gwendolyngrace (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gwendolyngrace) wrote2008-04-09 08:59 pm
gwendolyngrace) wrote2008-04-09 08:59 pm
Entry tags:
Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (16/17)
Title: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 16/17)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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 5,740
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: Sorry for the delay on this, but between travel and life…it just took a little longer than I hoped. However, Chapter 17 should be right behind this one to wrap up all the loose ends. This chapter has a little something for everyone, I think: a little angst, a little action, and a few moments you’ve been waiting for. My beta is amazing and patient, because she even re-read this after I'd made all her revisions....
From the Top
Then
Now:
Dean opened up a couple cans of ravioli, the easiest thing he could think of, and heated the contents on the stove. He wanted to just collapse. But anxiety over how pissed Dad had been promised to keep him up, and upset, ’til Dad came back to lower the boom. His punishments were never as bad as waiting for them to be imposed. Sometimes, he thought maybe Dad planned it that way deliberately, so that by the time he did come back and pass his sentence, it was more of a relief than a penalty. Other times, Dean suspected it was just that Dad couldn’t stand to be around him when he’d screwed up so bad.
“Dean, how much trouble are we in?” Sam asked.
“Hard to say,” Dean observed cautiously. “Dad’s pretty annoyed.” He came out with their bowls and flopped on the couch. Sam took his supper. He kept flipping the TV channels in search of something to watch.
Dean picked at his ravioli. He was feeling a little queasy again. Last thing he wanted was to throw up after only just getting back on his feet. “Here,” he said. He held out his half-eaten portion to Sam, who had already finished most of his.
“You okay?”
“Don’t feel like ravioli,” he said to stop Sam from fussing.
Sam ate. “Want something else?” he offered when there was nothing left but sauce and little bits of broken ravioli shell. “I’ll make you a sammich or cereal.”
“Nah. I’m okay. Thanks.” He appreciated Sam’s solicitousness, but the idea of Sam taking care of him always made him uncomfortable.
Sam seemed to know that it wasn’t just his stomach that was bothering him. “S’not your fault, Dean.”
‘Yeah, it is,” Dean said glumly. “You didn’t ask me to lie to your teacher. I did that.”
“But I wanted you to,” Sam assured him. “I mean, it wasn’t my idea, but I didn’t wanna be in that dumb pageant. I didn’t stop you,” he concluded guiltily.
“Yeah. But lying to Dad?”
“Not cool,” they said in unison.
“We both did it, though,” Sam reasoned. “Wasn’t you.”
“Doesn’t matter, Sammy. I’m s’posed to know better. We both are.”
“S’not like we hurt anyone,” Sam said. He stuck out his lower lip. “I guess that means Dad won’t put in a good report with Santa,” he said after thinking for a bit.
Dean sighed. “Nope. Figure you can kiss your Transformer doll goodbye.” He chucked Sam lightly on the shoulder.
“Action figure. Dolls are…gay,” he finished, as if trying to score points with his brother.
“Whatever,” Dean said, though he was at least gratified to know that Sam was figuring out some basic rules of the universe. Perhaps there was hope for him. “Face it, Sam,” he said to prepare him for the worst, “we screwed ourselves out of Christmas this year.”
“You really think so?” Sam asked pitifully. Dean didn’t have the heart to answer. He just shrugged. He had no idea whether Dad would get them anything at all, but he didn’t have high hopes for it. Worse, knowing that there was no way Dad would have bought the Transformer thing, even if Sam had been perfect all year—which he hadn’t been—Dean didn’t want to consider how Sam would react to losing out on his ideal present with nothing to replace it.
He picked up the remote and flicked around. One of the networks was showing some Christmas special, one was starting an old Disney movie, and the third had a football game. PBS had a concert and the last channel the TV could receive was all snowy, but had one of the million remakes of A Christmas Carol showing. He went back to the animated special—one of the stop-motion kind—and they sat silently. Dean put his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes. Long before the snowman lost all his teeth, he fell asleep.
Dad’s key in the lock and the apartment door opening woke him. Light from the hall spilled in, then narrowed to a sliver and disappeared as Dad shut the door. Sam must have pulled the blankets off the bed, because one was keeping Dean warm, and Sam had tucked himself under the other one, curled up half on top of Dean. Sam didn’t budge when Dean stretched and looked around blearily. His father was laying down what looked like a bouquet of flowers on the table near the phone.
“Dad?” he asked tentatively.
“You didn’t lay out fresh salt,” Dad said hoarsely, but the accusation was clear.
“I…I fell asleep,” Dean apologized.
