Author's Note: LeighAnnWallace, here is your "Jack-o-lantern" prompt. And as promised earlier, here's some drunk!Sam, which I will admit, is not my forte. Still, I liked how it came out and I hope you did too. Set one day after the season two finale and for the sake of making this holiday related, we're going to pretend like it was December during that episode. This is also told for an outsider's POV because I felt like we could use a change of pace. I really liked how it turned out. Please enjoy!
"I'm sure that you'll forgive me
If I don't enthuse
I guess I've got the Christmas blues."
—Dean Martin, "The Christmas Blues"
The Jack-O-Lantern Bar got its name from the owner's supposedly haunted light up plastic pumpkin that used to be put out during Halloween. The old guy used to swear up and down that the thing was cursed as he said it lit up in the dead of night without batteries and sometimes it floated. I, personally, never believed him—he wasn't the most reliable guy. He was nice and a good boss, but he was more interested in drinking his own liquor than selling it. But hey, we've all got our own vices, right? That's what did him in the end though—cirrhosis of the liver—but to his very last breath, he clung onto the belief that the creepy plastic pumpkin was indeed haunted. Now, we keep it out as a sign of remembrance and to this day, I've never seen it do anything supernatural.
Maybe the old man had been crazy after all.
"Marie?" I titled my head to the side and watch as Angie slid her coat on. "You got this?" I glanced around the bar. It was midnight and practically empty, despite it being the holiday season. Still, we were a small town and many people flew to other parts of the country during this time of year.
"Yeah, sure," I said with a wave. "Say hi to Robert for me." Angie grinned as she headed out the door, nearly colliding with a giant of a man.
"Sorry." He mumbled and Angie nodded before quickly slipping out the door. The young man headed straight towards the bar and sat down on the stool directly in front of me. His brown hair hung slightly in his face, obscuring his eyes, but judging from the way he was seated—hunched over like that was the only thing keeping him from falling to pieces—and the way and he kept biting his lower lip—as if to keep the pain from pouring out—I could tell that something awful had occurred to him.
"Hey," I greeted softly and he jumped back, like he hadn't even realized I was there. "What can I get you?"
"A beer." He murmured, eyes meeting mine. They were red rimmed and I idly wondered if he had lost someone. We often got people who had lost family members in here and though it always pained me to see them, by the end of the night, they seemed somewhat more resigned to their fate than they had been when they first came in. I did as he asked and placed the glass in front of him.
"I'm Marie," I introduced myself with a small smile. "Let me know if you need anything else . . . ?"
"Sam." He said with a whisper and then sipped his beer. I picked up an empty glass and a cloth and began to clean it, humming quietly to myself. Soft strains of "Carol of the Bells" could be heard on the speakers, but I doubted anyone but me was playing attention to them. Next to Sam, an older man in a leather jacket placed down a $20 and motioned for me to keep the change. I grinned my thanks and slipped the bill in the register before pocketing the tip.
"You take care of yourself, you hear Marie?" He ordered gruffly as he headed towards the door. "Lots of strange stuff going on tonight."
"I will, thanks!" He exited the room and I went back to cleaning. The bar was almost empty now—just Sam and me. With each sip, he appeared to grow more and more despondent and by his second beer, I wondered if maybe something truly traumatic had happened to him.
"S'all my fault," Sam slurred and I stepped away to give him some privacy. Contrary to popular belief, bar tenders aren't psychologists. We don't have all the answers and most of us really don't care about your problems. We have our own to worry about and though I was no exception, there was something in Sam's eyes that drew me in. He was like a lost, little puppy. You couldn't help but want to help him, want to ease his pain somehow. "Dean's going away. S'all my fault." He trembled slightly and then took another swig of the beer. I debated momentarily what to do before taking a deep breath in and stepping in his line of sight.
"Sam?" He glanced up and I caught sight of some tears shining in those soulful eyes. Screw it, I thought. This guy needed my help and for some reason, I felt compelled to give it to him. "Everything okay?"
