Disclaimer: I don't own anything "Supernatural." However, "Supernatural" apparently owns me! How I live for Thursday….
A/N: Well, this is it, the end of my first fan-fic. I'm so grateful that you've made it to this point, and I'm especially grateful to those of you who reviewed. You gave me lots to chew on—and I don't just mean my fingernails. Now I'm utterly terrified (in a pretty good way, because you've been so supportive, but still terrified!) of what you'll think of the ending. Tell me anyway, please.
This experience has been humbling and exhilarating and stressful and thought-provoking and challenging and obsessive and FUN. I'm so glad I did it! If you're at the stage where you're just considering developing your own first story, I'd encourage you to do it. If you're already posting your work, keep it up! I'm looking forward to reading it all!
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Sam held his rifle at the ready, on guard while Joe made two fires, one on either side of the little clearing in front of the cabin. Funny how quickly some things could change—a man's relationship with a woman, for example—while some things seemed almost eternal. Like the Winchester brothers' bad ideas.
Back in the cabin, he'd tried to get Dean to listen to reason. Said, "This is such a bad idea, man. Dean, remember that Christmas when—"
"No, Sam, I don't." Which meant he did, of course.
"Seriously, man, that time in Little Rock—"
"Sam!" Warning lights flashed brightly in Dean's eyes. "That evil son of a bitch died then, and this evil son of a bitch is going to die now. That's it—end of story."
So Sam had settled for convincing his brother to stay inside until he and Joe made things ready—didn't want the sheep-killer to come back too soon, did they? Spoil everything?
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Three times Dean checked the shotgun, just making sure. He felt ill at ease, being inside with Ginny and the baby, while Sam was outside with that thing lurking in the darkness. Hell, he felt ill at ease just being with Ginny, after everything that had happened between them. And everything that hadn't.
"I don't get it," he said at last. She was watching him quietly from the bed, the baby sleeping in her arms, mother and daughter somehow seeming more together now than they'd been when Stella was inside her. "Why me?"
She didn't answer, so he pressed. "Why me, and not Joe? Why didn't you want him to deliver the baby?"
"I don't have to answer you," she said bluntly, and Dean blinked.
"No, I guess you don't. But I hope you'll explain it to me, Ginny, because something very weird happened here tonight, and I'd sure as hell like to know what it was."
She took a deep breath, considering. "Can you come over here?" she asked finally. "Sitting way over there by the fire, it's like you're miles away. I want to see your eyes."
To his bewilderment, Dean complied, levering himself out of the chair with the butt of the shotgun and moving haltingly to the bed. He sat down, facing her, and she reached up, placed her warm hand against his cheek.
"Before this was Stella," she began softly, lifting the little bundle she held, "before Stella was born, this was my baby, Dean, and it was just that—it was it. In my womb, it belonged to me—the result of something I did, something that happened to me. Joe had no part of it, nothing to do with it. But now this is Stella, and she's fresh and new, a clean slate. There's a beginning now, Dean, not a middle, and not an end. There's no more it. The clock for our three lives together started when it became Stella—she and Joe and I have finally reached our beginning."
Dean cleared his throat. "Pardon my language, Ginny, but that's bullshit. We're talking about a difference of a couple of minutes, here. You could have let him help, but you didn't."
He pulled his head back, out of her reach, and she hesitated a moment before answering.
"Okay. Then here's the rest of it," she said, and the softness was gone from her voice. "When I told Joe that I was pregnant, I couldn't tell him anything about the man who—well, the man who was the biological father. All I had to offer was that he was out of the picture for good. Gone completely. Apart from that, there was really nothing more that I could say. Joe…went a little bit nuts."
"I get that," Dean said, nodding. "I saw him, Ginny. I heard his voice. Guy loves you."
Her reply was simple. "I know."
"Not too tough to understand that it'd be hard for him, picturing you with someone else."
"That's my point, exactly! Dean, it was horrible, watching him torture himself with the idea of me and someone else, especially a someone else who fathered my child. I don't know what all he imagined, but I know the terrible toll it took from him. I wanted to be able to erase any ugly images he had that related to me and to this baby. If I didn't, how could I be sure those images wouldn't haunt us for the rest of our lives?"