But Dad wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “I noticed. Should have poured it out soon as you came in. Then you wouldn’t have forgotten to do it.”
“Yes, sir. Want me to do it now?” He pushed aside the covers to get up.
“I got it.” Dean watched his father bend over the threshold of the front door and sprinkle a liberal line across the floor. Then Dad came over, turned off the TV, and sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. Without the light from the TV, the room was gloomy. The streetlamp outside cast a glow through the window that slanted across half of Dad’s face. “Well?” Dad said, barely making any sound because they were so close. “Something you wanna say to me, son?”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Dean said earnestly.
“I know that,” Dad said, nodding. “I’d be interested in an explanation, if you’ve got one.”
Dean thought about all the things he could say to excuse himself, how he didn’t mean for his story to go so far, or for things to get so complicated so quickly. “I….” He swallowed. Dad wasn’t going to care about that. The only thing that might make any difference to him was why Dean had lied. And since it was for Sam, there was even a chance Dad would understand. “You should’ve seen that lame rehearsal, Dad. Sammy was miserable. I just thought…what does it matter?”
But Dad was implacable. “Matters because stuff like that makes you stand out, Dean. His teachers think we’re fanatics. It calls attention, makes us conspicuous. Makes them wonder what else might be going on at home.”
“I didn’t…I just wanted to help him out,” Dean said, feeling utterly wretched.
“And he let you because you’re his big brother and he worships you.”
“No, he—”
“Dean. Come on, dude,” Dad said sternly, shaking his head. “He copies you all the time.” Dean wasn’t so sure that was true, but Dad kept talking softly. “I know you hate school, buddy. But you’ve got to realize that what you do influences Sam.”
Dean looked at his lap.
“Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t try the same line to escape your Secret Santa deal,” Dad muttered.
Dean attempted Sam’s puppy dog look. Even in the dim light, Dad wasn’t fooled. He leaned back, hands gripping his knees.
“Aw, crap. You did, didn’t you?”
“Tried,” Dean admitted. One shoulder arched. “Didn’t work.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Dad rolled his eyes. But he was fighting a smile, too, which made Dean bold. He grinned conspiratorially.
“Telling you, Dad: Mrs. Fontana? She’s the Wicked Witch of the West. I’m sure of it.”
Dad suppressed a growl with a sobering, sidelong look at him. “Doesn’t excuse lying for no good reason. Not to mention making me waste time dealing with your fallout when I have important things to do.”
“M’sorry, Dad,” Dean repeated helplessly.
Dad said nothing. He looked away, closed his eyes. He scrubbed his forehead like the whole thing gave him a headache. In the half-light from the street, Dean could tell Dad was struggling to deliver Dean’s sentence. Condemned, he waited for the only verdict that meant anything to him, from the only judge and jury in the world that mattered.
“Moved pretty quick today, getting Sammy away from that mess.”
It wasn’t that Dad never praised him, because he did. But this particular comment came from left field. Especially after what Dad had just said about distracting him from his hunting. Dean wasn’t sure what had prompted it. Dad sounded almost apologetic, like he was trying to dull the edge on his last comment.
”You said to get him out of there,” Dean said, puzzled. Maybe Dad was testing him.
“Mm-hmm,” Dad agreed. “But you didn’t hesitate.”
Dean shrugged both shoulders. Did Dad really think he’d ignore an order, after nearly getting Sammy killed that one time?
Dad rested his chin on his hands. He seemed to be weighing Dean’s failures against his successes. As if it would help him decide which way the scales tipped.
“This kind of thing gonna happen again? Lying to me because you lied to a teacher?”
“No, sir.” He might lie again, but at least he’d tell Dad next time it happened.
“I’m serious, dude,” Dad lectured. “There are reasons to lie and because-you-feel-like-it ain’t one of them.”
“I get it, Dad.” He really did. It was hard to talk—his throat felt tight and his eyes burned. He didn’t want to cry in front of Dad, though. Not twice in one week.
Dad persisted, as if he had to continue the thought whether Dean got it or not. “I can’t protect you and Sam if I have the wrong idea of what’s going on.”
Dean nodded. He knew if he tried to answer, his voice would break, and the tears would spill. But if Dad didn’t insist on a verbal reply, he could hold it together. He knew he could.
Dad grimaced before continuing. It looked like he’d run out of steam, or maybe he just saw that Dean felt like crap about the whole thing. When he spoke next, it was like they were buddies again. Almost. “We been kinda slackin’ off since Turkey Day, huh, son?”
Dean cleared his throat. “Uh…training? Yes, sir. A little.”
