Sorry about the slight delay. I really wanted to post this yesterday but the darn thing was giving me trouble. For those worried about Sam having to see Jess again, don't worry - things take a turn for the crazy and, well, honestly, I don't think I've ever written crack of this magnitude. I've read and enjoyed enough cracky fics, but this is the first time any such thing has spewed forth from me. I hope it works for you...

Sam had only blinked his eyes to clear them of tears, and when he opened them again, he was back in the cemetery sitting against the tree. He took a moment to see if anything strange – yes, that whole thing was strange even by Winchester standards – would happen. When all remained calm around him, he carefully stood himself up and brushed the dirt and twigs from his clothing. Then he remembered-

"Dean!" He couldn't believe that the ghost of Marissa Jakobson would have attacked and then left before making sure her grave was safe from intruders. That was unusual spirit behavior, something they had never seen nor heard of before. Being knocked unconscious might be enough to fool a human but ghosts seemed to always know whether their prey was dead or not. Maybe being dead themselves gave them an couple extra senses or something. Or maybe they could just sense their own kind.

Still, the old teacher's absence left Sam with only two plausible explanations. One, Dean had taken care of her while Sam was still KO'd and sprawled under that tree. But, as he was already looking around for his brother, Sam could find no evidence – a freshly dug grave, fire peeking up out of said grave, Dean – that the salt and burn had taken place.

The second explanation seemed much more likely and yet left Sam full of apprehension. Dean was off somewhere contending with the spirit on his own, defending his little brother. The silence – the lack of rifle shots – did nothing to ease Sam's troubled mind.

Sam took a couple of unsteady steps forward, gaining clarity with each one. He saw his own rifle on the ground in front of a tall row of hedges... the same hedges he now remembered seeing Dean lying behind. Looking closer at the shrubbery, Sam realized it moved. There was no wind, no breeze to account for the movement and Sam squinted to see through the branches in the darkness.

He picked up his rifle without taking his eyes of the hedges. Then there was another movement and he could make out a large shape – obviously not some small animal taking cover from the cold. And, Sam thought, why would a ghost hide behind bushes?

"Dean?" he quietly called out, hoping he was right but not willing to let his guard down.

"Um... well, er, no," an unfamiliar and decidedly masculine voice said. "But, I'm unarmed and, um... would you just... would you mind putting that gun down there, kiddo?"

"Think I'm going to hang onto it if it's all the same to you."

"Well, dang," the slightly twangy voice said, "I was afraid you were gonna say that. I guess... well... if it makes you feel better and all, I guess you oughta keep a'hold of it. Just... if you would, just don't do anything rash or anything. Got your word?"

Sam didn't know what to say. This unknown person sounded a little worried – like he thought Sam would shoot. That was reason enough for Sam to take better aim and pay attention.

"Come on there, kiddo. I'm guessing you're getting a bit chilly. Me? Well, I'm fine in this weather, but I'm betting I can last a might longer'an you. Just promise to hear me out and we can have ourselves a nice little chat."

"Yeah, whatever, fine," Sam said hesitantly. The wind had started to pick up and the sun was still a long way from coming out to help warm things up. Sam shivered now that the thought had been placed in his head.

"OK, now," the voice said, "I'm'a coming out now."

Sam had been told more than once that when he exited a small car or stood up from a low table, it looked as if he had unfolded himself to do so. He had never understood the meaning of that until just now, for crouched behind the shrubs that stood not five feet high and three feet wide, a large creature seemed to unfold itself until it was twice the height of the hedge and nearly as wide.

Sam just stared.

He wasn't frozen in fear or astonishment. He simply could not comprehend what he was seeing. Best guess, the creature looked like the abominable snowman from the old Bugs Bunny show come to life. Only, he spoke more like every cheesy cowboy Sam had ever seen on television.

"Well, howdy there Sammy," the grey-white creature said from somewhere under the – fur? hair? - covering on its long face. Sam could just make out blue-black marble eyes hiding amongst the fur of the creature's face, and the two stood staring at one another for a long few minutes.

Somewhere in the back of Sam's scrambled brain, the thought, that'll teach me to eat mac-n-cheese pizza with jalapeños and prosciutto – just because Dean can – and then get struck in the head by a tree, made itself known. Apparently, Dean's choice of 'food' did not work well in combination with head injuries. Except for with Dean. Or, maybe that's what was wrong with his older brother.

"Hey kiddo," the creature broke the silence and shifted it's weight from one foot to the other, "I'm appreciative for the whole not shooting me thing, but the blank stare is kinda creeping me out."

Sam pulled himself together and said the only intelligent thing he could think of. "Why do you keep calling me kiddo?"

"Oh," somewhere within all of the long hair, Sam was sure he saw a friendly smile start to form, "well, funny thing that. Guess a while back, some fellas got in a bit of a pickle for using the wrong sort of niceties. Seems a lot of human men don't appreciate being called 'son' by strangers. Well, at least not the ones we visit.

