stores. Between the clusters of buildings where there was no protection, flat boards had been thrown down so people could cross without sinking into the mud.

Filthy brown snow was piled in the alleyways, lumped up against the buildings and the entire town had a feeling of impermanence. As though it had only been built yesterday and had yet to grow into itself.

Strangely enough, in the center of the square was a huge pine tree that was decorated with colorful ribbons and handmade ornaments. They couldn't make out much detail from their perch on the fifth story, but the large gold star on top of the tree immediately caught Sam's attention. It seemed to glitter in the early afternoon sunlight.

Shouting from the street drew their eyes to a man who stood at the head of a team of horses. They were attached to a flatbed wagon that was loaded with grain sacks. The man had one of the horses by the bridle and was trying forcefully pull the mare forward, while a woman sat on the bench cracking the reins. The wagon lurched forward suddenly as the sucking mud loosened its grip on the wagon wheel. The man continued to lead the horses through the most solid patches of mud, while his wife clicked the reins.

"Of course we're still in Kansas. Just not when we used to be."

Sam's nonchalant reply did not match the turmoil he felt inside. A thousand questions raced through his brain, starting with, how do they get home, and ending with, can the demon who held Dean's soul find them here?

Dean turned to stare at his brother. His mouth dropped open, but he realized at the last moment there was nothing to say. Sam was right. They were still in Kansas, just obviously not when they started out. From his estimate they had gone back roughly a hundred and fifty years. To a time of fresh ideals, a sense of possibility and deeply ingrained prejudice. The humor was not lost on Dean.

"You know what tip 63 of the Most Dangerous Night on Sci-fi is?"

Sam looked at his brother like he had lost his mind, but he played along.

"What?"

"If you open a doorway into another dimension, make sure you know how to close it."

"Ha ha. Very funny. Where do you get this stuff, Dean?"

"Late night T.V."

Simultaneously they both looked around the room, the reality of their situation sinking in when they saw no cable TV hook up. Both their gazes settled on the empty bed, then skimmed down to their naked chests.

"Our clothes," said Sam distressed.

"Our guns," Dean said at the same time, even more distressed.

"My book," Sam gasped lastly. He bolted from his place by the window, dropping on his knees by the bed to search beneath it.

"I don't think you are gonna find it, Sammy."

Dean scratched his chest, leaving red marks across his pale flesh. He crossed the room to the closed door that previously led to the bathroom, holding his breath expectantly. He knew why Sam was so upset. The book he had been reading was the manual to opening and closing dimensional doorways and their best hope for getting back home, but Dean was practical. If the rest of their stuff hadn't made it through, then nothing else would have either.

He pushed open the door to the water closet. A spindly-legged wash table was pushed up against the wall next to the only window in the room. On top sat a porcelain cream colored basin and matching pitcher. He stepped closer, releasing a relieved sigh when he found water inside the pitcher. A shadow of movement caught his eye and he looked up to see his wavering reflection in the oval mirror that was suspended on the wall above the table. His reflection was clear, but there was a slight wave to it, that told him the mirror wasn't glass, but polished metal instead. Shrugging he took one of the fluffy folded towels from beneath the table and poured some water in the basin.

"The book is gone."

Sam appeared breathless in the doorway, his gaze distracted as he searched the room. His brow furrowed a bit when he noticed a covered cast iron pot tucked into the corner of the small room. Dean followed his gaze and smirked.

"Gotta go potty?"

Sam just frowned at him, and Dean smirked some more, knowing that his brother's innate fastidiousness was disturbed by the presence of the chamber pot.

"Here."

He threw a wet rag at Sam, hitting him square in the chest with a splat. Sam caught the rag and looked at it questioningly.

"Clean yourself up as good as you can. We gotta find some clothes."

Dean shoulder his way past his brother and opened the door to peer down the hall. Being that it was the middle of the day, not a lot of people were moving around. It was a good bet they wouldn't be in their rooms either. After Sam cleaned himself off as best he could, they moved methodically down the hall, each taking one side and checking all the rooms.

They met back at their room, dumping the ill-gotten booty in the center of the bed. They emptied their pockets as well. They both had their wallets, filled with fake credit cards and modern day cash. Both of which was just as useless to them as the tiny pieces of papers with women's phone numbers that fell out of Dean's wallet.