He looked at her sharply. "What's done is done, and you can't take back what's happened, Ginny. We know a little bit about that, Sam and me."
"But you can try to make 'what's done' the best it can be. Dean, I didn't know what to do…even if Joe got past it all, I wasn't sure that I could. So I thought about it, and I prayed about it, and then suddenly there was you. I think that for Joe, you are going to become that faceless someone else. Maybe for me, too."
"Uh." Dean gave his head a little shake, momentarily at a loss for words, and Ginny smiled at his expression.
"Maybe it's crazy, Dean," she said. "Probably it's crazy, but…I think that whenever Joe wonders again about who else was involved in the baby's life, it'll be you that he imagines. Not some faceless man he's created in his mind, but you."
Dean groped for understanding, gave up fast. "You're going to have to help me out with this."
"It's hard to explain." Ginny sighed, frowning. "Of course, rationally, Joe will know that you aren't Stella's father. But literally, you are the one who brought her into the world, and when he thinks about Stella's birth, you'll be the man he envisions."
"So I'll be the bad guy."
She laughed, the sound pealing around them. As if in response, a tiny pink fist waved from the depths of the baby's blanket. "Tonight you're kind of larger than life, Dean—I don't think anybody's going to mistake you for a bad guy."
"Except for that ugly bastard with the nose problem," Dean said firmly, checking the shotgun for the fourth time.
"Except for that," Ginny agreed, and her voice softened again. "Dean, I don't want you to think that I used you—please don't think that. Everything just seemed to come together so suddenly. I found you at the river, and then Stella wanted to be born early, and then Joe ran in—all three of you showed up at once, and I thought, how could there not be a reason for that? And I saw that there was a chance for resolution, a way for us to get past the faceless man. I don't know if it will help, if it will work, but I had to try."
After a long moment, Dean nodded, then met her beseeching gaze. "You said that guy was gone for good, Ginny," he said. "I'll be gone, too."
There was sorrow in her smile this time, and Ginny brushed a strand of dark hair off her forehead. "Here's the difference, Dean: I've seen you, and Joe has seen you. You're real—flesh and blood, not some imagined ghost."
The cabin door opened and Joe came in, surveying them quickly. "Fires are lit," he said, "and Sam went to get into position. Dean, you're sure I can't help out there?"
"You've got a family to think about," Dean said, his voice gruff, nodding toward mother and child. "That thing gets past Sam and me, you're going to be their last line of defense."
"It won't get past you." Seeing the look on the hunter's face, the herder sought thoughtfully to explain. "I'm certain about Sam, and if you're anything like him, then I'm certain about you. I have faith in the two of you, Dean. It will not get past you."
The two men exchanged a long, measuring look, and then Dean hoisted the shotgun, inhaling deeply. "Flesh and blood, huh?" he said to Ginny.
She nodded. "And possibly a little bit of angel. Jury's still out."
Dean threw back his head and barked a laugh, then held his hand out to Joe. The herder helped him to stand, helped him to walk, supporting him until Dean was outside and more or less balanced on both feet, light streaming around them from the open cabin door.
"Good luck, Dean," Joe told him, "and thanks for everything."
"Get inside now, and bolt the door," Dean ordered, and the brightness vanished as Joe silently complied.
There was still light in the clearing. The two fires blazed on either side, popping, sparks flying, allowing Dean to see and to be seen.
"Here I come," he called, knowing Sam heard him, hoping (confident) that the sheep-killer did, too. "Let's get this over with."
Dean hobbled away from the cabin, taking his time, careful not to put any more weight on his right leg than necessary, eyes constantly scanning the dark trees around him. When he was near the center of the clearing, he leaned over to prop the shotgun against his thigh, then removed his jacket and borrowed shirt, shrugged out of the longjohn sleeves until he stood bare-chested in the freezing night air.
"Come on, you bitch!" he yelled defiantly, yanking off the bandages that covered him so that fresh blood once again began to spill from his wounds. "Come and get it!" He ripped at his shoulder, clawed the bite-mark raw again, hissing as the blood flowed freely. "I hear you like your steaks rare!"
He picked up the shotgun, spread his arms wide and welcoming, turning in a slow circle so that the wind could catch his scent. Already he felt his strength being stolen by the bitter cold. "This sucker's fast, Sam," he warned the darkness. "Keep sharp."
