The wind was high in the pines as Sam trod carefully along the deer track, eyes roving. He'd hunted for three hours, finding nothing, shaking off his foul mood as he focused on the job at hand. He felt stupid using the EMF meter—it seemed incongruous on the mountain, and he finally stowed it away, using eyes and ears in its place. Wendigos aside, the possibility of a werewolf or any other evil thing that might rip a full-grown sheep apart with strength alone seemed remote in the broad daylight, and while deer and rabbits had left signs of their passing, he hadn't seen a living creature of any kind since he and Dean had split up. The mountainside seemed peaceful and empty, except for the wind.
The sun turned west, and a glance at his watch told Sam he'd better head back down to the car. If he missed their rendezvous time, Dean would tear him a new one, in the temper he'd been in. And if Sam showed up early, Dean would certainly keep him waiting, just to make sure that little brother knew which one of them was the alpha dog. Sam snorted—Dean could be such an amazing ass.
He cast another look around him, then took out his cell phone. No signal. He snapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket. To his right, something rustled, and he jerked to attention, shotgun at the ready, but it was only a bird. Brown towhee, maybe, from its size. Heaving a sigh, Sam started back down the mountain.
It wasn't like the people at the roadhouse were family—the point was they were people. Sam could recall far too many Christmases spent on the road, just the three of them, or holed up in some cheap motel where John cleaned his guns, checked his equipment, and licked the wounds he still clearly bore following his wife's horrific death. When he opened the tequila bottle, the boys knew to steer clear, Dean quietly teaching Sam the strategies of stud poker or Texas Hold 'Em, until John's sullen, volatile mood passed.
The Christmas Eve when Sam was eight and Dean twelve, John had suddenly thrown down the knife and whetstone he'd been handling, scrubbed his face in his hands and slammed wordlessly out of the motel room. The boys heard the car door squeak open and the engine rumble to life before the Impala pulled away, tires momentarily spinning in the loose gravel. Wide-eyed, they had looked at one another, before Dean set down his cards and walked carefully to the door, locking it shut behind their father.
"Bedtime, Sammy," he said softly. The boys slept close that night, even after John returned several hours later, a little off-balance and smelling of alcohol.
"Good night, boys," he rumbled before falling into his own bed.
"Good night, sir," they replied in unison, and no one had ever mentioned the incident again.
"It wouldn't kill us to spend Christmas with people we know," Sam said aloud, to nobody in particular.
He felt his mood darkening again, and gave himself a mental shake. I'm not going to do it, Dean, he thought—not going to let you or me or this hunt or our lives pull me down into some morose abyss like happened to Dad, and like is happening to you. Whatever this thing is killing these sheep, it can wait a couple of days. We get back to the car, and we're heading to the roadhouse, if I have to hogtie you in the back seat. And I'm going to sing "Jingle Bells" loud and off-key the whole way, until you either sing with me or one of our heads explodes. Man, it isn't too much to ask to be just a little normal—just a little—and spend freaking Christmas in a familiar place instead of hunting some bad thing on freaking Humpback—Brokeback--
Dammit! Sam roared his aggravation to the tall pines around him. He tossed the duffel bag at his feet and stood, arms akimbo, lips pursed, glaring at nothing. So much for shaking off the dark mood.
After a moment, he picked up the duffel, took out the EMF meter, and started down the mountain again.
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Sometime, somehow over the noise of the water's rush, Dean heard singing. A clear, high soprano washed sweetly through the air.
"He sees you when you're sleeping, he knows when you're awake—"
Angel, Dean thought stupidly. Why would an angel sing about Santa?
During their second Christmas in Wisconsin, Sam had procured an oversized long-sleeve red thermal shirt from Pastor Jim's dresser, which he donned and stuffed with a pillow from the bed he shared with his older brother, somehow hooking a pair of Dean's Fruit of the Loom undershorts over his ears and under his chin like a mock beard, adding a stocking cap, then making a grand entrance among visitors to the parsonage, proudly proclaiming himself to be "Sammy Claus." Again the church ladies were charmed, and Sam innocently glowed in the light of their attention. "Dean, I thought I told you," John said later, his tone icy. "Yessir," the eight-year-old had replied steadfastly. "I'm sorry."
Dean succumbed again to the darkness.
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Sam made good time on the way back to the car, arriving a little ahead of schedule. No Dean, and still no signal on his cell. Sam stowed the shotgun in the trunk, then stood beside the car, impatiently drumming his fingers on the Impala's rooftop, chewing his lower lip, biding his time until his brother showed up.
