AN: The promised second chapter. From ghost bear to teddy bear (aka Bobby).
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4:41 am
Sammy giggled, and despite how cute the sound was, Dean tightened his arms. The pint-sized nugget seemed barely big enough to walk, and his wrist was still broken, but he sure could move when he wanted to. And he wasn't afraid in the slightest of the giant, glowing bear that was disappointingly real. It wandered in and out, seemingly at random, and never attempted to cross their salt line. And no other ghosts appeared, making Dean wonder if the bear was somehow keeping them away.
That didn't mean he was about to go where it could get to him. Sammy had no such compunctions, and he squirmed in Dean's arms, making the older boy gasp. His stomach had finally mostly stopped bleeding, but if he had to wrestle the toddler, it could well get worse again. And Dean was already so very tired. When Sam had woken up, a little older than he looked now, there was still some of the adult Sam behind his eyes, but that seemed to be gone now. He was just a little tyke eager to check out the giant, living (or not so much) teddy bear.
Figures. Dean snorted to himself. Sammy had literally been afraid of his own shadow for a while, but a huge ghost bear? No problem.
Sam wiggled too hard and whimpered, hurting his own arm. "Hold still, Sammy," ordered Dean, trying to channel his own adult self, which seemed farther and farther away by the minute. "You can look at the bear, but stay on my lap." Sam subsided but cast a sad, pleading look at Dean.
"Bear?" he asked in his tiny voice, and Dean deliberately looked away. If the big eyes and pouting lips weren't lethal enough, there wasn't much more adorable than the tiny body in perfectly fitting little jeans and AC/DC shirt (that he'd stolen from Dean's duffel a month before and never returned, the rat).
Dean looked instead at grizzly ghosty, which was wandering down the hall again. Its faint glow reminded him of a Sherlock Holmes story he'd read in a book he'd swiped from Sam in secret years and years ago. Too bad The Hound of Baskerville wasn't a good story for a 2-year-old. Although it was a good thing that this apparition was an actual ghost and not just an animal dipped in phosphorescent paint, since the latter could have crossed a salt line with no problem.
"If you sit still I'll tell you a story," Dean bribed.
"Tory?" Sammy froze, and Dean hid a smile. It was a magic word for the kid at pretty much any age. For grown-up Sam, it might be research, but same idea.
"Once upon a – son of a bitch!" A light appeared at the window, lighting up a familiar, bearded face. Forgetting the ghosts and pretty much everything except his need to get Sammy somewhere safe, Dean scrambled awkwardly toward the window. It was so awkward because his pants were rolled up seven or eight times, his shoes didn't fit any more, his belt could barely keep his jeans up even on the newest hole he'd put in it, he was carrying a toddler, and oh, yes, he'd been stabbed earlier. But none of that stopped him.
He slapped the paper he'd painstakingly written his message on against the window, but Bobby didn't look at it immediately. He was busy staring at the boys, mouth hanging open. The man was rarely caught off guard. He hadn't looked half this surprised when he'd opened his dryer to find it had been inhabited by pixies. Dean had to stifle a laugh at the remembrance of what Bobby had looked like covered in the multi-hued, hummingbird-sized creatures.
Actually, Dean had never seen Bobby look so flabbergasted. But right now, he needed Bobby to hurry and read the message so they could get back into their salt…oval. Dean shook the paper slightly, and Bobby focused on it. He didn't look up again, even when Sammy started slapping his hands against the window over and over, chanting, "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby!"
Of course, Bobby couldn't hear him. Too bad Dean could.
It seemed to take forever for Bobby to read the note, but then he nodded. His eyes lifted and touched on the newly younger features of his friends, then widened. Dean understood. Something was behind them. Dropping the paper, he spun as fast as he could while holding Sammy and found the bear was already halfway across the room toward them. Dean dashed for safety, twisting his body as he half dove, half fell into the protected area. A sob was torn from him as he came down hard with Sam on his chest and his stomach screamed in protest. The bear loomed, its glow seeming to be all Dean could see, and he refocused. His foot had scraped a clear break in the salt line.