They'd been in Arkansas, and it was Christmas Eve when they passed through Little Rock, heard about the wood-wraith, learned it had taken a fifth-grader walking alone on her way home from a holiday pageant. "Dad, let me help!" 18-year-old Dean had urged, but John stabbed his finger in his oldest boy's face and said, "You get to the motel, check in, and watch out for your brother." Within an hour, John had rejoined them, found them right where he'd ordered them to be. The girl was safe in her family's arms, but the wraith had gotten away. John was hurriedly restocking his munitions, getting ready to go after it again, when the police showed up. Wanted him downtown to answer some questions. He had no choice but to accompany them.
Prone on his belly beneath the trees, Sam breathed calmly, unhurriedly, careful to make no sound or movement that might reveal his location. I've got you covered, Dean, he promised silently. This time I've got you covered.
It had been his idea to go after the wraith themselves, kill it before Dad got back from the police station, kind of like a Christmas present for him. At fourteen, Sam had begun to seriously chafe under his father's stern command, wanted to break away, break out, tired of always having to remain behind, stay safe. Maybe the idea had been more about rebellion than about giving John a gift, but it really didn't matter, because Dean was all for it, regardless of the reason. Minutes later they were at the field where John had last seen the evil thing, and Sam's blood raced as truth set in--he was finally going on his first real hunt. Dean was already out in the open, luring the thing to him, when Sam was finally settled enough to concentrate.
Dean shivered in the frigid night, every nerve on edge as he waited. He didn't bother looking for Sam, knew he wouldn't see him, knew Sam wouldn't let him down. Had faith. It was as simple as that.
In retrospect, it was a really stupid plan, but he'd been frustrated, almost angry, when Dad had left him to watch Sammy. Again. God knew Dean certainly understood the kid's eagerness to go on his first real hunt, so it was a cocky big brother's magnanimous gesture to act as bait, play the sacrificial lamb to bring the wraith to him while Sam waited with the gun, hidden, bead drawn. Give little brother his first kill, give Dad a dead freak of nature—two presents for the price of one, and what could be better than that? Sam was a good shot, no qualms there, and a wood-wraith wasn't really anything to be worried about.
Sam sighted down the rifle barrel, not feeling the cold seeping into his bones from the naked earth beneath him. He'd quickly cleared away the leaves and pine-straw before positioning himself sniper-style, so no rustle would betray him to the sheep-killer. In the flickering light from the two fires, he could see dark rivulets of blood running from a dozen wounds on Dean's chest, on his shoulder, as his brother offered himself up. Sweat beaded suddenly on Sam's forehead, trickling through his brows, and he blinked hard to clear it from his eyes.
He'd been kneeling to get into position when he noticed his shoelace was untied. Setting the rifle down, Sam had tightened the string, tied the bow. Might as well check the other one, too, before he tripped if he had to run after that damn—his growth spurt had made him gangly and awkward, and Sam was clumsily shifting to see the other shoe when Dean yelled. Off-balance, Sam looked up in horror to see his brother and the wood-wraith grappling for Dean's shotgun, saw the thing wrench the weapon from Dean's hands and send it flying, saw it grab Dean at collar and crotch, lift him high, smash him hard to the ground. Sam had snatched up his rifle, taking quick aim and—the gun jammed, and panic flooded through him, robbing him of breath, sending blood pounding into his ears until he was almost deafened by it. Then louder, from behind him, there was a gunshot, and the wraith jerked and fell as John charged past Sam, emptying his pistol into the thing's head and chest.
The lacerations crisscrossing his body burned despite the cold. "C'mon, c'mon," Dean urged quietly through gritted teeth. "Get out here, you evil bastard. I don't want to freeze to death before you have a chance to kill me."
Dad had really laid into him that night, and it never occurred to Dean that part of his father's fury stemmed from relief that both of his boys had escaped relatively unscathed. "What the hell were you thinking?" John had demanded, angrier than they'd seen him in a long time. He was rough as he cleaned the dirt from the scrape on Dean's forehead, where he'd hit the ground when the creature threw him. "How could you put your brother in a situation like that? Didn't you check the rifle, make sure it was clean? That was a stupid, stupid thing you did, and you could've gotten someone killed!" Dean had caught Sam's eye, saw the remnants of terror there, the apology, the silent plea for forgiveness. Then he saw the self-loathing, too, so intense that it scared him. "I didn't think it through, Sammy," he'd told his little brother later that night, when John's heavy, even breathing told them their father was at last asleep. "It wasn't your fault." Dean had believed it, had hoped Sam believed it. Still did.
