Chapter 2
"Where are we now?" Dean looked around, and for once he was sure that he didn't recognize the place that Sammy had brought him. The house was pristine and decked out with Christmas lights and reindeer in the front yard. It was complete with a snowman that looked like it was waving at them, its carrot nose lopsided. He could see a family laughing at a Christmas tree, two small children shaking presents while their parents shook their heads. Dean continued to stand at the street's edge, not really understanding what they were doing there. "I know how those kinds of families celebrate Christmas; I don't want to see what Sam could have had. I know quite well what I tore him away from, thank you."
Sammy shook his head. "I know you're aware of that, but this is significant too. Come on now, silly."
Dean just shook his head, not seeing any other choice in the matter. He crunched across the snow, noticing that while his feet did sink in, the footprints behind him disappeared as if he'd never been there. For reasons known only to him, this struck his heart oddly, and he found himself transfixed at the sight until Sammy came.
"I am not here for that, Dean. That is a different spirit altogether, and it is not his time yet, nor yours. Now come see what I want you to."
Dean shook a little at hearing those words come from his brother's mouth, even if it was really the ghost of Christmas and not really his Sammy. He followed the boy and peered into the window. There he saw the man he had been speaking to earlier in the day. This man had come to him, yet another friend of his father, with the poltergeist problem that had caused Sam's concussion.
"We won't linger here too long; we have another – more important – present to see. But this, in its own way, is a must-see for you. You and your father and lately your brother have spent your lives running from one hunt to another, not willing to sit back and take a little time to see what life has to offer you. Sam did for awhile, but even with the taste of what that life has to offer, your enemies have seen fit to drag him back in, and now…well, I digress. This family is being terrorized by a poltergeist, correct? They are the people that you are so Hell-bent on helping? Had to help them tonight, and are planning on getting back here first thing to try and chase it out?"
Dean nodded; he wasn't sure what this was all leading to. Why shouldn't he and Sam get this job done as quickly as possible? They were helping others, weren't they? Giving without thinking of themselves and all that? The man had thought that if he had one part of Christmas right, it would have been that.
It seemed that the ghost of Christmas could read minds as well; or Dean had been speaking aloud. "Giving and helping others. Yes, that is part of the spirit of Christmas, but there's no reason for you and Sam to give all of yourselves every second of the day. This family is being terrorized; they are all sleeping here in the living room under the tree tonight, not because it is some tradition of theirs, but because it is the only room you and Sam were able to purify. It is the only place they are safe right now. But Dean; does it look to you like they're worried about that right now? Does it look to you like they have ignored Christmas so that they can concentrate on getting rid of that poltergeist?"
"Well…no."
"No. They aren't. That spirit is going to be around the day after Christmas, and even the next day. They don't expect you and Sam to give up your holiday for them, anymore than they plan on giving it up themselves. So they'll make some accommodations, and sleep here tonight, but for those boys, Santa Claus will come and there will be presents to open tomorrow morning. There will be family time and a big Christmas dinner for them. Because that is their want, and they know that they can wait another day to wander back to their rooms."
Dean watched as the two boys ran rampant. They both reminded the man of his brother and him when they were that age, and he found himself smiling. "They really don't look afraid, do they? Any of them?"
"No. They aren't Dean. They're simply content to be with one another; happy, healthy, and together."
Dean nodded. He laughed along with the family as the older boy parodied Jingle Bells with the now-familiar Batman verse. He could remember the first time he'd heard Sam sing it, and remembered the wrestling match that had followed. He had been almost eleven at the time, his little brother had been six for almost half a year, he would proudly tell anyone who would listen. Under the pretense of it being Christmas, Dean had let Sam win the match, watching with a grin on his own face as Sam had pranced around the room, poking fun at his brother and bragging at how strong he was getting.
He didn't notice when the scene in front of him began to shift again. He only noticed that it was much warmer than it had been once, and he was wondering idly how the snowman was going to feel about that. He turned around to check only to find himself almost plummeting from a balcony. With a gasp, Dean threw himself backwards, almost knocking into the brick building behind him. He glared when he heard Sammy giggling hysterically, holding onto his stomach and rolling around on the ground.
"For an age-old spirit, you sure do act like my brother did when he was eight." Dean glared, but found his heart light at the sight.
"You should have seen the look on your face when you turned around. You didn't even know we were ten stories up! Hah!" The boy sobered quickly, drawing himself back up to his feet and facing the adult before him. "This is the important scene that I wanted you to see, what is happening in the present, even as your brother lies asleep and you…well, you're with me. Watch now, and really see…"
The room was dreary and poorly-lit. There was a chair and desk, as well as a small bed with a few blankets tossed haphazardly on top of it. The room was devoid of people or any type of holiday decoration. There was a small lamp on the desk, and a cooler behind the desk. Dean couldn't understand what they were doing there. It didn't seem to fit in with Sammy's trip so far. If he didn't know better, Dean would have sworn that this was somewhere his father was holed up.