“All this snow,” Dad murmured, looking out the window. By the time he turned his head back to Dean, Dean had swallowed a few times and could meet his father’s gaze again without the fear that he’d fall apart. “Well, you’ve got one more week left in school before the holidays. Then we’ll see.”
“We’re leaving again?” Damn. His voice did crack.
“Soon, yeah. So looks like you’ll get a do-over.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked down at Sam, still sacked out with his head and arms akimbo. “Sammy kinda worried you’d, uh, cancel Christmas,” he ventured, hiding behind his brother to satisfy his own curiosity.
“Haven’t ruled it out yet, dude,” Dad said dangerously. He narrowed his eyes. “You feeling okay? I’m talking flu, here. All the excitement didn’t spike your fever or anything?” Dad leaned forward to swipe his hand over Dean’s forehead.
Dean ducked it. He didn’t trust himself not to lean in to his father’s touch, and he didn’t want to appear needy. “No, ’m fine, Dad. Just tired out.”
“Yeah,” Dad said, and cleared his throat. His hand hovered in the air for a second before he dropped it into his lap and laced his fingers. He smirked. “Running from vicious sprinklers’ll take it right out of a guy.”
Dean chuckled. He didn’t know why Dad felt like joking, but he’d take that over a dressing down any day. “Roger that.”
Dad drew in a breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. He stiffened his back. It seemed to Dean like Dad was remembering to be severe with him. “Okay. You go on and get ready for bed. Let me talk to Sam.”
Dean rose reluctantly, easing Sam’s head down onto the couch as he withdrew his hip-shaped pillow. He still wasn’t sure if he was really in trouble or not, or how much. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been forgiven, completely, mostly because Dad offered no hand on his shoulder or tap on the knee to send him off, not even a swat on the butt like he sometimes did with Sammy. So perhaps Dad had decided to let him twist a little while longer before leveling his real judgment. But then again, Dad seemed more tired than pissed. And he’d definitely been back in an okay mood when he teased about the sprinklers. So maybe Dean had dodged the firing squad. Maybe Dad was just in the Christmas spirit. His thoughts turned back to the movie he’d surfed past, about Scrooge. He’d dreamed of ghosts and as a result had had a change of heart. Dean knew ghosts didn’t do good things like that, which was probably why he hated that story. But maybe finishing his job meant Dad was in a mood to be lenient.
And he must have finished the job, or they wouldn’t be leaving.
He brushed his teeth and used the toilet. When he crossed the hall, he could hear Dad and Sammy talking in the same subdued way. He couldn’t hear the words, just their voices. Dad had his arms crossed and sounded annoyed. Sam’s half of the conversation was pretty whiny. Bad news for Sam, Dean decided; he really should learn to respond to Dad with more deference, less defensiveness. He didn’t linger, though, because Dad could see him in the hallway and he’d ordered Dean to bed, besides. Dad had chosen to play their interrogations in isolation. Since they’d teamed up to deceive him, Dean figured that was fair. He could catch up with Sam once the ordeal was over.
Dean double-checked the salt lines on the windowsill before he lay down on the mattress to wait for his fellow condemned criminal.
~*~
John touched Sam’s shoulder to wake him up.
“Need somethin’, Dean?” he said sleepily before realizing Dean was gone, and he was lying directly on the couch cushion. “Oh,” he continued, seeing his father where he sat on the table. “Dad. Um. Hi.” He struggled against the couch cushions to push himself straight.
“Hey, Sammy,” John didn’t trust his voice at full volume, so he continued to use the same half-whisper he’d used with Dean.
“’M really sorry,” Sam volunteered, in a preemptive effort, apparently.
“Are you?” John quipped. He’d intended to be kinder, but Sam’s wheedling pissed him right back off. “Do you understand why what you and Dean did is unacceptable?”
Sam took that in the way he always processed the unexpected, jaw going a little slack, eyes widening and nostrils flared. He pulled his jaw to one side in self-recrimination. “’Cause if they think we’re not normal, they’ll look for other things to be wrong with us?”
It was a stock answer and that meant Sam wasn’t thinking it through. “That’s one reason, yeah,” John said impatiently. “You didn’t just lie to the school, though. You lied to me. To my face, Sammy.” He tried to sound stern instead of hurt.
A bit of Dean’s impishness crept into Sam’s face. “Technically, the first time, I had my back to you,” he observed wryly. John’s disapproving glare quelled him in an instant.