There was movement, darkness against darkness, and then the thing stepped into the clearing, eyes glittering, hunched close to the ground so that it was nearly on all fours, lips curled back in a grinning rictus that was salacious and challenging and victorious all at once.
"It's here, Sam," Dean said, his low voice carrying. Dean brought the shotgun up almost casually as the beast snarled deep in its throat and chest, then came toward him, moving slowly, in stalking stance. Human eyes met inhuman, locked and held, and Dean planted himself securely, all his weight on the left. He took in a long, unhurried breath, watched the thing gather its hind legs under it, trembling with anticipation. He was almost ready when it sprang, claws reaching for his throat.
Then Sam fired, and the creature yelped, thrown off-target as the silver-dipped cartridge tore through its head. Something that might have been blood once gouted from the bullet-hole, fell like (curry powder) to the ground, vanished in the darkness there. Sam fired twice more, each time finding his mark, and Dean blasted the thing full of rock-salt for good measure as it crumpled to the ground in front of him, dead.
The strength drained out of him, and Dean staggered, then fell to his left knee, right leg stretched out painfully beside him. Inches away, the sheep-killer's body began to writhe, imploding, smoke curling from it, its hair and flesh being eaten away from within by the loss of whatever force had brought it to life and kept it alive.
"Go to hell, you son of a bitch," Dean murmured, as Sam ran toward him across the clearing, rifle still ready. Together they watched as the carcass twisted and wriggled into nothingness. Within seconds, it was gone.
Breath coming in plumes, Sam shrugged out of his jacket and draped it carefully around his brother's naked shoulders, throwing his arm around, too, sharing his warmth as Dean sagged shivering against him. Reaching into a pocket, he withdrew the EMF meter, which registered with a squeal that quickly faded to silence.
"So what the hell was that thing?" Sam asked softly.
It took Dean a moment, staring thoughtfully at the ground where the thing had died. Then he looked up at his brother, a slight smile on his battered face.
"Ghost of Christmas Past, Sammy. And we laid it to rest."
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Shortly after dawn, there was the sound of engines as Mel arrived with two other men from Stoner's Well, crowding two Jeeps and an ATV into the little clearing in front of the cabin. Bound for the county hospital in Creekside, fifty miles away, Joe carried Ginny and the baby to one of the Jeeps, installing them tenderly in a back seat before climbing into the driver's seat himself, Mel riding shotgun, tiny Stella wearing the reindeer ski-cap to keep her head warm.
"Sam, thanks again," Joe called, having expressed his gratitude to both brothers profusely throughout the early morning hours. "Dean, thanks for everything, really. I don't know how to repay you guys for what you've done."
Ginny looked over her shoulder at Dean as Sam helped him into the other Jeep, caught his eye, kissed the air and blew it gently toward him.
Dean extended the thumb and little finger of his left hand and held them up to his ear and mouth, then pointed at her sternly. Ginny laughed and rolled her eyes, holding up her cell phone so he could see it, gripping it firmly, waggling it, nodding big in affirmation.
Bless you, she mouthed. Then Joe maneuvered the vehicle into the trees and they were gone.
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Sam retrieved the Impala and gassed it up while the only GP in Stoner's Well interrupted his breakfast to patch Dean thoroughly and pronounce him unfit for anything except bed-rest for the next two weeks. Sam got back to the clinic in time to hear Dean grumble, "Come on, doc, you can do better than that!"
More interested in returning to his wife's holiday pancakes than in arguing, the doctor had consulted his book, then made a notation in it and on the appointment card he handed to Dean. "Fine," he agreed amiably. "I'll see you then."
"Man, stop hovering! It's just four steps," Dean growled as Sam took his elbow and held the clinic door open for him, moving to one side so Dean had plenty of room to ease himself into the Impala's back seat, ready to jump to his brother's aid should he need it.
Dean backed him off with his new cane, laying it across Sam's chest in mute warning.