As the door opened and light spilled into the room, Dean realized that he didn't know better. There, alive and as well as Sam was, stood John Winchester. Complete with a beard borne of a lack of his wife's gentle reminders, personified in his boys, the man was there. He looked a little worse for the wear than Dean remembered, had a few more bruises, and a little bit of a limp to accompany them, but there – in the flesh – was Dean's father.
The man's breath was caught in his throat. He had assured Sam out in Colorado that they would find John, had made sure that Sam believed the man was indeed among the living still. But such is the charge of being a big brother, and even if Dean hadn't believed that his father could still be alive, he had to make sure that Sam did.
But now, here stood John, paused at the doorway as if he too was frozen in time. Dean wanted nothing more than to rush his father and hug him, not that he ever really would, but a small hand on his arm stopped him from trying to at least move closer.
"He can't see you, remember. Just watch." Sammy pointed back into the room, allowing Dean to watch his father slump down into the chair at the desk.
John took out a cell phone and checked the voicemail, and his father's eyes lit up for only an instant. A smile ghosted across his lips as the oldest Winchester hung up with the computer, stared at the electronic for a moment more, and hid it back in his pocket. The man sighed before reaching for the cooler. He pulled out a glass beer bottle and gulped it down quickly before putting it down again. The man then reached into his other pocket and pulled out something that was hidden in the palm of his left hand. With his right hand, John pulled his wallet from his back pocket.
The man rifled through the fake ids and credit cards, searching for the one thing that gave him hope these days. When his fingers finally grasped it and pulled it from the tattered leather, John breathed a sigh of relief, staring at the object as if it were his only link to sanity.
With a glance around him as if he knew that someone was watching, the Winchester patriarch stuck the object from his left hand into the beer bottle and balanced the object from his right on it. He then closed both hands around the bottle and bowed his head for a moment.
"Merry Christmas, boys. Wherever you are."
With that, John lay down his head on his arms. His shoulders shook only once, the beer bottle still tightly clasped in his right hand.
Sammy pulled on Dean's hand, allowing him access into the condemned apartment and a better view of what his father had created. There, in John's hand, was a sprig of a pine tree, just big enough to hold a small picture of both Sam and Dean. The boys were sledding, and Dean could see that he couldn't have been more than eight years old, making little Sam only three or four. The snow was caught in their hair and the grins on their faces wiped any thought in Dean's mind of supernatural beings and hunting.
"Where is he? Where are we now?"
"It is not my place to tell you that, Dean Winchester. I can not tell you how to get to your father. That is his prerogative. Just know that he is safe, and he does care."
"Yeah."
The man couldn't help it. He rested his hand gently, almost timidly, on his father's right shoulder, and a look to Sammy stopped the ghost's rebuke. They both watched in wonder as John's left hand came up, resting on top of Dean's. Their fingers interlaced and Dean could have pulled his hand away without moving his father's, but the touch was there just the same. It almost drove Dean to tears. He could tell that his father was asleep, just deeply enough to actually rest, but light enough that any noise would awaken him. The oldest boy had seen so much of that in the four years that Sam was gone.
"We must go soon, before we are detected." Sammy whispered as he tugged on Dean's sleeve once more. "We will talk at our next destination."
"Please," Dean whispered back, a note of pleading in his voice, "just a few minutes more?"
Sammy nodded, allowing his tour to be paused for a moment as Dean was once again given something just as important as the Christmas spirit. The twenty-six year old was given hope.
Some time later, Dean found himself out in the darkness once more. He was surprised to find himself alone, and turned in circles several times before catching sight of a shadow. He vaguely remembered that the one time he had seen A Christmas Carol, the ghost of Christmas yet to come was a shadow, so he walked cautiously towards it. As he did so, it seemed that the shadow pulled away from him, leading him onwards. Rolling his eyes, Dean followed it. He twisted and turned through the wooded path, starting to run after his spirit, tempted to shout at it to stop. When he finally found himself hopelessly lost and in complete blackness, the hunter turned in circles once again, wishing that he had a gun or a knife to make him more comfortable.
Then he heard it. Giggles. Coming from behind him. He turned and glared, watching Sammy roll around on the ground in laughter again. "You were chasing a shadow! I can't believe you fell for that. I told you Dickens got it wrong after he 'dreamt' about me. You chased a shadow into complete blackness and then wondered why you couldn't find it again."
Dean found himself smiling. "You sure aren't very…you're acting like a little kid."
"I am a little kid. Don't you get it? I only last one night, and then I am gone, a fleeting whisper of a ghost reincarnated only once a year. For all the Christmases I have been around for, that only makes me the equivalent of an adolescent. Not even really. Think about that one for awhile. There has only been something like two thousand Christmases. I am really less than six of your years old. Give me a break!"
