Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (13/17)

[gwendolyngrace]

Title: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 13/17)
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 4,605
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: Four chapters to go! I hope to get at least two more out for y’all this weekend and then post the last couple early next week. What a ride!

From the Top

Then


Now:

John wasn’t supposed to wear his wristwatch, but he did anyway, and checked it about a hundred times during the shift. He knew every time that only five, ten, maybe fifteen minutes max had gone by. He couldn’t help it. He still checked.

He checked it again. Only one-fifteen. Still nothing on the blonde ghost, which was both good and bad.

“…And a sled!” the youngster in his lap finished.

“Ho-ho…well, we’ll see. That’s quite a list,” John chortled. The kid had been going on for over five minutes. “If you had to pick one special present, which would you want?”

“Uh…the remote controlled car. No—wait! The K’nex set.”

“Okay. Got it.” Then he pointed to the camera. “Let’s get your picture so I’ll remember….”

And on to the next. Between each child, as Stacy or Kate walked them out for their candy cane, John scanned the crowds and glanced at the edges of the tree. Sitting here, the darn thing was practically behind him, so the others had a much better view of it than he did.

His hat was hot, the wig itchy underneath it. His back complained that it wanted him to do something active, so after dispatching the next darling (a girl, with a list of three top-line Barbie accessories—and a pony), he gave Stacy the universal “Timeout” signal to hold off for a second. He stood up and waved a little bit to the line. It reminded him of some of the stories Mary’d told him about her (very) brief foray into beauty pageants. The right way to wave. The only thing that made it tolerable was the excitement of the kids when he acknowledged them. Besides, he could peer into the display better when standing. Still no sign of the blonde, but he did spy a dad arriving at the arch with a lit cigarette.

He beckoned Stacy over. Of all the young women working here, John figured Stacy had some of the best potential, even though he’d only just met her that morning. Her reputation already preceded her. Kate assured him that Stacy had an innate sense of how to keep children from melting down. Masters had even praised her during his interview. They weren’t exaggerating. She was quick-minded, no-nonsense, but really great with the kids. So far, she had missed nothing.

Stacy came forward, repeating the timeout sign to Kate to hold the next child another moment. As she stepped up, her dark eyebrows asked the question for her.

“Guy coming into the line is smoking,” John said quietly. “Tell the others to let him through. I want to see if it flushes our grouse.”

“’Zat wise?” Stacy asked.

“We’re not getting anywhere playing it quiet.”

“Okay.” Stacy ran a hand over her hair, which was tightly wrapped in dozens of twists.

It was a change of plan and a risk with all the kids around, but John was getting antsy. Always was his worst problem, even back in his Rifle Corps days. Still, he’d rather get a glimpse of the mystery lady himself, get a better idea what she was.

“If she shows, have someone make him either move away or put it out.”

A flicker of planning crossed Stacy’s face. “Got it. Ready?”

John nodded. “Ho-ho-ho,” he said tonelessly. As she nodded to Kate, John segued into an actual “Santa” laugh.

He didn’t hear the little girl’s requests because his eyes were fixed on the red dot of fire at the tip of the man’s cigarette. The guy sucked peacefully for a few seconds. “C’mon,” John breathed. “C’mon.”

“Santa?” the little girl—did Kate say her name was Jeannie or Joanie?—was looking at him dubiously. Her eyebrows were disappearing under her bangs.

“Ho-o…c’mon…is that all you want this year?”

“Um…world peace?” Her finger drifted toward her mouth.

John laughed, quickly amending it to his “Santa” chortle. “Good girl. Should we take a picture? Okay….”

By the time the flash cleared, John saw that Andy had approached the guy and was asking him to put out the cigarette. And that instant, John heard the voice in his head, the one that told him maybe his idea wasn’t so fucking brilliant.

It was never his, that voice. It used to be his Lieutenant’s; for a while, it belonged to Mary. More recently it was Daniel Elkins’ voice warning him that he was about to cock up something important. Even though he and Daniel hadn’t spoken in over a year.

Right now, the Daniel in his mind was asking how the hell Saint Nick was going to do anything about a ghost, in front of all those kids. He’d told the others to be ready to get all the spectators away, but what would be more likely was a general alarm. And if there were an altercation between Andy and this dude? John would hold himself responsible.

Consequently, he was somewhat relieved when the guy amiably stubbed out his smoke and tucked it back in his pocket for later. John recognized it as the telltale gesture of a veteran—in the jungle, you never knew when you’d need to suck in some tar, or when you’d get the chance.