“I’m not kidding around, Sam,” he said, making no attempt to hide his irritation. “Don’t you lie to me.” He forced himself to moderate his tone, pull back so Sam wouldn’t spook or worse, flare. “I don’t care what it is—if I don’t like what you have to say, that’s a different story. We’ll deal with that separately. But don’t you dare lie to me. Ever.” He took a steadying breath to keep his voice from rising. “This is bigger than forgetting to tell me something—it’s more serious than that. You got me?”
Sam dropped his gaze. “Yessir.”
“On top of lying, you made me spend a lot of time trying to fix the wrong wagon. Those conversations with Miss Johnson? And all that business with Mrs. Farnsworth?” John stabbed his finger toward Sam’s nose. “It was disrespectful to all of us, Sam. Do you understand that?”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Sam’s voice cracked, but he didn’t start crying, quite.
John waited to make sure Sam meant it. When Sam sniffed and let out a ragged sigh, John could tell that his message had sunk in. He lightened up his intensity a hair. “All right, then. Way I see it, there’s two issues here. First is, you got yourself a pass on a school activity you should have been part of. Second is squaring yourself up with me. Now as for the first, we’ll have to talk to Miss Johnson—you owe her an apology and it’s up to her to decide what’s the best course.”
“Yessir,” Sam mumbled.
“Can’t hear you,” John pressed.
Sam’s head came up. “Yes, sir,” he said more distinctly.
“Far as you and me are concerned, well….” He paused. Half a lifetime ago, when he and Mary had been expecting Dean, she’d made him promise he’d never strap their children, the way he’d been raised. Grounding made no sense, since a seven-year-old in Michigan didn’t have much of anywhere to go. He’d already decided they’d both step up their training; that wasn’t strictly speaking punishment, though, just good sense. And despite his threat to Dean (and Bobby’s recommendation), he couldn’t bring himself to completely cancel Christmas, as Dean had put it. That left increased chores, decreased privileges, or a combination. With Sam, some sort of penalty was usually necessary, unlike Dean, who took everything to heart. Bobby was right about that much. John sighed, decision made. “I’m sure Dean wouldn’t object if we shuffled chores a bit. Dish and laundry detail for one month.”
Sam’s mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened, but he didn’t complain. John soon understood why he didn’t object; he was more anxious about other things. “What…what about Christmas, sir?” he asked tentatively.
John sighed, crossing his arms. “Sam, that Transformer thing, it’s just a waste of money.”
“It’s really cool, though,” Sam said, as if that made a damn bit of difference.
“Yeah, it’s cool this week. Wait six months and you won’t care anymore.” Behind Sam and the couch, Dean came out of the bathroom. He froze for an instant, glanced down the hall toward John, but unstuck himself and crossed into the bedroom discreetly. It occurred to John that he might be able to shift some responsibility off himself, as well as test how what Sam had witnessed this afternoon had affected him. “Besides,” he said, sliding his eyes to look out the window, “that’s up to Santa, isn’t it?”
Sam bit his lip. He had obviously been thinking along those lines already, because his argument was quick to take form. “Do you have to tell him?” he whined.
“Samuel,” John said sharply. He suspected that Sam would cling to any hope of the best outcome, but from the beginning of their conversation, Sammy had been ducking the impact and the consequences of his little trick. And while some part of him was grateful Sam could still believe in fairy tales, it was rapidly engulfed by the growing piece of him that wanted Sam to grow up already and face facts. He could feel his impatience rising and forced it back down. “You think you deserve that toy after all this?”
Sam hung his head. When he looked back up, the puppy eyes were in full force. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” he insisted, sounding on the point of tears again. Typical: he wouldn’t stoop to defend himself with John, but looking bad in Santa’s eyes shamed him. John willed himself not to get offended by the difference; just to be glad there still was a difference. It didn’t work very well.
“I never said you meant any harm,” John assured him through gritted teeth. “Sometimes that don’t matter.”
“Is Dean getting his Gameboy?” Sam asked hotly.
“We’re not talking about Dean; we’re talking about you,” John bit out.
Sam’s defiance flared for another heartbeat: his breathing heavy, his face storming. Then he deflated. “Yes, sir.”
“So,” John continued, letting himself ride his frustration to keep the impact of his words as strong as possible, “I’ll ask you again: Do you really think you deserve a big fancy toy after your behavior?”
“Guess not,” Sam mumbled dejectedly.
“Then I don’t want to hear any more about it. Now go on to bed. Brush your teeth.”
“It’s Saturday,” Sam protested, but he was already sliding off the couch.
“Bed,” John repeated, waving vaguely into the hallway beyond. He aimed a light swat at Sam’s butt as Sam rounded the corner of the sofa.
