Rule 22: Never leave the windows open even if you put down salt lines.
"Are you sure this will be enough, Dean?" Sam asked as he and his older brother poured salt across the threshold of the motel room's door and window frames.
The older sibling nodded, peering through the one-inch space between the open window and its bottom frame at their father lying passed out across his bed. The boys had pulled the curtains down so no one would know there Dad was sleeping the sleep of the extremely intoxicated.
"Sam, there are no real ghosts out here tonight," the thirteen-year old assured him.
It had been his nine-year old brother who had insisted on putting down the lines of salt to keep their father safe while they explored the city of Santa Fe in the throes of Día de los Muertos.
Dean had wanted to go out. The days leading up to November second were always hardest on their father, who would rapidly become depressed and drink himself into a stupor when the anniversary of his wife's death came around. But Dean also felt the sting that remembering that fateful, horrible night in late 1983 caused.
Still very much a child however, he had been enticed by the prospect of the city's festivities, mostly so that he wouldn't have to sit in a smelly motel room while his father snored away like a lumberjack and his brother pestered him with questions about their Mom.
Dean hated it when Sam asked him about Mom. It wasn't that he didn't want his brother to know about her, but it was hard to talk about the woman who had been so violently taken from them, especially at this time of the year.
Sam set his saltshaker down and put his hand to his throat, the marks from the baby chupacabras that had attacked him in Castillo still visible.
"Hurry up, Sam," Dean barked but then his tone softened, "There's going to be a big parade downtown and I heard some kids say something about candy."
Wiping sweat from his forehead- it was as hot at night here in Santa Fe as it had been in Castillo, the reason they had cracked open the motel room's windows- Sam took hold of his brother's offered hand.
The nine-year old trotted along obediently after his brother. He was actually kind of excited; he had never been to a parade and one for honouring the dead was right up their alley.
SPN
John woke suddenly in the quiet motel room. Staring up at the water-stained ceiling, it took him a minute to orientate himself; remember where he was and why his head was aching.
Sitting up slowly, the hunter ran his tongue over his mouth and cringed at the foul taste lingering in his mouth. Pushing away from the bed, John intended to go to the bathroom and brush his teeth when he noticed that the motel room was quiet… too quiet.
"Dean?" he spoke, his voice raspy, "Sam?"
The room was not big, with two twin-sized beds; a cheap television perched atop a rickety stand and bathroom with hardly enough room for the hunter to easily move around in, it was clear that his sons were not there.
Frowning, wondering where his children could be, John became aware of the distant sound of music coming from downtown Santa Fe.
"Damn it, Dean," John muttered and stumbled into the bathroom, gripping the edge of the chipped porcelain sink with white knuckles.
Grabbing his toothbrush from where he had left it that morning, sitting in a flimsy plastic cup the motel provided, along with his sons' brushes, John glanced around for the toothpaste.
Now that he was standing, he knew he had had too much to drink. His head was starting to pound and his eyes felt like they were throbbing in their sockets.
Slopping the blue paste onto his toothbrush, John shoved it into his mouth and began washing the bad taste from his mouth.
"Jjjoooohhhnnnn."
The hunter froze; blue foam dribbled down his chin and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
"Jooohhhnnn."
The hunter tilted his head slightly, trying to catch the sound better. He turned off the water he'd left running and spat toothpaste into the sink.
"John."
Mary. The voice calling his name was unmistakably that of his late wife.
And it was coming closer…
SPN
"This is pretty cool, right?" Dean asked as he munched away on a sugar-coated churro, his brother silent beside him, munching away at his own treat with much less enthusiasm.
"I guess," Sam muttered.
"Huh? What's up?" Dean stopped and put a hand coated in oil and sugar on his sibling's shoulder.
The younger boy couldn't tell his brother that the crush of people standing on the sidewalks around them, cheering and dancing to the Latin music was making him anxious, or that the performers dressed as skeletons were scaring him.
"Maybe we should go back to the motel," Sam suggested, "You know, just in case Dad wakes up."