The door burst open and two men stormed in. I stiffened, immediately getting a bad feeling from them though I didn't know exactly why. They appeared nice enough—tall, dark, well dressed and even a bit handsome—but their eyes were emotionless, cold even. I glanced at the shotgun we kept under the counter, praying it wouldn't come to that, but knowing that we were a rural community and the police department was a good 15 minutes away. Forcing my expression to be neutral, I positioned myself near the gun.
"Miss." One of them greeted respectfully with a dip of his hat while the other focused in on Sam.
"Can I help you, boys?" I asked.
"Not you," The man replied. "But Winchester on the other hand—"
Then, all hell broke loose.
One of the men socked Sam who then went flying out of his seat. I gasped and rushed to help him, but the second man waved his hand at me and I went flying into the back wall. Glass clattered around me and shards bit into my arm.
"What the hell?" I muttered as I forced myself up. One of the men had Sam by the collar of his shirt and the other laughed maliciously as his eyes flashed back. "What the hell is going on here?" Since when did people have black eyes and were able to throw others around like ragdolls? That was nowhere near normal! I wanted to help Sam, but an invisible force kept me down. It was like the weight of the world had suddenly fallen upon my shoulders and it was a struggle just to breathe, let alone move.
"You killed him!" The man holding Sam slammed him against the wall. "We're going to pull you apart until there's nothing—"
But Sam didn't let him finish.
Somehow, he flung the man holding him back and before I had time to even process it, he was throwing water at them from a flask that left them smoking and screaming in pain. Words tumbled out of Sam's lips and the two demons—for some reason that's what I thought they were—cried out in sheer agony before black smoke poured out of their lips. Limply, they fell to the floor and Sam staggered to the chair, huffing out a breath. The weight vanished and I rushed around the bar and tried to process what I had seen.
"S'okay," Sam whispered, words slurring. If he had managed to do this much damage while drunk, I wondered just how powerful he was when he was sober. "They're gone."
"But who—?" He shifted and winced in pain and that's when I saw it—the growing red stain that seemed to be devouring his white shirt. I hadn't seen them stab Sam, but then again, I had been knocked under the counter for at least a few minutes and with the speed at which they were moving, it was highly possible. "Oh, shit, hold on." I scurried to the first-aid kit and pulled out some bandages, placed them aside, before putting on some gloves. Reappearing at his side, I gingerly moved the t-shirt and took a good look at the clear stab wound. It was fairly deep and he was losing a fair amount of blood.
"S'okay." Sam reassured me. "Had worse than this." Worse than a stab wound? What did this guy do for a living?
"I need to call an ambulance—" He gripped my arm as I moved away and I froze in my tracks.
"No." His voice was full of hidden authority and I wondered if he was a soldier of some sort. Maybe that was why I felt compelled to follow his order?
"You're going to bleed out." I stammered, panic still coursing through my veins. I had never seen something like this happen, had never experienced it. "You need to get help."
"Maybe this is how it's supposed to end," He whispered, quiet resignation entering his eyes. "Dean tried to save me but . . . what's dead should stay dead."
"You're not making any sense," I told him, recalling that was one of the many symptoms of shock. He needed a hospital—I wasn't going to just stand here and watch him slip away, not when I had the means to help. "Sam, let me get you help—" He still held fast to my arm and I wondered how he had such a grip when he was losing so much blood.
"Dean's gonna leave in a year cause of me," Sam slurred, words growing fainter and fainter as more time passed. "I was the one stabbed though. I should've gone." Stabbed? My eyes widened slightly at this revelation. "Dean should've let me go."
"Sam, listen to me," I tried again, urgently. "How about I call Dean? Would that be okay?" I wasn't sure what Dean could do, but hopefully he would be able to talk some sense into Sam's thick head before he bled out in this bar.
"He'll come." Sam said with a sigh, eyes slipping shut. "Always does." His grip loosened and I tugged at his arms, trying to keep him upright.
"Sam!" I cried. "Stay awake!"
It was at that point that the door burst opened once more.
"Sam!" This man—Dean, I knew instinctively—rushed to Sam's side and took his weight from me. "Sammy—" Brother, I realized then. There was just something in the way he gently handled Sam that gave him away. I was an older sister, so I recognized all the signs of the overprotective sibling. I smiled wistfully as memories of taking care of my own little sister filled my mind. Then, as quickly as they had come, I forced them away to focus on the matter at hand.