While Sam busied himself in the bathroom, John cleaned up the files and the other stuff he didn’t need anymore. He wanted to pour himself a whiskey, but he still had work to do tonight, so he settled for a beer. He read through the papers and circled an item of interest. There was one other thing he wanted to check in the paper, so he pulled out the Saturday ads for a little specialized research. After a few minutes, he set aside one page.
Eventually, Sam crossed the hall and the light in his and Dean’s room clicked off. John turned the TV on at a low volume. He sat in front of it, not really paying any attention, to add a preliminary entry on Askefrues and Huldras to his journal.
A little after midnight, the phone rang. John answered immediately.
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat.
“John?” the voice quavered. “It’s Gina.”
“Mall’s all shut up?”
“Yes. I just got the call.” She sounded a little shaky, but she returned his terse question with a business-like tone.
“Good,” he told her, meaning both to acknowledge the news and to reward her self-control. “It’ll take me half an hour to get there, this time of night. Still set on coming along?”
“You’re not going to convince me otherwise.”
John growled through a smile. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”
He grabbed the package of mistletoe on his way out, not noticing when a sprig of it fell free.
~*~
No flare of orange light marked the end of this job, not this time. The usual tools of John’s trade—shovel, salt, accelerant, and fire—remained in his large trunk—except for the sharp-bladed spade. Digging into frozen ground was no easy task. But he’d done it before and sure would again.
At least this time, he had someone to hold the flashlight.
Gina had stood back at the perimeter of the mall atrium, per John’s instructions, while he took out the mistletoe and held it loosely by his leg. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to entice the spirit, except that flushing her out with fire was not recommended. Neither Ellen nor Bobby thought there should be any ritual, so John simply spoke.
“Look, I think we can solve both our problems if you come out and talk.” He laid out the mistletoe in front of himself. “You want to live—we don’t want you to die in here. Come on out.”
He did his best to ignore his audience. Gina had told both guards to take a break, which they did readily enough after John added fifty bucks each for incentive and promised that the accidents would end that night. But Gina had refused to leave his side. She was still so upset about Lyle that John hadn’t felt he could refuse. If she found his current conduct a bit bonkers, John didn’t blame her. He’d have had a hard time standing and watching someone else make such a fool of himself, if he didn’t know what he knew.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he muttered in a childlike sing-song more appropriate to the boys he’d left sleeping. No answer. Not even the twitch of a pinecone.
“Listen, we mean no harm. I ain’t got all night.” He stared into the tree. Had one of the full branches rustled a tad? “If you don’t come out, I’ll have no choice but to burn the tree.”
An ethereal laugh resounded in the open mall crossroads. Gina gasped; John gestured to her with the mistletoe to keep cool. He spared her a fleeting glance to make sure she’d be okay, and she nodded at him resolutely.
“Nein,” the laugh’s owner said. Her voice sounded raspy, like wind through the pines. Like something ancient mixed with something always fresh and green and young. “Burn me? I’ve seen what happens now, thanks to you: Wasser will come.”
“Not if we’re not inside,” John countered. “And you’re leaving this place tonight, one way or another.”
There was another ripple of laughter and the apparition stood in the branches. She glowed slightly, but not as bright as some ghosts John had seen. Her skin was sallow and sagging. Her hair had a ragged, dull look. Her dress, which others had reported as flowing or full-skirted, hung in tatters to her knees. “What can you do against me?” she taunted. “I have lived for two hundred years—you are but a speck upon the earth, a blight on green growing things.”
John was unimpressed by the archaic speech or the attempted put-down. “I’m a speck that can get you back to the forest,” he retorted.
“Lies!” she screeched. The echo bounced off the glass. The branches shook, sending one or two ornaments to shatter. She drew up one gnarled, twisted hand. Her face darkened like scarred wood, her eyes went black and dead like a shark’s, and every instant of that 200 years showed in her skin, like bark flaking and peeling off an old trunk. She batted her hand at John as if to swat a fly. Nothing happened.
John held up the mistletoe. It hadn’t worked well as an enticement, but it seemed to protect him from her attack. “You lie!” she said again, less vehemently. “I am dying and there is naught you can do to stop it. But say what you will and leave me.”
“You’re not dead yet,” John said. “Long as part of the tree lives, you still got life. Right?”
“Ja.”
“So you let me cut a section…a graft. You travel in it with me, and I’ll plant it somewhere you can survive.” He tinged his voice with steel. “You leave this place and leave the people here alone.”
“How do I know you will not break your word and burn the branch?” She stepped forward, eyes back to a deep green.