Dean tried to do the math in his head and found that it hurt his brain. Leave it to Sam, or the image of him anyway, to come up with something like that. "Is this what we are here to see?"
"No, silly. I told you we would talk once we left your father. You are so keen on being just like him; just like Sam wanted to be like you. But even your father celebrates Christmas in his own way. He is afraid for you and Sam, always has been; afraid to have shown too much emotion when it came to the holidays. But even now he doesn't forget. And right now, for his own reasons, that picture is the closest thing he has to family. And true, he will spend Christmas day melting silver and sharpening knives, but he never stops to give thanks that he knows you boys are going to be just fine. Because you have that much of your mother in you, and will be able to survive whatever evils come your way. At least…he hopes so."
"He…hopes so? Do you know something I don't? And what was that voicemail?"
"Your brother. He left your father a Merry Christmas message. It's the best present you boys could ever give him, letting him know that you are together and safe."
"But I didn't do anything. Hell, I didn't even know Sam called him."
"But you went and got Sam; you're protecting him even now, and your father still trusts you more so than himself to keep Sam safe. And that is the best Christmas present for him. And you've been giving it to him every day since your brother was born."
Dean smiled. "So are we off to the future now? Or is that another thing that good ole' Charlie boy got wrong."
"'Charlie boy' got it right. You, however, have it wrong. I do not show the future. I show what is yet to come. It can be…"
"Changed? Does this mean I'm not going to like this?"
Sammy cocked his head to the side. "This will be our last stop. My last attempt to make you see. Then it is up to you."
"You didn't answer my questions."
"No. I didn't." The boy smirked before running off into the woods again. Dean was hard-pressed to keep up, but when he did, he found that he was right. He didn't like what he saw.
Two gravestones. Side by side. The dates obscured by overgrown weeds. No flowers or flags to commemorate the deceased. No epitaph to bring light to who they were save one word: Brothers. The names were blurred, and the gray granite stones looked cracked and decrepit. Light from the moon shadowed the words on the stones.
Dean looked at the cemetery around him, trying to etch it into his memory so that he could physically stay away from the place at any time in the future. He started at the whisper in his ear.
"Do you think I wouldn't distort this just enough to prevent that? It will take more than running to change this." With that, Sammy shoved Dean a few steps forward, letting the moon light the words instead of shadowing them.
Samuel Winchester
1983 - 20 >>
Dean Winchester
1979 - 20 >>
"But…the dates…" Dean glared, trying to reach out and clear more debris away.
Weeds clung stubbornly to the right corners of both grave markers, refusing under any circumstance to reveal the year of the Winchester boys' deaths. No amount of prying, or rubbing, or trying to feel through the leaves would bring that to light.
"You won't tell me how much time I have left with him?"
"That is not my place either. You can only take from this what you will. But know this. If this is to come to pass, you are not the only ones who will suffer. Who will continue your work? Who will tell your father what has come to pass? Who will avenge your mother's death if this is to come true?"
"We all have to die. And what better way than to die with my brother?"
"Better way?" Sammy scoffed. "And of course you all have to die. You are mere mortals. But how would you feel watching your brother die for you? Being left alive for just long enough to know that his death was in vain? As your own life-blood pours out and you fall next to him? Or what if he were to leave you? Not physically of course, but through his resentment of being denied even the simplest joys? To watch as he wastes away in this life that you have been given? Or to die apart, neither knowing that the other has passed, only to be laid to rest mere inches from each other, yet still unknown. No one will know your story. You know that of course. They can't, or the world would have that fewer innocent joys in the world. But you have much yet to accomplish, and you deny those as your brother wastes away. He was not truly meant for this life, though nothing could change his past now. He needs to be reminded sometimes, that this is all worth it. Or you are going to lose him. Again."
The boy pointed behind him, and Dean saw that his grave marker was gone. "What does that image hold for you? Fear? Anger? Sadness? Guilt? All of those and more? Emotions that your brother is even now weighed down with? You dragged your brother to see the new Star Wars movies before he left for college. All of those lead to suffering, don't they? You don't want that to be your future, do you? To be left alive, knowing that you will never be able to look upon your brother again. You told him yourself when you let him go back to Stanford that night…back to Jess…that you make a Hell of a team. And the world needs that. They need for this image to never come to pass. Two gravestones, commemorating old men who lived full, if not off the beaten path, lives and died knowing that they were able to make a difference in the world. That is what needs to be yet to come. Not this single marker. And that is what you can make happen."
"But how do I do that?" Dean turned and found himself alone again, outside the motel room once more. "How do I…"
"Just think, Dean Winchester. Think and your heart will tell you." The words were whispers on the wind, but Dean heard them loud and clear. He had work to do, and not a lot of time to do it in.
TBC...
The last part may be shorter, I'm not sure yet, but never fear - it will be up sometime before the end of Christmas Day...probably late Christmas Eve night...my present to you all I guess...