On the other hand, averting the smoker meant his quarry would likely also remain a no-show. John watched the guy disappear into the pathway. Just then a short-haired blonde and her young son came through the arch. She juggled her coat to one arm and dug in a Waldenbooks bag for a new magazine. The boy had his coat sleeves tied around his waist, but he fidgeted with the mittens that stuck out of the cuffs. As the mother flipped open her periodical, John lost the kid behind a reindeer.

Kate brought him Brianna, Joe, two Kaylees, a pair of twins whose names, he thought she said, were Darla and Carla, and three Michaels. “Still no blonde bombshell,” she muttered when she brought up a girl whom she identified as Patty Ann. “And I’m taking a trip to the little elf’s room after this. Stacy’s covering.”

“Roger,” John said.

“No, Patty,” Patty Ann giggled, climbing into his lap.

After two more children, John stood again, to stretch, wave, and scan the perimeter. The line was still steady, but it had dropped off in volume. Wait times were down to about ten minutes. He noticed Magazine Mom and…and her son, about three customers back. John blinked. Her child was a dead ringer for Sammy. Something about the way the kid was standing, holding himself ready and constantly checking his six, made him conspicuous. Everyone else in line was holding their kids’ hands, but her son’s hands were pretty constantly in motion, working the mittens and particularly the string—Dean would have called them idiot mittens. Other kids were keeping up a near-constant chatter, too, but the little boy was taciturn, only his shift from foot to foot betraying his nerves.

When Stacy pulled the next youngster out to escort her, the line shifted forward. Magazine Mom looked up at him and asked a question. The son let go of his mittens guiltily. He shook his shaggy head and blinked to clear the bangs from his eyes…and John’s jaw went slack. The nervous tics and his unnatural quiet made sense now. Magazine Mom lifted her head to consider his answer and John realized he knew who she was, too. He just hadn’t recognized her without earmuffs and coat.

“Son of a bitch,” John said.

~*~

Stacy brought “Lana” up to him with a stern expression. His voice must have carried despite the musak and crowds and all the animated cacophony.

“Give Santa just one second, okay, Lana?” John asked. He guided her to stand to the side of the armchair. Then he stood so that he was facing Stacy, his back more or less to the front of the line.

“Listen. Don’t make it obvious, but the second kid in line, with the hair in his eyes?”

“Quiet little fella?” Stacy murmured back. She never flinched, didn’t even start to turn around. John felt an almost paternal flush of pride for her—the others hadn’t been lying about Stacy’s ability to keep her cool.

“Yeah, that’s the one. I wasn’t expecting to see him in this…context. But he’s my son.”

Stacy’s wide eyes were the only visible sign of her shock. “Your wife—”

“No, not my wife. She’s my other boy’s classmate’s mother. She brought them shopping today, but I didn’t think Sammy would want to come see Santa Claus.”

“Okay, John. Chill. He’s just a kid like any of the others,” Stacy told him calmly. “Does he believe in Santa, even? Was this his idea, you think, or hers?”

“Sam? Let someone else talk him into something he doesn’t want to do?” John crossed his arms, which was difficult with the bulky jacket. “Not likely.”

Lana’s father cleared his throat impatiently. He was the smoker from earlier, John noticed. John held up a white-gloved finger toward the guy. “Look, just…don’t let on,” he said quickly to Stacy. “But after you get him up here, tell the photographer I want a copy of that picture.”

“You got it,” Stacy assured him.

“Sorry, Lana, sweetheart,” John said in his deep voice. “Santa had to make sure Mrs. Claus has enough candy canes for everyone. Now, let’s talk Christmas.”

Between Lana and the next child, John made sure to tug his hat and wig down a little better. He fussed one of the wig’s forelocks over the scar on his temple and smoothed the beard across his jaw. By the time James—or Jason?—was finished, John could feel his heart jackrabbitting. He hadn’t been this nervous since…probably since his first real hunt. Jesus, Winchester, he told himself, hearing Harvelle’s broad laughter in his head. He’s just a seven-year-old. You can take him.

Stacy walked beside Sam (John wasn’t surprised that Sam wouldn’t hold her hand) and winked at John as she escorted the youngster up the two low steps. Ordinarily, the elves said something including the child’s name to give “Santa” some clue, but Stacy just said, “Well, here he is…you can give it to him.”

“Give me what?”

Sam reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “It’s my letter,” he said solemnly. “For Santa. The real one, I mean. I know you’re just his deputy.”

Ah, the deputy line, John thought. He’d encountered that one a number of times already this season. He grinned. “Are you so sure of that, Samuel?” he asked in a booming voice.

Sam didn’t miss much. He looked at Stacy, who was smiling. “He did know my name!” he said to her in amazement.