"But, hey, if'n you don't care for kiddo, I could hug ya and pet ya and call ya George."

Sam's eyes widened. He was pretty sure he hadn't voiced the thought about the Looney Tunes abominable snowman.

"Hey," the creature laughed, "I'm just messing with ya. I'll just stick with 'Sam' then. Incidentally, you can call me Schnee."

"Riiiiight."

* * *

"So, Sam my man," Schnee said, "you're a smart guy. I'm guessing you've figured out what's going on here. Am I right?"

"Hmmm," Sam made a noncommittal noise as he walked with the giant. There was something about the tangled mess of fur on Schnee's body that not only produced warmth, but also gave him a comfortable, content feeling.

"Well said," Schnee smirked. "Let's just say that I'm here to give you a little behind the scenes look at what's been going on around you."

Before Sam could ask what that meant, he felt heat all around him and noticed in the lamplight that they were in a motel room. His current motel room, in fact.

"Hey," he heard his big brother's voice and turned to see Dean packing his duffel on one of the beds.

"Dean," he said with relief as he neared his brother, "I am so glad to see you. Are you OK?"

"I'm good."

"How did you-"

"Well, I'm not sure," Dean said with uncertainty.

"You don't know how you got here?" Sam asked, worried. "Do you know if you took care of-"

"No, it's not that we don't want to come, Bobby," Dean said, turning around, and Sam could now see he was talking on his cell phone. He stood by silently, listening to Dean's side of the conversation.

"It's just... well... we've got some leads... you know?" Dean tried to make his voice sound reasonable, professional even, but Sam saw the look on his face. It was the same look he used to get when he was trying to explain something to Sam – some order of Dad's – that he didn't necessarily like or believe in himself, but was trying to convince his little brother that it was all for the best. Sam had always hated that look.

"What can I say? It's one of our busy seasons," this he said with a little semi-self-depreciating laugh.

"If we don't help these people, who will?" this was said with more force. Dean actually believed this line of thinking. Sam hadn't always liked that look either. It was the look that said, everyone else – strangers even – comes before me. "We take time off and there are going to be a lot more people who don't get to spend any time enjoying the holiday-"

"We will. I'm sure we will..."

From outside of the motel room, Sam heard his own voice call out, "Dean! You coming or not?!" Did he really sound like that? Did he always sound like such a patronizing ass?

"Look, Bobby, I gotta go. If we can swing it, we'll stop by, OK?" Dean said as he zipped his duffel. The look on his older brother's face told Sam that Dean completely believed that his little brother would leave without him if he didn't hurry up.

"Bye," he mumbled into the phone. Then, he closed the cell and shoved it in his pocket, picked up the duffel, and walked between Sam and Schnee and out of the motel room. The melancholy coming off of him so strong, it nearly knocked Sam backwards.

"Don't you just love listening in on other people's phone calls?" Schnee asked. Sam couldn't tell if he was actually thrilled by the idea or just looking to get some kind of reaction out of the human. "Let's go," he told Sam and walked out of the motel door.

But once again, Sam found himself walking from one room to another. Only this time, instead of another motel, they ended up in a very familiar living room.

"Hey yourself Dean. How ya doin boy?" Bobby spoke into the phone with a smile on his face. After a short pause, he asked, "Did you boys think any more about stopping by for Christmas this year?" then the smile on his face fell.

"Not sure? You know, if you don't want to come-" he tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. "Well..."

"So Sam's still all about work, work, work, huh?" Bobby took off his ever-present baseball cap, ran his free hand over his hair, and then replaced the cap. There was a sadness in his eyes – the same look Sam had seen when the man had the feeling that he was losing one or the other (or both) of the boys.

"But even you boys need to take a break once in a while." It was said with empathy, sympathy, despondency.

"And what about you? Are you getting to enjoy the holiday?

"Yeah kid. OK." Bobby hung up the phone slowly, as if hoping the connection would return and not wanting to miss it. When the telephone finally hit the cradle, he looked over at his rottweiler pup.

"Well Bowdern, I think it may be just the two of us... again."

* * *

"OK, yeah, I get it," Sam said in a huff – literally, his breath fogged up as he was once again outside in the cold cemetery. "Bah humbug. I'm Scrooge, the killer of Christmas cheer."

"Killer, yes," a sinister sounding voice hissed, "of Christmas, no."

Sam spun around and saw, not Schnee, but a tall, thin, cloaked figure. It looked a lot like that Shtriga from Fitchburg. But instead of seeing wrinkled, grey skin underneath the hood – like the Emperor from Star Wars – all was dark. The face was in shadows and Sam could only make out the glow of yellow eyes.

"Oh, Sammy," he said with ominous cheer, "it's so much worse than that."