From down the road and around a slight bend came the tinkle of bells, then bleating, as a small flock of sheep rounded the corner, driven by a stocky young man dressed for cold weather, a shepherd's crook seemingly a natural extension of his hand. There was a rifle slung over his shoulder, and that didn't seem so natural.
Suddenly the sheep were milling around Sam's legs, and he laughed with delight to see a young lamb among them.
"I thought it was too early for lambs," he called to the herder.
"Mostly, but some come ahead of schedule. That one's one of the reasons I'm moving them to a safer pasture."
"You have much trouble with predators?" Sam asked casually, long-practiced at setting people at ease with his earnest innocence.
"Been some lately." The herder was maybe a little older than Dean, and shorter than Sam by half a foot—black hair, blue eyes, and a friendly face stubbled by the day's growth. "Probably some dog pack. I haven't lost any animals, but I don't intend to. We're moving down to join another flock in the big pasture."
Sam nodded. "So you think it's dogs, then."
"Don't know what else it might be. No cougar around here for years, and the signs are wrong for bear, too. Whatever it is, it attacked a dozen or so sheep, tore them to pieces but didn't eat them. Couple of guys I know said they'd never seen anything like it, and didn't ever want to see it again." The herder indicated the rifle on his shoulder, a .30-.30 lever-action center-fire model with a walnut stock. "I'm not afraid to use this if I need to."
"Good gun," Sam commented. "Had one like it when I was twelve." He hoped suddenly that he hadn't sounded patronizing, but the herder was more surprised than offended.
"Big rifle for a twelve-year-old!"
"Yeah, big and expensive. That was kind of the point."
It had been early November when John Winchester had finally decided it was time for his oldest son to join him on a hunt. Sixteen-year-old Dean had been pushing the issue for months, sometimes verbally, more often by making a point of bulls-eyeing everything he aimed at, whether with pistol, rifle, or bow and arrow. His proficiency and persistence had finally paid off—John and Dean had left twelve-year-old Sammy in the car one night and disappeared into the Ohio countryside, doing what, Sam never knew exactly. But when they had returned after a couple of hours, Dean was puffed with pride. He stayed on a high for weeks after.
"What's wrong with you, Dean?" Sam had complained, because his brother had acquired a new smug cockiness that didn't sit well with the younger boy. Truth be told, Sam thought he might be a little jealous, not of Dean's success—many of the details of that night had been kept from him—but of just, well, hunting. Since that night, Dean had changed toward his kid brother, become a little mocking, a little condescending, leaving Sammy behind in his sudden charge toward adulthood. Hunting had suddenly become his focus, with Sam a far-distant second. Dean didn't seem to notice the change, and when Sam mentioned it, he didn't seem to care. That's what hurt Sam the most.
In fact, the only cloud on Dean's newly bright horizon appeared to be the annoyance of having to look after Sammy. Every other door seemed to open wide for him; whatever he touched turned to gold. Every game of pool, virtually every poker hand—he won them all, walking away with fistfuls of folded bills that he laughingly flipped in Sam's face. "A hunter and a winner, Sammy boy," he gloated. "That's me!"
In late December, they were on the road to Nebraska, to Caleb's, needing munitions. Sam was pretty certain that it was on that trip that Dean lost his virginity, because suddenly girls were like poker hands, and Dean couldn't lose. That Christmas Eve, as on many nights, John had gone out, taking the car, leaving the boys to their own devices, stuck in another crap room in another crap motel.
Sam had been watching umptieth reruns of "Frosty the Snowman" and "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown" on an ancient black-and-white TV, Dean pacing, not nervous, not anxious, but obviously preparing for something.
"You're going to be okay here, Sammy, right?" Dean had finally asked, flipping up the collar on his jacket and heading out the door. "I'm just going over to the diner to grab a burger."
It had been two hours before he returned, and Sam was pissed at being left behind, left out, left alone. Dean, on the other hand, was—Sam didn't know what. Smug, sated, insufferably arrogant, with a feral smile Sam had never seen before on his brother's face.
"I'm telling Dad!" the younger brother had snapped, with no idea of what he'd be telling.
"Go ahead, you big baby!" Dean had challenged.
"You're only four years older, Dean," Sam had retorted, and to his utter humiliation, Dean had laughed at him.
"Yeah, but I'm a man now, Sammy."
Furious, Sam had punched his older brother in the shoulder, and Dean took him down instantly. They scrabbled on the bed, falling to the floor, the short, ugly brawl ending when Sam suddenly burst into tears.
Dean stopped instantly. "Sammy? You hurt?"
Embarrassed, Sam had wiped the wetness from his cheeks, not sure why he was crying.
"No," he glowered, with one last, half-hearted push at his brother's chest. "Get off me, you stupid jerk."