“Of course I did,” John said, warming to the fiction when he was playing it up for his own boy. “Well, come on over here, climb up, and let’s see whether you believe in me or not.”

Sam came closer, but seemed wary of getting on John’s lap. Before he unfolded his letter, John covered his hand with his gloved one. “Hang on…you do believe that I’m the real Santa, not just a deputy?”

Sam thought about it, the way Sam always thought about things. Carefully. “Well…I’m not sure how you know my name. But Kris says the ones in the mall are deputies. I believe in Santa,” he said hurriedly, “I…just…. How did you know my name?”

“Ho, ho—how would you like to be able to tell Kris that you got to talk to the real Santa?”

“But—”

“Well,” John said, anticipating his son’s confusion, “You see, your friend is partly right. I do have deputies all over the world. But every day I go to a different place and I meet children like you, to hear for myself what they want.”

“So I lucked out?” Sammy asked.

“Ho-ho-ho…you could say that.”

“Okay,” Sam said, and he squinted suspiciously at his father. “Prove it.”

John smiled proudly behind his false beard. That was his skeptic. “I bet I know the top three things on your list without you telling me.”

Sam gaped, then his eyes narrowed again. “What’re the stakes?” he asked shrewdly.

“Stakes? Well, if I’m right about the presents you want, you believe me. Isn’t that enough?”

“No. What if you’re wrong?”

John fought not to snort. “Dean’s giving you lessons on gambling, I see,” he quipped.

Sam took a step backward. “How d’you know about Dean?”

“Told you, I’m really Santa,” John claimed.

Sam chewed on that for a full minute, giving John a sidelong glance with his mouth half-open. John threw in an incentive.

“Okay, if I’m wrong…I’ll make sure you get everything on your list.”

“Everything?”

“Well…everything within reason.”

“You sound like my Dad,” Sam grumbled.

John swallowed. “Ho…well, we’ve met.”

“Huh.”

“So? What do you say?” he prodded. Pushing Sam to act meant risking being made, but he had no choice; the line was backing up again.

At last Sam thrust out his right hand. “Okay.” They shook and Sam finally allowed himself up on John’s knee.

“Hm. So. You look like you want…Transformers.”

This job came with its downsides. In the last two weeks in this gig, more times than John could count, he’d felt silly, embarrassed, frustrated, or all three. Sam’s look of total rapture was worth suffering through every single humiliating moment.

~*~

The moment had to be brief, however, because John hadn’t been exaggerating: the number of children waiting had nearly doubled since Sam had been with him.

Stacy took Sam away too soon, yet not soon enough for John. He couldn’t quite believe Sam hadn’t caught him, didn’t see through the costume. He was lucky Dean hadn’t been with Sam. As it was, he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d have been able to maintain the illusion in close quarters. But one thing about Sam he could count on was that what Sam believed, he believed to his core. He believed it all the way to the moon. And proof was just fuel for Sam’s high-powered intellectual rocket ships. John wondered whether he’d just bought another year or two of innocence for Sam.

Meanwhile, the stream of children continued. Kate asked, “What was all that about?” when she brought the next tot and Stacy took her break.

“Tell you later,” John said with a dismissive headshake.

About fifteen minutes later, John spotted Andy speaking to another father who was striking a match.

“Heck yes, I mind putting it out,” the guy said loudly. “There’s no law yet!”

“Here we go,” John said. He caught Kate’s eye and motioned with his eyes only toward the growing ruckus. Kate nodded and circumvented the line to make her way around. Cindy took over for her.

Stacy was just coming back from her break. John had a perfect view from his throne, but had a lisping four-year-old on his lap. He paid attention with one ear, while the altercation grew more belligerent below. Stacy stepped in to intercede.

John couldn’t hear what the girls were saying; only the man’s responses were loud enough to carry.

“Hey, girlie, last thing I need is some little mall monkey tellin’ me what I can and can’t do.”

Kate reached the small group.

“Children?” the guy said at volume. Sounded to John like he was repeating Kate’s last work. “Children! No shit, lady—that’s why we’re here, ain’t it?”

Kate nodded and firmly pointed back out the entrance archway.

“You don’t have the balls, bitch.”

John stood up. He handed the toddler off to Cindy and cordoned off the line himself. “It’s all right, kids,” he said to the front of the line. “Santa just has to make an early coal delivery.” He took the short cut and the hairpin turn to go back in through the entrance, coming up on the group.

Stacy had taken a step back to let Kate do the talking. She looked about ready to call the NAACP on his racist ass. The man’s child hung back, while he was getting in Kate’s face. As John approached, several parents decided to leave, perhaps to return later, perhaps not. They pushed past the small knot. When jostled, the guy tensed up. No doubt about it, he was spoiling for a fight. John moved closer.