“You’d just come back to the tree, wouldn’t you?”
Her eyes flinched down to the mistletoe. John thought he understood. “Mistletoe. It’s a parasite…. It’s a binding herb, isn’t it?” he wondered aloud. “Look, all we care about is that you stop harming humans.”
“They harmed me first!” she declared.
“You sound like my seven-year-old,” John told her testily, the conversation with Sam coming back to irk him all over again. He forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down, concentrate on the job. Bargain with it, for crissakes. Ellen owed him one. “Think about it—back outside, back in the green with your own…kind.”
“Not as many of us, anymore,” she said mournfully.
“Gonna be one less, you don’t stop bitching,” John said impatiently. “This is the best offer I’m gonna make. If not, I’ll cut the graft anyway, bind you into it, and burn it.” He almost wished she would attack, just to give him the satisfaction of killing her.
As if granting his request, the Askefrue snarled at him. John brandished his sprig of mistletoe in one hand, a large, serrated blade in the other. Before he could make good his threat, she backed down.
“Ja,” she sighed. “Done. Es ist ein Abkommen. It is a bargain.” She disappeared. A moment later, one of the lower branches twitched. “Herr Jäger!” her voice called faintly.
John dove under the tree, blade out. The tree base was anchored in a large pot with water and multiple screws to keep it upright. The pot itself had been hidden, skirted with a large quantity of cotton batting and fabric, padding his knees. The cord from the lights threaded through the wispy cotton batting. A few of the plastic shavings that looked like fake snow were strewn over the skirt as well. As he inched forward, static made the flakes stick to his jeans. He kept the mistletoe in his off-hand against an attack, now that he was so close in her reach.
“Cut down here,” he heard the voice say.
“Where?”
“Dumkopf, heren!” she yelled. John felt a tiny sting on the back of his hand. He looked down and saw a tiny version of the spirit. She pointed to a low limb. “Cut on a slant, as much trunk and root as you can manage,” she chided.
Should have brought a saw, John realized. Within ten strokes, the blade was coated in sticky, tan sap the same color as the tears that had streaked the Askefrue’s face that afternoon.
John hacked away at the branch until it came free. The spirit, still in its pixie-like incarnation, rode on a pinecone.
“Schnell!” she exclaimed.
“Hang on,” John said. He cut a strip of the cloth batting and dipped it into the pot next to the trunk. After soaking it, he wrapped the batting around the cut spike of pine branch.
“You must hurry,” she insisted. “This branch will die unless joined to another tree soon.”
“Fine,” John told her. He crawled out from the tree. Standing up, cracking his back, he lifted the branch out to salute Gina with it. “Phase One.” He walked up to her.
She stared, wide-eyed, at the branch, but after a little gulp to steel herself, she whispered, “Now what?”
“Now we get out of here, and I have to take this to plant it with another tree.” John took her arm to steer her down the corridor. “You don’t happen to know the way to the nearest pine grove?”
“Nein,” the miniature Askefrue said. “I will tell you where to take me.”
“Super,” John grumbled. He and Gina walked toward the exit. “You don’t need to—”
“I’m seeing this through, John,” Gina insisted. “Though I do wish it weren’t quite so cold out tonight.”
They took his car, leaving hers at the mall. John overruled the spirit’s protests of timeliness and made a stop at a 24-hour McDonald’s to fill a thermos with coffee, which he and Gina sipped as they drove north. After about an hour, the Askefrue directed him onto the side of a mountain and into an old growth forest. They had to stop the car by the side of the road and walk in the rest of the way. At last, the spirit had pointed to a tree. “Expose the roots of that one, and I will bind myself to it.” John had started digging.
The beam of light trembled; Gina was shivering.
“Almost done,” John told her. He thanked heaven for small favors: at least he didn’t have to open an entire grave in this frozen earth.
“G-g-good,” Gina told him. She sniffed.
He twisted the spade in the ground and met the resistance of the root. Taking out his blade, he cut away part of the root so that the branch and the root could meld. The spirit had been quiet for about half an hour, while John had shoveled through snow and then hacked his way into the frozen ground. John wasn’t sure if she’d died. He didn’t much care, either. Dead or alive, she wasn’t going back to kill more innocent humans. Mostly innocent, anyway.
He unwrapped the branch and placed it in the earth, its exposed innards facing toward the open root. Before his eyes, the two pieces fused. Then he shoved the earth he’d just turned back into the hole. It took a while to get enough back in to cover the root back up.
“Danke,” the spirit said softly.
“Bitte,” John answered reflexively. Tuesday, only four days ago, he’d translated O Tannenbaum for Sammy. It felt like years had passed since then.