The bear gave Dean one last jaundiced look, and turned away again. Hardly able to breathe through pain and fear, Dean carefully tumbled Sammy off of himself and curled painfully to a sitting position. Keeping one hand on Sam's ankle, Dean used a hand to carefully fix the salt line.
He didn't realize that he was panting and crying until Sammy climbed back in his lap and wrapped tiny arms around him as far as they would go. Somehow, this made it hurt just a little less. Dean unreservedly hugged back and buried his face against the tot's head. He let Sam's hair catch the tears that he couldn't seem to stop. Trembling, Dean whispered reassurances to Sam and himself, still determined to protect his little brother, but terrified by the thought that he couldn't. He looked for his normal courage, but he could no longer seem to touch the man he'd been.
Hurry up, Bobby.
WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER
"Robert Steven Singer, get it together," Bobby harshly scolded himself. He tore his mind from the innocent hope and abject fear he'd seen on the freckled face in the window. It was the face of the boy who'd followed him around the salvage yard wanting to learn everything about cars. The face that had smiled so impishly when Bobby found that all of the cookies were gone – again. The face of a boy he'd loved. And that other little face – well, he couldn't afford to think of that, either. That was the face of the first really small child Bobby had ever held, the first child to fall asleep in his arms, the face of the child who repeatedly climbed into his lap and demanded stories. The face of the other boy he'd loved.
If he admitted it, those boys were the most important people in Bobby's world, and if he didn't get off his ass, they were going to disappear on the other side of that window. He could do math as well as your average man, and he guessed Sam had less than an hour left until…
And he'd always known those boys were a two-for-one deal.
Ruthlessly pushing it all down, Bobby ripped what he needed out of the bag of important shit he'd hauled with him. He was cataloging and trying to understand the message Dean had showed him. God, little Dean…no. Focus. He needed to summon a ghost, and right now. He pictured the note as he worked.
Spell cast by accdnt. Summon witch ghost cnvnce to fix. Philomena Karridwen Carridwhen Karadwen Walsh. Mstly sane. Angry tht mom killed. Powerful.
The first two attempts at Cerridwen were crossed out and the last word was underlined twice.
Convince a dead, powerful "mostly sane" witch to undo her spell? No problem, Bobby thought, even as he laid out the accoutrements he'd need for the summoning. He had everything he needed except for something of Philomena's, but he was hopeful that performing the rite at her home would be enough. He knew the steps by heart, but double checked everything just to be sure. Be quick, but don't hurry, Rufus used to say when he was still teaching Bobby the ropes. He meant don't rush and make mistakes, even when time was of the essence. And time was pressing down on Bobby now. Those men were just boys now, trapped, scared, essentially defenseless. But he had no intention of failing them.
Bobby lit the candles, took a second to center himself, then began the incantation, never needing to double check the paper in his hand. "Philomena Cerridwen Walsh, amate spiritus obscure, te quaerimus, te oramus, nobiscum colloquere, apud nos circital."
The candles flickered and the salt line he'd poured blew away like it had never existed. Oh, shit, Bobby thought. The world went dead still, then a girl, no, a young woman, appeared in the center of the candles. She didn't flicker into existence or manifest slowly. She just was there, and solid enough that he almost would have been fooled about her corporeality if she hadn't emitted a gentle yellow glow. Bobby swallowed, then removed his hat and inclined his head politely. He knew manners were a big deal back when she'd been alive. "Miz Walsh? My name is Bobby Singer. Thank you for coming here to meet with me." Like she'd had a choice. Or maybe, with her power, she had. Either way, he hoped the politeness wouldn't go awry.
Birdlike, she tilted her head to the side, staring at him like he was a strange puzzle. "You may call me Philomena, Mr. Singer," she said in a girlish voice.
"Bobby, please." So far, she hadn't done a single thing to indicate she was any kind of threat, but that didn't convince the hair on the back of Bobby's neck to lie down. He could sense the otherness, or maybe the sheer power, of what stood before him. "I am here because my friends Sam and Dean – they're almost like my sons – are inside your house. They came to help your – " don't say victims, " – uh, the ghosts trapped in there."