“We can call security,” Kate was saying, “but I think we’d all prefer—”

“Yeah, sure, call security on me. For taking my kid to see Santa.”

“Way I see it,” John said moderately, “you got three choices, here: you can step out for your nic fix and come on back when you’re not jonesing, or you can force us to call security and have you removed.”

Idiot stared at John like John couldn’t count. “You said three choices.”

“Yeah.”

“That was two. Wass’ the third?”

“You can try lighting that cheroot and then have to explain to your son there why Santa Claus personally kicked your ass off the North Pole.”

John wasn’t sure what he wanted to have happen next. He didn’t want any bystanders hurt, and he didn’t want to leave the whole operation stalled for long, but a small part of him wanted an excuse to knock this bozo senseless. An equally impatient part of him wanted his mystery guest to make her appearance so he could get a look at her.

Everyone was silent—even the next people in line were watching intently, nervously. The musak suddenly seemed very loud in John’s ears. It was O Tannenbaum again. A thought prickled in the back of his head. Before it could properly form, the jackass pointedly pulled out his lighter, flicked it with his thumb, and held it to the end of his cigarette. He took a deep drag and got a good flame burning.

John reached for the guy’s collar to manhandle him away. The man held up the cigarette both as a banner and as if to burn John if he came at him. John batted the hand away like a gnat and grabbed the jerk’s jacket lapel. He twisted him into an arm lock while the man’s other hand flailed and tried to get close to John’s face with the cigarette. John grabbed his wrist and walked him forward two steps.

“Oh my God…” Kate said. “John—there!” she pointed toward the tree.

If John had been sitting at his post, he’d never have seen her. But the apparition before them was clearly standing in the branches, coexisting in the same space. Her hair was straw-like, long, but dry, falling to her waist in chunky clumps rather than a smooth cascade. Her skin was the color of old parchment and it looked cracked, brittle. Though her body looked youthful, slender, and perfect like a dancer, her face was lined. Tears streaked her cheeks like slicks of brown oil.

He let go of the guy, propelling him forward and away. It seemed he was as mesmerized by the vision as John, because he didn’t even try to attack, just stood there in mute wonder. John cleared his throat. “Everyone get back,” he said, but they ignored his order and continued to stare.

The little tripod-mounted speakers crackled, interrupting the holiday musak, and a woman’s voice spoke through it. “Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. We regret that due to Fire Marshall regulations, we must close this area temporarily. Please proceed calmly to whichever exit is closest and we apologize for the inconvenience.”

John promised himself that he’d take Gina Tupelo out to lunch when this was all over.

Unfortunately, her announcement didn’t produce an orderly evacuation. The few parents who’d sensed trouble and had begun pushing their way back to the entrance now really pressed upon those who had remained. People in the middle tried going both ways and their children got shuffled. Stroller wheels rolled over people’s feet as parents tried to make tight turns or push past each other. Kids were crying and their parents weren’t in much better shape. And as a mother and her three children rushed toward the entrance and past John and the man with his lit cigarette, she knocked into him. His cigarette tumbled out of his hand and sailed into the center of the display…right next to the end of the paper streamer that wound around the archway.

It went up in a flash. The not-so-orderly and somewhat-confused exodus turned to panic within about fifteen seconds. The kids who’d been crying were now screaming. The parents who’d been pushing with determination, but some politeness, now simply escaped with their children any way they could. Someone fell and no one stopped to help.

John was already moving toward the flame in search of a way to beat it out. He wondered how long it would take for the sprinklers to kick in, how many people might get hurt. As he cast about for something to use to put out the fire, he glanced up at the tree. The woman screeched horribly and the next thing John saw, the smoker was airborne. He landed about twenty feet away, hitting the mall directory sign on his impact.

John reached up above the flames and pulled the cardboard front off the arch. He stomped on the cardboard on the ground. Then he pulled down the wait time sign and used it to beat the flames that were still working their way into the cotton batting and plastic confetti that served as snow. Dimly, he heard the efforts of Andy, Cindy, Ellie, and Kate to get people to safety. Gina was shouting at people through the loudspeaker to come out through the decorations and not to trample each other.

John ripped the beard, wig, and hat off his head, both because it was hot and for better peripheral vision. He cast about to get a bead on the ghost. She had disappeared. He whirled around. Across the perimeter, he saw a crowd of people—onlookers, mixed with those who had trampled the display to get out on that side. A small person burst through the crowd, followed by a taller boy, a third boy, and a woman: Dean, Sam, and the Stakowskis, John realized.