The sky was lightening by the time he and Gina made it back to the Impala. No one had disturbed the car on the road, but frost had formed over the windows from the cooling condensation. John started the engine and let Gina warm up inside while he scraped as much as he needed to see.
Dawn had come and gone when they returned to the mall lot. “I have something for you,” Gina told him as he pulled up alongside her car. “Wait here.”
He waited for her to dig in her glove box. She came back to his window, which he rolled down for her. “I didn’t want to chance leaving it in the office, in case we didn’t have time to go in. It’s your check. The eight hours you were scheduled for…plus a little bonus.”
“But—”
“You got rid of that thing,” Gina overrode his protest. “I still don’t know exactly what it was, but I know it would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for you.” She swiped at her eyes, though John couldn’t tell whether she was crying again, or if the cold was making them tear up. “I’ll get your Santa suit back to the Macy’s—they rent from the same supplier we do. If you’re staying in town for a few more days, I’ll see if I can get them to pay you what they owe you, too.”
“Gina,” John looked at the check, and the number on it, in disbelief. “This is….”
“Enough for your family to have a decent Christmas. I figured you wouldn’t want to risk coming back here, not after everything.” She patted his arm in a motherly way.
“It’s not…I don’t….” He smiled sadly. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“John,” she said, sniffing, and this time it wasn’t just the cold in the air, “no one’s going to believe what they saw, and soon enough, they’ll forget what you’ve done. But I’ll remember.” Her eyes brimmed. “Merry Christmas.”
John began to protest, but couldn’t argue with her sincerity. “Merry Christmas.” He found it hard to meet her eye.
Gina kissed his cheek. When she stood up, his face felt faintly wet and cold from the spots left by her tears. “And good luck. God bless you.”
Continue to the Conclusion in Chapter 17
Author:
gwendolyngraceRecipient:
celtic_cookieRequest 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 5,740
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: Sorry for the delay on this, but between travel and life…it just took a little longer than I hoped. However, Chapter 17 should be right behind this one to wrap up all the loose ends. This chapter has a little something for everyone, I think: a little angst, a little action, and a few moments you’ve been waiting for. My beta is amazing and patient, because she even re-read this after I'd made all her revisions....
From the Top
Then
Now:
Dean opened up a couple cans of ravioli, the easiest thing he could think of, and heated the contents on the stove. He wanted to just collapse. But anxiety over how pissed Dad had been promised to keep him up, and upset, ’til Dad came back to lower the boom. His punishments were never as bad as waiting for them to be imposed. Sometimes, he thought maybe Dad planned it that way deliberately, so that by the time he did come back and pass his sentence, it was more of a relief than a penalty. Other times, Dean suspected it was just that Dad couldn’t stand to be around him when he’d screwed up so bad.
“Dean, how much trouble are we in?” Sam asked.
“Hard to say,” Dean observed cautiously. “Dad’s pretty annoyed.” He came out with their bowls and flopped on the couch. Sam took his supper. He kept flipping the TV channels in search of something to watch.
Dean picked at his ravioli. He was feeling a little queasy again. Last thing he wanted was to throw up after only just getting back on his feet. “Here,” he said. He held out his half-eaten portion to Sam, who had already finished most of his.
“You okay?”
“Don’t feel like ravioli,” he said to stop Sam from fussing.
Sam ate. “Want something else?” he offered when there was nothing left but sauce and little bits of broken ravioli shell. “I’ll make you a sammich or cereal.”
“Nah. I’m okay. Thanks.” He appreciated Sam’s solicitousness, but the idea of Sam taking care of him always made him uncomfortable.
Sam seemed to know that it wasn’t just his stomach that was bothering him. “S’not your fault, Dean.”
‘Yeah, it is,” Dean said glumly. “You didn’t ask me to lie to your teacher. I did that.”
“But I wanted you to,” Sam assured him. “I mean, it wasn’t my idea, but I didn’t wanna be in that dumb pageant. I didn’t stop you,” he concluded guiltily.
“Yeah. But lying to Dad?”
“Not cool,” they said in unison.
“We both did it, though,” Sam reasoned. “Wasn’t you.”
“Doesn’t matter, Sammy. I’m s’posed to know better. We both are.”
“S’not like we hurt anyone,” Sam said. He stuck out his lower lip. “I guess that means Dad won’t put in a good report with Santa,” he said after thinking for a bit.
Dean sighed. “Nope. Figure you can kiss your Transformer doll goodbye.” He chucked Sam lightly on the shoulder.