Dean smiled up at his brother unashamedly. In Dean's front pocket he had two salt loaded shotgun shells and half a bag of peanuts. The only thing in Sam's pocket was a simple black bead rosary. Dean looked at it in askance, and Sam scowled at him.

"Yah, like Tina's, Nina's or Tiffy's cell numbers are ever gonna help us out in a bind."

Dean smiled and patted Sam on the back.

"I guess that depends on what kind of bind you're looking to get out of." Dean's tone was dirty, and Sam shrugged him off while rolling his eyes.

"Find any weapons?" Dean asked. As soon as Dean realized their stuff was gone, he had felt a deep sense of unease building in his chest. He was never without a weapon of some sort. Especially his gun. Right now the only thing they had was his huge Bowie knife that he always kept tucked in a sheath in the back of his pants. Without his .45 he felt naked and vulnerable. And worse, he felt incapable of protecting his little brother.

"No."

Sam knew weapons were a priority, but he was more concerned over the loss of his book. He didn't think Dean realized the severity of their situation. Without that book, Sam didn't think he would be able to get them back home. Personally he wasn't prepared to live out his golden years in an era that didn't even have penicillin.

"Come on this is the Old West. They gotta have some pistols around here," Dean whined and Sam tried to push down his impatience.

"Yah, they are probably wearing them, Dean."

"Awesome. Do you think we'll see some gunslingers?"

Sam had to force himself not to smile. While Dean's outlook on life may seem irresponsible to some, and really did irate Sam on more than one occasion, no one really understood Dean's humor like Sam did.

"Dean, could you try to be a little less excited?"

"C'mon, Sammy. It's the Old West. What's there not to be excited about? It will be just like when we used to play cowboys and Indians when we were kids."

Sam paused riffling through the clothing on the bed. He shot the dirtiest look he could dredge up at his older brother, who had the courtesy to look just slightly abashed.

"I remember. You used to try and string me up for horse thieving." Sam's tone dropped with ill-concealed brotherly venom as he turned away to shrug on a red-checkered button-down shirt he found.

"Well I needed to practice my hog tying skills somehow," Dean replied affably, shrugging on his own shirt.

"You mean on someone besides poor Jimmy Dozer?"

"That little brat deserved what he got. No one teases my little brother, but me." Dean's voice turned ruthless, but Sam could hear the undercurrent of affection beneath.

"Wow, you're a romantic at heart, aren't ya Dean?" Sam teased, skirting away, when his big brother made a half-hearted attempted to slug him in the arm.

"Shut up, brat."

They finished dressing in silence, stopping to check their appearance when they were done. Their muddy boots would pass well enough, and their denim jeans, though stone-washed and a great deal lighter than the dark canvass ones worn by the cowboys, should get them by. Especially if they kept their jackets on.

Dean had found a dark ankle length slicker with a high collar in one of the rooms. The oiled leather was stiff, but it was perfect for keeping out rain and snow. He found a brown cowboy hat next to it, which he tilted low over his eyes. Sam had to admit that his brother blended perfectly with his new environment. Strap a six-shooter to his thigh, and you wouldn't be able to tell he wasn't born in this era.

Sam had dredged up a tan suede jacket lined with lamb's wool that fell to his mid-thigh. It was comfortable and warm, but it would be useless in a rain storm. Thankfully for now the weather seemed to be bright and sunny outside, if not cold. In another room he had found a white Stetson which he pushed back on his head so he could see. He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, and Dean couldn't help but to think that Sam looked like exactly like what he was. A geek out of his element. Without a computer or a book nearby, Sam was uneasy and worried.

Together they went down the back service stairs, avoiding the lobby and any unnecessary questions. It was doubtful their room reservation followed them back in time, and they were sure that the hotel staff would want to know why a couple of cowboys were wondering around their establishment. Dean slammed out the back door, and Sam held his breath a few seconds before he realized there was no fire alarm.

It was cold outside. The type of crisp cold that stole the air from your lungs and made your chest burn. It was bracing and felt good, almost cleansing. The air was light and fresh. Dean could smell wet horse and wood rot, but there was no cloying taste of vehicle exhaust in the back of his throat or the odor of tar and asphalt in his nose. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with cleanliness.