Bobby waved a hand toward the house, and Philomena's ethereal gaze obediently followed the gesture. At least she was paying attention. "But now, they're trapped too, and getting younger. Could you please let them out?"
Philomena was frowning now. "I do not like the ghosts. They are scared and angry and feel so many things." She shuddered, then made a gesture with one hand too fast for Bobby to follow. As quickly as she'd appeared, the ghost of a bear showed up at her side, leaning lightly against her and coming nearly to her shoulder. Philomena absently petted the bear's head, and it pushed into the contact like a cat. "I told James Francis Edward Stuart to keep the ghosts away from Sam and his brother."
"James…" Bobby's mind was stuttering a little at the sight of the apparently tame ghost freaking bear. He had a feeling he now understood what had frightened Dean so badly as Bobby had turned from the window.
"James Francis Edward Stuart," Philomena repeated. "I named him for the true prince of Wales."
Of course she did. "Thank you for protecting Sam and Dean like that. But, uh, they're going to end up as just more angry ghosts if you don't let them out soon."
Philomena's entire demeanor changed. She straightened and her eyes glowed much brighter than the rest of her. The bear at her side growled and it took all Bobby had to keep his feet glued in place. "I only tried to help," hissed the young / old / dead witch. "I never took the life force of any animal. I never took anything but what the earth gave me. But others came and killed her and forced me." Her hair began to float around her as if underwater. The insects and ambient noises fell silent.
Static electricity snapped around Bobby and he briefly considered filling his drawers. She was as volatile as a child herself. "It was an accident, wasn't it?" he asked in the same voice he'd use to talk to a frightened animal. "You didn't mean to trap anyone, but the spell got away from you, right?"
The pressure in the air let up slightly and the bear lowered itself back onto its haunches. "I only wanted a place to be safe. A place of innocence and no sadness." Philomena drooped and the world began to breathe again. Suddenly, she looked incredibly fragile and young. Bobby felt an unexpected and unwanted flare of sympathy.
He had to play this right. Emotion made her both strong a volatile, a combination that could easily be deadly. "Philomena, I'm so sorry for what happened to you. Someone killed your mother, didn't they?" He held his breath when she looked up again. Spirit tears sparkled on her cheeks.
Instead of answering, she began to sing, a quiet, haunting lullaby. "Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon / Breichiau mam sy'n dynn amdanat / Cariad mam sy dan fy mron / Ni chaiff dim amharu'th gyntun / Ni wna undyn â thi gam / Huna'n dawel, annwyl blentyn / Huna'n fwyn ar fron y fam."
Bobby didn't recognize the language, but the translation leaked into his mind anyway. "Sleep my darling, in my bosom / Harm will never come to you / Mother's arms enfold you safely / Mother's heart is ever true / As you sleep there's naught to scare you / Naught to wake you from your rest / Close those eyelids, little angel / Sleep upon your mother's breast." His heart clenched all over again.
Ghost? Yes. Witch? Yes. Lonesome girl? Yeah, that too.
"Philomena, how did it feel when your mother was taken from you?" Bobby asked, glad no fellow hunters were there to hear how he had to clear his throat twice.
"I don't want to think about that! That hurts!" The girl hugged the bear's neck, turning her face into its fur.
"Nobody wants to think about it," soothed Bobby, but he couldn't let it go. "But if you don't let those boys out and soon, I'm going to feel like that too." Dammit, he was not going to cry. He wasn't! " And this time, it will be your fault."
The air crackled again, but this time only for a second, then sorrow seemed to win. "I don't know how to make it better," she cried, so softly he could hardly hear her.
That's what he'd worried about, but Bobby was no good at quitting. "Okay. Okay. It's okay, Philomena. We'll figure this out together." He waited until she looked up and gave her his most confident expression. She was an orphan, and she wanted what every orphan wanted – someone to hold their hand. "When you do your magic, how do you make it work? Do you think about it? Or picture it in your mind?"
