Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (Chapter 8/17)

[gwendolyngrace]

Title: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 8/17)
Author: gwendolyngrace
Recipient: celtic_cookie
Request terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 2,990
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: So, this chapter grew a lot and then, thanks to my trusty and awesome beta etakyma, shrank back down so that you all didn’t have to slog through 5 pages of John gazing at his navel. Consequently it’s one of the shorter chapters. On the other hand, after so confidently stating in the notes for chapter seven that this would be 16 chapters…um…points up. Yeah. That’s the difference between where I hear the chapter breaks in my head and put them in on the paper and where they actually come out when I type in the long-hand draft. However, the good news is that the whole thing’s done, typed, and being shared with the betas as they have time, so nine and ten shouldn’t been so long a wait.

From the Top

Then




Now:


John was relieved to see Dean looking—and feeling—more like himself, but he refused to order pizza.

“Why not?” Dean asked.

“Because I don’t think it’s a good idea, Dean. Not when you’re just getting back on your feet. Pizza’s not the easiest thing for stomach trouble.”

“But I like pizza,” Dean protested.

John shook his head. “Maybe tomorrow—if you’re not wiped out by school.”

He bore Dean’s rolled eyes and subvocal groan with an eyeroll of his own. “How about eggs?” he offered.

“Fine,” Dean said in a way that meant pizza would have been ten times more preferable.

John went to his coat and pulled out the folded page bearing Sam’s “unacceptable” artwork. He brought it with him to the kitchen and tacked it on the front of the fridge before getting out the eggs and butter and bread for toast.

He smiled every time he looked at it.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said as he served their meal. “Wanted to ask you. Miss Johnson. Is she…is she a little odd?”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Really odd, Dad,” he said earnestly. “I think she’s waiting for a call from the mothership.”

“Hm.”

“What’s up with Sam’s teacher?” Dean asked.

“She’s crazy,” Sam said, bugging his eyes out at Dean.

“Sam,” John said slowly. “You didn’t…give her the impression that you weren’t supposed to be in the show, did you?”

“Nope,” Sam said into his eggs. “Toldja, Dad, they asked an’ I said I din’t want to take other kids’ parts away from them.”

John studied his child. Twice he’d asked and twice Sam denied misleading his teacher. Though it seemed impossible they couldn’t find something for Sam to do, it sounded like she had left him out rather than create more work for herself. He shook his head and spread jam on his toast. Perhaps it was true and Miss Johnson really was from outer space.

After supper, he dug through the files again, pulling out Kate Pasternak’s and Andy Miller’s files, along with any other women under 40 who might turn out to be blond.

Once the boys were in bed, he fished out his long distance phone card and dialed a number. A smoky voice answered on the second ring.

“Harvelle’s Roadhouse.”

“Ellen?”

“John! How are you—where are you—Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“Yeah, Merry Christmas. How’s Jo?”

“Following her daddy 24/7. Dean and Sam?”

“Fine. If you call being unable to stay out of trouble two days in a row fine. Listen, is Bill around?”

“He’s….” He heard the background noise of the jukebox increase as Ellen scanned her bar for her husband. “He’s shooting pool with Grady. Want me to get him, or care to give me a shot at whatever’s puzzling you?”

John chuckled. “That obvious?”

“Honey, you and half the hunters this side of the Mississip only call when you’ve got a problem you can’t solve by yourselves.” Though the words were long-suffering, John heard the affection underneath.

“Guilty. Lemme run it by you. Did you happen to catch anything about a series of accidents in Saginaw? Started around mid-November?”

“No, can’t say we did.”

“Started as what looked like harmless pranks, but they’ve been escalating and last night there was a fatality. My best bet is a spirit haunting the area, but there’re so many objects it could be cursing or possessing….”

“House have a history?”

“No—sorry, should have started with that—it’s not a house. It’s at the shopping mall.”

Ellen laughed. “Sorry—it’s not funny. But…John? Have you ever been inside a mall in your life?”

“More than I ever cared to, thanks. I have a possible lead on the thing, but…I dunno. I’m starting to think I need to go back to square one. Appreciate your opinion.”