They stepped directly into half froze mud, the soles of the boots sinking half an inch before stopping. They took their time navigating around the building, staying close to the icy snow that was piled in the shadows of the buildings where the ground was most solid. Eventually they reached the street and were able to get up on the raised, wooden boardwalk.

"Dean, we need to know exactly where we are at. Maybe then we can figure out what to do and how to get back."

"Yah, I hear you, Sam."

Dean shrugged his brother away who was encroaching dangerously close to his personal space. Nearby, just outside a leatherworking store, snoozing in a rocking chair was an old man. The man slit one cagey eye as they neared; their booted heals on the boards making enough racket to wake the dead.

"Hey, old timer. What day is it?"

"December 23rd," the man replied easily as if it weren't an uncommon question. Sam supposed in a time where the only clocks were the sun and the moon, and days were just a way of marking time, most people lost track.

"What year?" Dean prodded and Sam felt a flutter of unease in his stomach, already afraid of the answer.

The man frowned at them, gravely looking them both over from head to toe before replying.

"You boys been out on the Range for a while, haven't you?"

"Yes sir." Dean gave the man his best smile and waited for the answer.

"Its 1863."

Sam's stomach plummeted, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. He planted his palm in the valley of Dean's shoulders to anchor himself to reality. Sensing what his brother needed, Dean remained still, solid beneath Sam's touch.

"Thanks." Dean touched fingers to his hat, dipping his chin in respect. Once he felt that Sam had his bearings again, he stepped away, leading his brother to a secluded doorway.

"Dean, he said 1863."

"Yah, I heard him, Sam."

"In about fourteen hours Shalor is going to open a doorway to Hell and the whole town is going to burn."

"Yah, I got that too, Sam."

"Was this what I saw in my vision? Did I see the past? If so, then what are we doing here? Are we supposed to stop it? How did we get here? That doorway isn't meant to take us through time. It's meant to be a doorway to Hell. Did I draw the wrong runes? Did I screw up somehow? Is this meant to be?"

Sam turned away, muttering to himself like a deranged madman. Dean could do nothing but wait, shifting his weight uncomfortably from one leg to another. With each question Sam asked himself, Dean felt his chest squeeze a little tighter. Every question was a valid one. Especially the questions of how they had gotten there and was it meant to be?

Dean wasn't as easygoing as he portrayed to everyone around him. He had worries. Lots and lots of worries. But he kept those to himself, because he knew that Sam already had so much on his plate. Besides, a lifetime of shoving it down in his gut made him a master of many disguises. Most of them were meant to protect himself or his family, and today was a day that he needed to don one in order to help his brother.

Dean slapped his brother heartily in the center of his back, slapping on a careful, carefree smile at the same time.

"C'mon, Sam. Stop being such a worry wart. Of course we were sent back to stop it. That's what we do. We're hunters. We can't let some big nasty step out into our world if we can help it."

"But, Dean, what if by doing so we damage time itself? We can't undo the past without sacrificing the future."

Dean allowed his smile to melt away, and his lips stretched into a serious thin line.

"Sometimes the past is so bad that it deserves to be wiped away. And if the future that comes from the past is really terrible, then whatever we do to it, can't be worse than what it already is."

"Yah, but we don't know how far the repercussions could extend."

"You just gotta have a little faith, Sam. We wouldn't be here unless we could do something good."

"You? Have faith? Dean—I." Sam cut himself off, a look of stupefied wonder on his face. Dean cut his eyes away, staring at the Christmas tree that stood tall across the street in the town square.

"Call it deathbed religion or whatever you want, Sam, but I don't think we would be here unless we had some sort of purpose. And I say that purpose is to put Shalor in his grave and keep the good people of Lawrence, Kansas safe from harm." Dean looked back at his brother, his green eyes resolute. His stare was so intense that it stole a little of Sam's breath away. "What do you say, little brother? You agree?"

"Yah, Dean. I do."

They stared at each other for long seconds, a weight dissolving off both of their chests. For the first time in a long time since the day Sam died and Dean made a terrible sacrifice, they were working together in tandem for one distinct and all-important goal.

Saving people, hunting things.