Philomena began to walk in little circles, the hem of her dress passing harmlessly through the still-lit candles. The bear trailed her like a big, dopey dog. "No, no. I simply…feel it. I know what I want and I weave it into the world." Philomena's hands waved gently in front of her as if weaving an invisible rug.
He could work with that. Weaving he didn't know, but Karen used to sit and knit in the evenings. It was an impossibly simple process, but the end result was so much more than the yarn it started as. "Can you…take one end loose? Unravel what you did before?"
But Philomena was shaking her head. "No, the price has already been taken. And it has been too long. The threads are molded together now, as one." She was now pacing in a dizzying figure eight.
"That's okay," said Bobby, though every minute that ticked by ratcheted up his worry, hell, his fear, that they'd be too late.
"Okay," repeated Philomena as if tasting the word. She stopped walking and smiled a little, an absent look that incongruously reminded Bobby of Sam trying to puzzle something out. "I could add a new weave. A new layer, perhaps, to change things. But how?" He expression melted into a slight frown.
"Um. Um." Bobby was so far out of his comfort zone it wasn't even funny, but he didn't have time for druthers. Hunters gotta be able think on their feet, moron, Rufus' memory reminded him. Shut up, he told it, just because he wanted to. "Think about those two boys in the house. Think about my l-love for them." Suck it up, Singer, a voice said, and this time it was his own. You gotta own what you feel for the boys, but that ain't much price to ask to get 'em back.
"Thank about how much I love them, and how much they love each other. Then focus on freedom. On hope – the hope that everything will be fine. On opening and saving and releasing. Can you do that?" Heaven help him, he was pulling all of this New Age crap out of his ass, but if sheer desire could make it work, it sure as hell would work.
"I'm afraid," admitted Philomena and Bobby felt competing desires to shake her into submission and to give her a pat on the back and a reassurance that everything would be okay. "I do not know what will happen to me."
"We're all afraid of what comes next, Philomena," he said with perfect honesty. "But maybe it means bein' with your ma again. And if you get 'em out and you're still here, the boy's 'n' I will come back and figure out a way to free you, too. I promise."
She was crying again, but silently. "I think…I think I can do it." Philomena closed her eyes, tipped her head back. There was no gradual build up of power, just a sudden concussion of air and pressure and a giant pop like a car being pulled out of the mud. The invisible force blew out the candles, made every tree in the vicinity groan (and a few break), Bobby's truck rock alarmingly, and every door and window of the Walsh house pop open. The only things in the area not affected were Bobby, Philomena, and that blasted bear.
Bobby dashed into the house so fast that he didn't see the spirits stream from the house to dissolve into purplish white fireworks high in the sky. He didn't notice the first fingers of dawn pushing into the sky. No, he only had a mind for what was still inside the house, and he basically dove through the door, chased by Philomena's soft, damning words. "I think it may be too late."
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AN additional: The summoning incantation Bobby uses is the same one Sam used to summon Father Gregory's spirit in season 2, episode 13, Houses of the Holy, and I copied it from supernatural dot fandom dot com.
James Francis Edward Stuart was a prince of Wales, from which Millicent and Philomena emigrated. He was known by some as "the pretender," but he had some believers, too.
The song is an ancient Welsh one called Suo Gân, which simply means lullaby. The Welsh and translation both come from the one and only Wikipedia.
sfaulkenberry: Holy cannoli, you got it! All hail your literally knowledge and guessing prowess! Color me impressed. I'm glad you like the cuteness. Personally, I love the comment it's all fun and games until you shrink away into nonexistence.
Scealai: Ooh, nice guess! Now I'll be singing little shop, little shop of horrors for a few days. No cigar, but I'd give you a consolation prize if I could. As my grandma used to say, schlaf gut.
sylvia37: Aw, sorry to make you sad / emotional! Hope this chapter helped! A little, maybe?
MaddyWinchester2000: My apologies! LOL It just didn't come out right, but I'm thrilled that you liked it. So much fun to write! And I won't freeze...I'm used to it. But chances are good I'll whine about the cold plenty more.