“Sure thing, sweetie. Well, what have you done so far? If it’s a mall, what about security tapes?”

“Haven’t checked personally, but the manager says nothing showed up.”

“Nothing to him.”

“Yeah, I know. Witness a couple days ago said she saw a young blonde woman disappear into part of the display.”

“Well, that’s a pretty hot lead right there,” Ellen assured him. “Why don’t you give me your theory and then we’ll look at what doesn’t fit.”

John took a deep breath and blew it up toward his forehead. His head hurt. He sure as hell hoped Dean hadn’t passed on his flu over the past couple nights. “I’ve had so many theories on this one I’ve lost count. Okay. Theory one: Trickster. That’s still in the running—’cept the eyewitness saw a female.”

“Tricksters are usually male, but that don’t mean he can’t be conjuring a vision of a female,” Ellen agreed.

“Right. So, still possible. Theory two: cursed object. At first I thought maybe one of the larger decorations. But the manager says they’ve used this display for fifteen years and no similar problems.”

“Sure about that? The whole kit and caboodle? They have to have replaced something—stands to reason.”

“Thought about that,” John said through a sigh. “Ornaments break and so on. But the scale here—and it’s not a pattern that repeats like a curse object. It’s too random. I don’t think it’s linked to a specific curse. Which leaves theory three: Ghost. But there’ve been no recent suspicious deaths apart from the fatality last night, and no EMF. And again, no repetitive method or pattern.”

“What sorts of things is it doing?”

“Tripping people, broken limbs, electrocutions. One girl fell off a ladder. Injuries caused by projectiles, weapons of opportunity.”

“Weapons of opportunity?”

“Trashcans, rope lines, ashtrays, ornaments….”

“John, where in the mall is all this?”

John grimaced. He’d been putting off this detail. “Yeah. It’s in their main…North Pole section. Where the mall Santa is.”

Ellen was a pro in every way except the one that would have had Bill punching John’s lights out for implying. She was cool as lemonade in summer in the most trying of circumstances. But her snort of laughter bubbled into a full-on giggle fit. John had laughed with Bill and Ellen many times—Ellen had a great, throaty, knowledgeable laugh—but the sound she made now was more suited to her five-year-old daughter than to the capable, confident woman John knew and respected. John held the receiver away from his eardrum until the decibel level came back to the ground floor.

“Done?”

“Oh…John…sorry, sweetie—I know, it’s a serious business. I just….” She giggled again—it was really unsettling—and took a deep breath before continuing. “I’m not going to ask about your cover. No, wait—yes, I am.”

John smiled despite the teasing, or perhaps because of it. “Dream on, lady.”

“Well, seriously, though—if it’s anything to do with St. Nick, then there’s a wealth of lore could be causing the issues. Krampus, Black Peter, even Hold Nikar, pagan god of midwinter—”

“Nah, it’s not sacrificial. Only the one fatality so far. No evidence of cannibalism.”

“Could be gearing up.”

“Doesn’t have the feel of anything pagan. Well, unless it’s a trickster.”

“Keep coming back to that.”

“Yeah.”

Ellen and John both thought for a minute. The jukebox paused as well, and as it loaded a new record, John heard the clink of the billiard balls amid the lower buzz of bar chatter. Then, as the music picked up again, Ellen said, “You said no patterns?”

“Mm…not really. Victims have all been in the Santa’s Workshop area. Only a few have been hurt after hours. Operates in day and night, but seems to be worse when it’s more crowded.”

“Okay, but even tricksters have a common denominator for their victims—something that marks them as legitimate targets. Maybe you need to find out more about the people who’ve been hurt.”

John pinched his nose. Of course he did. He’d even made those calls yesterday morning, and forgot to follow-up on them. He’d meant to catch up with Del Masters, too, but had forgotten that. No, not forgot—he’d been distracted with Dean being sick and Sammy’s issues at school, including his still-unresolved subterfuge. And now another person had died because he’d been so busy being a father the last couple days, he was only being half a hunter.