"You're Dean?" I checked and the older man nodded. "Good. Two men came in and stabbed Sam."
"Fuck," Dean cursed. "How bad?"
"I don't know," I confessed. "They knocked me against the bar." I gestured to the broken glass that littered the area behind the bar and Dean scanned me with a careful eye. While Sam was obviously his first priority, he seemed to care whether I was in need of his help as well. I quickly waved him off, touched but able to take care of these cuts myself.
"D'n?" Sam's eyes opened and locked onto his older brother's gaze.
"Hey there," Dean greeted, beaming. "Next time you have a party, invite me, okay?" Sam suddenly sat upright, flailing a bit before his eyes rested on mine. "Easy, Sam, easy!"
"Marie . . ." He mumbled, clearly trying to gather his thoughts. "You okay?"
"I'm good." I answered with a small grin of my own. "Really, Sam, you should focus on yourself."
"Listen to the pretty lady, Sammy," Dean teased quietly, though I could see the worry dancing in his eyes. Using the bandages I had got, he wrapped them around Sam's abdomen and staunched the blood flow. Letting out a breath for the first time since this incident began, I moved towards the phone, ready to call for aid. "Don't." Dean had hauled up Sam now and was carefully holding him.
"He's lost so much blood—" I protested.
"He's had worse." Dean replied, eyes flashing with something that looked like grief mixed with rage.
"Is he a soldier?" I questioned, curiosity getting the best of me. Dean huffed out a dry laugh.
"Something like that." There was a story behind that remark, but I let it go.
"You need help to get him out—?"
"No." Dean interjected quickly. I nodded my head. He then glanced down at the two, unconscious men on the floor. "When they come too, they won't remember what happened."
"Why not—?"
"You really don't want to know." He answered frankly. Then, without another word, he gently maneuvered his brother outside, leaving me with tons of broken glass, two unconscious men, numerous cuts and more questions than answers.
"Better to get work." I mumbled.
It was two days later when Sam returned to the bar, Dean in tow. He came and sat where he had been before, but Dean wandered over to the pool tables and began talking with a pretty blonde woman. I smirked—Dean had seemed like he would be quite the ladies man.
"Marie." Sam greeted with a small smile tugging on his lips.
"Sam," I acknowledged, placing a beer in front of him. "On the house."
"You don't have to—" I held my hand up for silence and he took a swig of the drink.
"About those men . . ." He stopped suddenly and I wondered if this was a sensitive topic. "Look, I don't want to know who—what—they were. I mean, I had hit my head, so who knows what I could've seen, but Sam . . ." I let my voice trail off, unsure as what I was trying to get at. "I just wanted to thank you."
"It wasn't a problem." He replied, grin still in place.
"How are you doing?"
"I'll live. You?"
"A few stitches," I replied. "Are things with your brother, okay?" He glanced at me oddly and I kicked myself. I shouldn't be bringing up what he said while he was drunk, but . . . there was something haunting about his words, something that I couldn't let go until I knew for sure. "With him leaving in a year?" Sam paled instantly and I saw Dean shoot me a warning glance, but instantly Sam recovered and met my gaze once more.
"I'm going to keep him here."
He said it so confidently that I believed him, even if I had no idea what was going on between them. When Sam got ready to leave about an hour later, he slipped me his phone number. At my curious glance, he laughed.
"If guys like that show up again," He began to explain. "Or if anything weird happens, call me." Then, with Dean at his side, Sam Winchester walked out of the bar, leaving me with yet more questions than answers.
But there was something about him . . .
Maybe I would never know what was going on between those two boys. Hell, maybe I would never see Sam or Dean again. Despite that, I felt like I had learned something from them.
And when the next morning came, I called up my little sister for the first time in three years.
I would be lying if I said that those two boys had nothing to do with it.
Author's Note: And that's the end! I really liked how this turned out. It's definitely one of my favorite chapters so far. I hope you enjoyed! Please review and request!