Chastened and wary, Dean had helped Sam off the floor. "Dude. Hey, I'm sorry," he said, a cursory look showing him that Sam truly wasn't injured. "Look, don't tell Dad, all right? When we get to Caleb's, I'll buy you something—whatever you want—knife, bow, whatever, okay? Hell, it's Christmas—it'll be my present to you."
"Yeah, sure." Sam had nursed his bottom lip, fixing a betrayed glare on Dean's apprehensive face. "Merry freaking Christmas."
When they got to Caleb's on Christmas Day, Sam had held Dean to his promise, carefully, coldly selecting the most expensive rifle the arms-dealer had in stock. It had taken almost all of Dean's money to buy, pissing the older boy off no end, and Sam thought the retribution was worth every penny.
"Anyway, it's a good gun," Sam said again, and the herder nodded.
"Glad to hear. I don't believe in killing, but I intend to protect my flock, if I need to. See you around."
He prodded a couple of the nearest sheep with his crook, setting them and the rest of the flock in motion, and they headed down the road.
"Luck!" Sam called, the herder acknowledging him with a wave of the hand, a fairy-dance of leaves skittering at his heels.
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The voice rose again, the song floating clearly over the noise of the racing water.
"Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes; venite, venite in Bethlehem. Natum videte Regem angelorum. Venite adoremus, venite adoremus, Venite adoremus, Dominum."
Angel, Dean thought again, although he didn't remember doing so the first time. He stirred, instantly regretting it, pain exploding in his injured knee. A tortured cry escaped him, and the singing stopped abruptly. Dean growled deep in his throat, biting back another cry, trying to suppress the sign of weakness, his battered, torn body in agony. He still lay face down on the riverbank, and struggled to roll to one side when he thought he heard (something) approaching across the rough gravel. He slapped at his jacket as he moved, searching frantically for a weapon and finding none, igniting the burning wounds on his chest where savage claws had flayed him and where the river had scraped him along its jagged shallows. Bursts of red pain clouded his vision, and he felt more than saw (something) sink to its knees beside him. Dean blinked savagely to clear his eyes, striking out blindly, but gentle mittened hands caught his wrists easily and he froze as his vision cleared.
Kneeling beside him, haloed by the rapidly setting sun behind her, was a young woman maybe his age, pretty in a plain way, delicate face framed by the dark hair which escaped from her Mackinac cap. There was a wrinkle of worry between her brows as she surveyed him, taking in the dark bruises and lacerations on his face. There was something different about her, Dean thought, something not quite….
"Who're you?" He struggled again to sit upright, every movement eliciting some new pain, and he groaned again loudly, falling back on the rocky ground, booted feet still washed in the river's shallows, teeth chattering violently now in the ever-cooling air.
"Easy, easy," she shushed him. "My God, what happened to you? No—never mind. We've got to get some help. You're going to freeze out here."
"Cell's in my left back pocket," he managed, and she leaned over him, struggling to remove the phone from his sodden jeans. Even through the pain and cold, Dean could savor the idea of a woman's hands on his ass, and then her belly bumped against him and he realized what had seemed off about her. Not off, and almost completely hidden by her bulky winter coat. She was very, very pregnant.
With a grunt she freed the cell phone from his jeans, and they looked at each other silently as she held the mangled instrument in front of him.
"Cabin's not far," she told him. "Can you walk?"
"Give me a minute." Dean clenched his teeth, gathering physical and mental strength for the mere task of standing, assessing the odds of getting to his feet without pitching over on his face again. He didn't think his knee would hold, and he shifted as gingerly as possible to the left. "Come on this side and brace yourself," he told her. "Will you be able to—" A tilt of his head indicated her swollen belly, and she acknowledged it with a laugh.
"I'm only eight months, and even the snow is holding off this year. I'll be fine." She settled into position, leaning slightly over him and grasping his hand and arm just above the elbow. "Ready?"
Dean steeled himself for the effort. "On three. One, two, three!"
There was nothing graceful about what they accomplished—in fact, they both nearly ended up in the river—but finally Dean was off the ground and (standing), both of them gasping, he balancing precariously on his left leg and leaning heavily against her tiny frame, she already ponderous with the extra weight she carried before her.
The instant Dean's right leg touched the ground, pain stabbed through his knee.
"Son of a bitch!" he cried as every other agony disappeared in this one's blinding glare.
The woman slipped under his right arm, huddling close to him, careful not to touch the leg, then looking up into his pain-wracked face. Only the fact that he was hunched over in anguish enabled her to support him on her shoulders.
"Suck it up, cowboy. One step at a time," she said. "We can do this."
Miraculously, somehow they did.
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