“John?”

“Yeah. Trying to—haven’t had much chance to follow up.”

“You okay? Don’t mind my saying, that’s kind of a priority on this kind of hunt.”

“Yep, sure is.”

“You feel all right?”

“I’m fine. It’s been busy over here.”

“You said the boys have been in trouble. Need backup so you can concentrate on them? I’m sure Bobby or Daniel—”

“No. It’s nearly Christmas. I’m not pulling anyone else in on this—”

“There’s two weeks yet—”

“And besides, it’s nothing I can’t handle, Ellen,” he continued more sharply.

“The job, or the boys?”

John sighed. “Both. Either.”

“Huh.” Amazing how Ellen could put both sympathy and skepticism into a syllable.

“Like I said, it’s been an interesting coupla days.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

John scrubbed his face. He opened his mouth to tell her no, and instead found himself spilling out the tale of all of Sam’s latest exploits—both the picture and the pageant, and John’s resulting flat-footed run-ins with Sam’s teachers. “I dunno, Ellen—he’s usually the one I don’t have to worry about in school.”

“Where’s Dean in all this, then?”

“Dean’s had the flu. At least that part’s straightforward.”

“He okay?”

“Yeah, he’s on the mend. Probably go back to school tomorrow.”

“So, you think maybe Sam said something else to get out of his class play?”

“Not impossible.”

“Just unlikely.”

“It’s unlikely he’d lie to me about it.”

“Not even if he thought you’d be disappointed in him?”

John took that in silently.

“John, you gotta admit that you don’t exactly present the most reputable example yourself. Boy gets ideas—”

“No. You know I keep him out of all that.”

“And he’s never heard you tell someone something he knows is a lie. You’ve never told him to lie for specific reasons. John, don’t you think it’s the most likely explanation?”

“I asked him point blank.”

“Now, John, it ain’t that simple and you know it.”

“Oh, you’re the expert on raising boys, now?”

“John Winchester, I swear, you are one of the most stubborn, ornery, infuriating men I’ve ever—”

“Thought you liked that in a man,” John said.

“Don’t push your luck,” Ellen shot back. Her words were a lot harsher than her tone, though.

Suddenly the phone clicked and the ambient noise increased, coupled with the fuzz on the line of someone grabbing the receiver away.

“Winchester—you harassing my wife again?”

“Not half as much as she’s harassing me, Harvelle.”

Bill’s laugh was just as full-throated as Ellen’s. “Now, in my experience, Ellen don’t give any man less’n he deserves. So what’ve you done, Winchester, to warrant a serving of her fresh-baked humble pie?”

“Shit, Harvelle, you got it all wrong. Ellen was just sweet-talkin’ me. Better watch it—next thing you know, she’ll want to hit the road with me instead of staying barefoot in your kitchen.”

“Barefoot?” Bill’s voice went up half an octave. “You just hope I don’t tell her you said that.” He sighed. “So what’s eating you, John?”

“Case is hard to pin down, but Ellen reminded me how to do the job.”

“You don’t often need reminding.”

“Known to happen, time to time.”

“Usually means you’re distracted. And a distracted hunter can become a dead one pretty damn quick.”

“I know that,” John said, fighting rancor.

“Just sayin’—you know you got two excellent reasons to make sure you come home at the end of the job.”

“I know that, too,” John said wearily.

“Aha. Sounds like that’s the distraction right there.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Huh.”

“That’s what Ellen said.”

Bill laughed again. “You are a stubborn cuss, aren’t you?”

“Ellen covered that, too. Takes one to know, Harvelle.”

“You finish up this hunt, why don’t you bring the boys here for Christmas?”

It was the same offer Bill or Ellen or both of them had been making for a few years now—pretty much since Jo’d begun walking. “No…thanks,” John told Bill, the note of weariness back in his voice again. “We’ll be fine. Well, you’re busy. I should let you get back. Tell Ellen thanks for…for the perspective.”

“Don’t be a stranger, John—and if we don’t see you, Happy New Year.”