"I'm hungry and I hurt," the older Winchester muttered. "I hate this freaking cane. And I already hate this town, Sammy, I'm telling you. We are so not going to be here until the sixth of January."
"Sixth of January?" Sam cocked his head, then deftly caught the appointment card Dean flipped at him. He scanned it briefly, then broke into a wide grin.
"Epiphany!" he said triumphantly. "Of course!"
"Epipha-what?" Dean asked.
"The sixth of January is Epiphany, Dean. Twelve days away."
"That's what I'm saying—I'm not staying here for twelve days."
"It's twelve days after Christmas."
Dean turned to him, leaning against the side of the trunk as he stared up at his brother. "I think you need some sleep, Sammy."
"No, Dean—I've been thinking about it," the younger Winchester replied, and Dean recognized the signs of a full-on college-boy brainstorm fast approaching. When Sam got like this, very little could stop him. "All this random stuff that's happened to us since yesterday, it's like it's part of a miracle or something."
"Yeah, my knee feels pretty miraculous, all right," Dean replied cautiously.
Sam's eyes were bright as he connected the dots, his grin broadening. "There's definitely a pattern," he said. "Man, my old psych professor would have had a field day with this!"
"Sammy, I see wheels turning in your head, but they're not getting any traction."
"All I'm saying, Dean, is that the synchronicity is pretty amazing."
"What, that old Police album?"
Surprise brought Sam back to earth. "You listen to The Police?"
"What are you thinking, dude?" Dean asked in disgust. "'Every Breath You Take' is totally about a stalker demon."
After a moment's reflection, Sam conceded the point. "Funny," he said, "I used to think of Dad as the King of Pain."
Dean shot him a look, which Sam ignored as he continued enthusiastically. "See, Dean, even that helps prove my point. Synchronicity is about cosmic connections between what appear to be coincidences. Jung believed that seemingly unrelated events could actually be caused by something that gave them a meaningful relationship, which he called--"
"Yeah, yeah, synchronicity, I get it," Dean finished for him, then snorted. "That's not Jung, that's 'Repo Man.' C'mon, Sam, really—plate o' shrimp? That's what we're talking about here?"
Sam gaped at his brother, then closed his mouth with a snap. "Okay, I take back what I said about you and cultural references. My point is, Dean, it's like we're in the Nativity story, here—all of these coincidences relate to Christmas somehow. Look at them—we meet a couple named Joe and Virginia," he emphasized the names, "she bears a child that's not his, they call her Stella…."
Dean was beginning to get the picture. "And 'Stella' is Latin for—"
"'Star.' Exactly—it's Latin for 'star,'" said Sam. "And the coincidences don't stop there, Dean. There's flocks by night. After the baby's born—on Christmas Day, in case you hadn't noticed— three guys show up, and one of them is named Mel. As in Melchior? One of the Wise Men? Dean, the doctor wants to see you again on freaking Twelfth Night." Sam spread his arms wide, daring all comers to challenge his conclusion. "It's all connected, man. I'm not saying anything caused it, but we've been living in Christmas!"
Dean chewed briefly on his lower lip, then shook his head, not buying it. "So then, what does that make us, Sam?" he scoffed. "The animals in the stable?"
"Well, you're certainly a jackass," Sam averred, hands on his hips.
It was just a moment before Dean chuckled, then laughed big and loud as Sam grinned back, watching Dean turn and climb cautiously into the rear of the Impala, propping his right leg up on the seat.
Sam made sure Dean was settled before he closed the door gently, solidly against his brother's back and got behind the wheel.
"Sorry we didn't go to the roadhouse, man," Dean said out of the blue, his voice betraying the depth of his exhaustion. "Maybe next year."
Sam put the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. "Whatever." He met his brother's gaze in the rearview mirror. "You were right, Dean. I really don't need to spend Christmas with other people. I've got you."
"Oh God." Dean rolled his eyes, and Sam's smile grew.
"Merry Christmas, jerk!" he said.
He could almost see the word perched on Dean's mouth, but then his brother surprised him with a wry smile.
"Merry Christmas, Waindeer Boy."
Dean nestled down into the seat more comfortably, closing his eyes and drawing his arms around him for warmth, while Sam put the car in gear and drove them off the mountain and out of Stoner's Well.