Dean frowned, "When are we ever going to get to do this again, Sammy? You know Dad would never let us go to something like this… hell; he won't even let us go to a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Besides, Dad will probably be asleep until morning. He's not going to wake up. We'll be back before he even realizes we were gone."
"Oh… okay," Sam muttered, wishing he was braver and had really spoken what was on his mind.
"Now shut up and eat your churros," Dean commented.
SPN
"Mary," John turned to peer out of the open bathroom door, wiping toothpaste foam from his mouth with his shirtsleeve.
"Mary, is that really you?"
"John."
Her voice called, sounding as though it was just outside.
Tears sprang into John's eyes and his heart ached.
"Mary," he murmured, "Come here."
"John…. Let me in…"
The hunter nodded, wanting nothing more than to see his beautiful bride once again, hold her in his arms even one last time. Hurrying across the motel room he flung open the door, pulling it inward and leaving the salt line his sons had lain undisturbed.
"Mary!"
There was no one there.
John frowned, confused, and called out his wife's name once again.
"Mary! Where are you?"
"John… Let me in… Let me in…"
Her voice again, so close, so close… but she was nowhere to be seen.
"Come in! Come in!" John encouraged, his heart beating furiously in his chest.
"The salt… I can't… the salt…"
"What? Salt?" John muttered and glanced down and spied the white crystalline line across the sidewalk in front of the door.
Stretching out a foot, John smudged the line with the toe of his boot.
"All of it… All of it…" Mary's voice encouraged.
John scattered the grains of salt even further, fanning them across the cement.
He looked up when an icy wind blew into the motel room and he turned his head to see the salt his sons had laid along the windowsills flung onto the stained carpet, useless.
Mary's voice laughed and John whipped his head back to the doorway.
His wife stood before him, dressed as she had been upon her death, her lithe form clothed in the silky white nightgown that he had given her for Christmas the year before. Her blonde tresses curled lightly across her shoulders and her green eyes- the same green of Dean's eyes- sparkled. She smiled faintly, one side of her mouth turned up just slightly.
"John," she spoke and her voice sounded more present, as though she was not speaking to him from across the veil but was actually, physically with him.
"M-Mary," the hunter choked out and held his arms out to embrace his wife.
The apparition stepped forward obediently and raised her arms to enfold them across John's neck, laying her head against his broad chest.
John felt tears course down his cheeks but he didn't care. His wife felt so real, so alive in his arms that he could almost believe that that awful night nine years ago.
SPN
Sam bent at the waist as partially digested churros and soda spewed from his mouth, Dean rubbing his back comfortingly while still munching away at his own snack.
Straightening, the nine-year old wiped his mouth with his sleeve, his eyes damp.
"Can we go, Dean?" he begged, "I don't feel good."
Peering up at his older sibling and feeling as though he might cry, Sam hoped his brother would take him back to the motel room.
The thirteen-year old stared at the revelers dancing, shouting and cheering around them and sighed.
"Okay Sammy," he murmured and took his brother's hand.
SPN
Not speaking, not wanting to ruin the moment, John moved backwards, bringing his wife into the motel room with him.
"John," Mary murmured, almost purring the name.
"Mary," he said, tightening his grip on his wife, as though she might vanish if he released her.
The woman lifted her head from his chest and stared into his dark eyes as though mesmerized, "Hold me John, now."
"I am, babe," he crooned, "I am."
"Love me," Mary whispered, her eyes locked on John's, "Love me."
"I do… oh Mary… I never stopped," the hunter assured her, fresh tears falling from his eyes.
"Kiss me," she demanded, her voice not the soft coo it had been a moment ago, but gaining a harder, authoritative edge.
John bent his head down to plant a kiss on the spot between his wife's eyebrows, something he used to do when she had been alive to make her laugh.
"Kiss me," Mary repeated, the peck she had just received not having its desired effect.
SPN
Sam was crying now. He couldn't stop throwing up. His mouth tasted of bile, his throat and nose burning. His stomach ached.
"We're almost there, Sammy," Dean reassured him, wishing he could do more for his brother.
SPN
Mary placed both hands on either side of John's face, not lightly, and demanded that he kiss her.