“You, too.” He hung up and ran a hand through his hair. Unsolicited memories of past Christmases pushed into his mind. Last year’s Christmas in particular had been one of the best…and worst, since 1982, the year before Sam had been born. Sam’s first Christmas, of course, had been almost comical in its awfulness—nothing would ever come close in John’s estimation to how badly he’d let Dean down that year. John could recall some doozeys, like Alabama two years ago, when they’d had to leave their squat one step ahead of the law. He’d had to abandon the presents in his bedroom closet when they made a run for a backwoods cabin. The boys had had to make do with presents from the grocery store that year. The year before Dean’s ninth birthday, he’d spun out twice on the way back to Bobby’s and the boys. He’d barely made it in time, but getting home safely had made it one of the best years in his estimation. Of the six so far, last year’s had been as close to a perfect Christmas as it was possible to get, he figured. And while on the surface, that made it an excellent year for the boys, it left him feeling even more hollowed out and empty than ever. He’d been plagued with doubt and self-recrimination over the whole situation. Over Beverly.

Beverly Kirkland was the children’s librarian in the branch closest to the boys’ elementary school in Dublin, Ohio. She’d lost her husband two years previously, according to the gossipy landlady who lived in one of the four units of the apartment house John had found. His one-night chance encounter with Beverly somehow grew into something that had him accepting her invitation to let her give the Winchesters a proper Christmas, complete with waking up to presents under the tree, stockings by the fireplace, and a full dinner with all the trimmings.

The experience had been more than enough to convince John that Beverly was about as perfect as he could hope to find. And that as good as it was, it would never be good enough. It would never be right. All he could do that whole day was wish she were Mary come back to him.

Intellectually, John knew, Mary would have wanted him to move on, would not have begrudged him any measure of happiness. Knowing it, he tried not to begrudge himself, either, the few times someone had come along. But he’d always been careful to draw clear lines around himself and the boys, indelible and thick, like salt circles to protect him from losing sight of Mary, of his quest to avenge her and ensure that her soul—and his—could rest peacefully when he was done. Her death had almost killed him. Probably would have killed him if it hadn’t been for Dean and Sam. He feared letting anyone else become endangered, feared letting himself care as deeply about anyone else again.

There was one other factor, perhaps the simplest one of all: Mary’s ring was never coming off his finger. No matter what, when he came down to the choice, there really was no question.

He also knew, no matter how close he got, eventually he’d be leaving, and the boys with him. And the last thing he wanted to do was break their hearts. It was better to keep moving, not put down roots. Since he was sure of Dean again (and he had been, long before Christmas), they could pull up stakes safely.

And now they were back in the snow for another white Christmas. His hand hovered over the receiver, thinking that it wasn’t too late to call Ohio. John pushed himself to his feet to distance himself from the phone. Done was done, and no sense moving backward. Still, Bill’s offer rumbled around in his head, making him wonder if he should isolate the family so completely, especially in contrast to last year.

Maybe Bill was right. Maybe it would be better for the boys to surround them with some semblance of extended family during the holidays. The Christmas they’d spent with Bobby had been fun enough; Dean protested about Christmas with Jim Murphy but somehow he didn’t seem to mind so much when it came time to eat Mrs. Hildegaard’s stuffing. Sam would probably love having someone around littler than he was, and John could imagine little Jo would give Sammy a dose of his own medicine in the asking questions department. But the idea of forcing himself to be happy around so many other people made John want to hyperventilate. He simply couldn’t take that kind of pressure. His one postcard holiday in the last six years had only made him ache all the more desperately for Mary’s soothing, challenging, imperfect perfection once again. He’d rather spend Christmas with just the three of them, drinking in the boys’ infectious happiness like hot cider on a cold day, letting it remind him why he really hunted. Not just for her ghost, not solely in her memory, but to preserve her boys against all evils.

With that goal in mind, John told himself he’d wasted enough time on the case already. Innocent people were getting hurt—killed, now—because he’d been careless and stupid. It was time to make some serious progress and put this thing—be it trickster, poltergeist, or fuckin’ Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle—to bed.

Continue to Chapter Nine