“DEAN!” he shouted. “GET OUT OF HERE! YOU AND SAM—OUT! NOW!”

Despite the chaos, his voice cut through the atrium echoes. Dean’s head snapped around toward the sound. But he stood frozen, staring at John.

“GET AWAY, DEAN, GO!” John shouted, pointing to the side farthest from both fire and the spirit’s last known location.

Dean took Sam’s hand and tugged him away, forcing Monica and Mike to follow.

There was a pop and a whooshing sound to John’s left. A white mist filled the area. The haze had its own smell, like cordite and stale air. Carbon dioxide. John coughed. He stomped on a few more embers before they could creep back into full force.

Stacy swept the entrance with the fire extinguisher from the Kitchen. The fire was out, but the people were still running away and pushing through the crowds that had gathered. Around them, though, there was a moment of stillness. “Oh, good,” she said, surveying the dissipating cloud and the charred remains of the gate. “I was afraid I wouldn’t get to it before the—”

The sprinklers went off.

Gina came up to them, her hair plastering to her cheeks and turning the color of steel. “John! I’m sorry—I thought I’d better clear the area—”

“It’s okay—it’s my fault—I should have realized the crowds would panic.”

“They didn’t panic until the arch caught fire!” Stacy said, with so much venom John wondered whether she’d been possessed. “I hope the cops arrest that cracker.”

“On what charge?” John mused. “We caused the stampede.”

“Psh. Creating a public nuisance, for a start. White supremacist bastard. If he hadn’t put up a fuss, there wouldn’t have been no stampede.”

“Did you see your culprit?” Kate came bounding up to them, oblivious of the way the spray molded her elf costume to her shapely curves. “She’s freaky.”

“Didn’t look that old when I saw her the other day,” Stacy said. She headed toward the kitchen and relative shelter. They followed.

Gina had started to cry. They sat her down at the table. “Poor Lyle. He’s been gone sixteen hours, if that, and we’ve ruined the whole operation.”

“Look on the bright side: Now, the company will have to buy new decorations.”

“John…were those your sons?” Stacy asked. “Are they okay?”

“Your sons?” Kate asked. “Oh—that boy you spent so much time with, was that your son?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “So much for that picture. I think Marie’s camera will be pretty water-logged. And yeah, I saw them make a run for it. I’ll find’em once they shut the water off.”

They waited inside, hoping the sprinklers would turn off quickly. Before that happened, mall security and the Fire Department showed up. Gina excused herself to talk to them. John trailed after her to assess the damage, even though it was still raining inside. Kate and Stacy joined him.

The crowds had all rushed for other areas of the mall, where the sprinklers hadn’t activated. As a result, the three of them—Kate, Stacy, and John—were left in a surprisingly soothing quiet. The sprinklers shut down, though they were still dripping in places.

A different recording of O Tannenbaum cycled through in the musak. John cringed. It seemed like the two aspects of his life were forever impinging upon one another. He needed to get square here so he could go find Sam and Dean and make sure they were all right.

“Well, at least the water’s good for one part of this god-awful spectacle.”

“Huh?” John asked. He looked down at his suit—it weighed about fifteen pounds more now that it was soaked. So much for his deposit. “What could possibly be good about drenching everything in the center of the mall?”

“The tree. It’s getting a freshening up.”

John turned and took in the massive tree anew. “But it’s plastic.”

“Plastic?”

“Like everything else in the display, it’s fake…right?”

Kate and Stacy both giggled. John took it for post-traumatic relief.

“Are you kidding?” Stacy asked. “With all that timber on our doorstep? This is Michigan, not Alabama!”

“Every year they bring in a prize fir, fresh from the pine forest, John,” Kate explained. “It’s the pride of the mall, that tree.”

“It’s real?” Lyle had said everything was fifteen years old. John had taken that to mean everything. He’d never taken a close enough look at the tree to tell that the pine needles were natural. Suddenly John’s blood sounded loud in his own ears. He felt his breath speed up. His palms itched with new sweat. He felt like a teenager about to dance with a pretty girl for the first time.

“Yeah…what?” Stacy sobered when she saw John’s expression.

“So…it’s dying.”

“Yeah,” Kate sighed. “It’s sad, but—”

“No, you don’t get it,” John said intensely, grabbing her shoulders and giving them a little shake. “It’s real. And it’s dying. That. That changes everything.” He looked up and let the last drips from the sprinklers fall on his face. “I don’t know how I missed it. But I know what I’m looking for now. I think. I can fix this. I can fix it!” He rushed off toward the lockers. After dicking around so long, it was a relief to have a solid lead. He only wished he’d put it together sooner.


Continue to Chapter Fourteen