SPN
A trail of liquid dribbled from Sam's mouth and down his chin, his eyes glazed. Dean gripped his brother's wrist tightly, really becoming frightened now. He hoped they'd be able to wake their Dad up when they reached the motel room; he'd know how to help Sammy.
SPN
"Kiss me," Mary said again, "Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me."
SPN
Sam collapsed onto his knees, heaving onto the sidewalk. Dean, terrified his brother was dying, scooped the smaller boy into his arms and started running, the motel they were staying at within sight.
"Dad! Dad!" Dean shouted, his heart hammering in his chest.
SPN
"M-Mary," John stammered, his wife's words repeating like a broken record.
Mary was gripping her husband's head tightly, uncomfortably so, and he struggled to pull away from her grasp.
"Stop it!" he cried.
"Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me," Mary repeated, looking less and less like his beloved wife and more like an insane woman.
"Let me go!" John snapped and tried to shove his wife away but she dug her nails into the sides of his face and refused to let go.
"KISS ME, KISS ME, KISS ME!"
SPN
"Dad! Dad! Sammy's dying! DAD!" Dean ran up the sidewalk that led to their motel room, not even realizing that the door was standing wide open and nearly dropped his brother at the sight that greeted him.
SPN
John watched in horror as his wife's face melted away to reveal a skull with fangs instead of human teeth.
Still chanting, "Kiss me," the spirit turned at the sound of Dean's calls and its eyeless sockets focused on the boys.
SPN
"Dean! Look out!" John cried as he pulled his gun from the waistband of his jeans and shot the apparition once in the back.
The thirteen-year old dove to the floor the second his father's warning had been sounded, dropping heavily to the carpeted floor with his brother's weight in his arms.
The bullet John had loaded into his gun had been filled with salt- coming to Santa Fe on November second what else would it be- and the ghost of Mary Winchester vanished with an unearthly shriek.
"Salt!" John snapped, "Get the salt!"
Dean, still confused about what had just happened and concerned for his brother didn't move so John stepped outside and grabbed the saltshaker his youngest son had left beside the doorframe.
Working quickly, John poured a thick line of salt across the door and closed all he windows before doing the same to them.
Breathing heavily, he set the empty shaker on top of the TV and stared at his sons.
"Sammy's really sick," Dean whimpered, sitting up, touching the stinging rug burns on his elbows and knees, "I think he's dying."
John stepped up to his youngest child and lifted him, bringing the boy to the closest bed and laying him down.
Putting a palm on his son's brow, the father didn't feel any sign of fever.
"He just kept puking," Dean explained, creeping over to the bed.
"How much junk did he eat?" John asked, his voice sounding more tired than angry.
Dean didn't reply. There was no need.
"He'll be okay," John replied, "Get a Gatorade from my bag."
The thirteen-year old obeyed his father and held up the bottle of blue sports drink. Gingerly, John sat down on the edge of the bed beside his youngest, carefully lifting the boy's head with one hand as he expertly twisted the lid from the bottle with the other.
"Mmm," Sam hummed, "D'ddy."
"Drink this," John murmured, "It'll make you feel better."
Bringing the bottle to Sam's lips, the father carefully tipped it so a small amount of the Gatorade flowed into the boy's mouth. Laying the child's head back down, John set the bottle aside, sighing and ran a shaking hand through his black hair.
"D-Dad?" Dean's voice startled him slightly and he turned to see his eldest son peering at him with wide eyes.
"Yeah?"
"What… what was that thing when we came in… I thought it looked like-"
"A confused, angry spirit," John interrupted.
Dean didn't say anything for a moment but then whispered, "Because of what day it is?"
John nodded, not elaborating further.
"You look after your brother," he told Dean as he stood, "Make sure he drinks that. I'm going to get some rest."
The father stepped to the second bed and laid down, hoping that when he woke again, the night would be nothing more than a bad dream.
Author's Note:
Rule suggested by CarverEdlundtheLast.
Thanks to hecatess, elliereynolds777, and Mama's Stories for reviewing.
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