“Action figure. Dolls are…gay,” he finished, as if trying to score points with his brother.
“Whatever,” Dean said, though he was at least gratified to know that Sam was figuring out some basic rules of the universe. Perhaps there was hope for him. “Face it, Sam,” he said to prepare him for the worst, “we screwed ourselves out of Christmas this year.”
“You really think so?” Sam asked pitifully. Dean didn’t have the heart to answer. He just shrugged. He had no idea whether Dad would get them anything at all, but he didn’t have high hopes for it. Worse, knowing that there was no way Dad would have bought the Transformer thing, even if Sam had been perfect all year—which he hadn’t been—Dean didn’t want to consider how Sam would react to losing out on his ideal present with nothing to replace it.
He picked up the remote and flicked around. One of the networks was showing some Christmas special, one was starting an old Disney movie, and the third had a football game. PBS had a concert and the last channel the TV could receive was all snowy, but had one of the million remakes of A Christmas Carol showing. He went back to the animated special—one of the stop-motion kind—and they sat silently. Dean put his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes. Long before the snowman lost all his teeth, he fell asleep.
Dad’s key in the lock and the apartment door opening woke him. Light from the hall spilled in, then narrowed to a sliver and disappeared as Dad shut the door. Sam must have pulled the blankets off the bed, because one was keeping Dean warm, and Sam had tucked himself under the other one, curled up half on top of Dean. Sam didn’t budge when Dean stretched and looked around blearily. His father was laying down what looked like a bouquet of flowers on the table near the phone.
“Dad?” he asked tentatively.
“You didn’t lay out fresh salt,” Dad said hoarsely, but the accusation was clear.
“I…I fell asleep,” Dean apologized.
But Dad wasn’t going to let him off the hook. “I noticed. Should have poured it out soon as you came in. Then you wouldn’t have forgotten to do it.”
“Yes, sir. Want me to do it now?” He pushed aside the covers to get up.
“I got it.” Dean watched his father bend over the threshold of the front door and sprinkle a liberal line across the floor. Then Dad came over, turned off the TV, and sat on the coffee table in front of the couch. Without the light from the TV, the room was gloomy. The streetlamp outside cast a glow through the window that slanted across half of Dad’s face. “Well?” Dad said, barely making any sound because they were so close. “Something you wanna say to me, son?”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Dean said earnestly.
“I know that,” Dad said, nodding. “I’d be interested in an explanation, if you’ve got one.”
Dean thought about all the things he could say to excuse himself, how he didn’t mean for his story to go so far, or for things to get so complicated so quickly. “I….” He swallowed. Dad wasn’t going to care about that. The only thing that might make any difference to him was why Dean had lied. And since it was for Sam, there was even a chance Dad would understand. “You should’ve seen that lame rehearsal, Dad. Sammy was miserable. I just thought…what does it matter?”
But Dad was implacable. “Matters because stuff like that makes you stand out, Dean. His teachers think we’re fanatics. It calls attention, makes us conspicuous. Makes them wonder what else might be going on at home.”
“I didn’t…I just wanted to help him out,” Dean said, feeling utterly wretched.
“And he let you because you’re his big brother and he worships you.”
“No, he—”
“Dean. Come on, dude,” Dad said sternly, shaking his head. “He copies you all the time.” Dean wasn’t so sure that was true, but Dad kept talking softly. “I know you hate school, buddy. But you’ve got to realize that what you do influences Sam.”
Dean looked at his lap.
“Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t try the same line to escape your Secret Santa deal,” Dad muttered.
Dean attempted Sam’s puppy dog look. Even in the dim light, Dad wasn’t fooled. He leaned back, hands gripping his knees.
“Aw, crap. You did, didn’t you?”
“Tried,” Dean admitted. One shoulder arched. “Didn’t work.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Dad rolled his eyes. But he was fighting a smile, too, which made Dean bold. He grinned conspiratorially.
“Telling you, Dad: Mrs. Fontana? She’s the Wicked Witch of the West. I’m sure of it.”
Dad suppressed a growl with a sobering, sidelong look at him. “Doesn’t excuse lying for no good reason. Not to mention making me waste time dealing with your fallout when I have important things to do.”
“M’sorry, Dad,” Dean repeated helplessly.
Dad said nothing. He looked away, closed his eyes. He scrubbed his forehead like the whole thing gave him a headache. In the half-light from the street, Dean could tell Dad was struggling to deliver Dean’s sentence. Condemned, he waited for the only verdict that meant anything to him, from the only judge and jury in the world that mattered.
“Moved pretty quick today, getting Sammy away from that mess.”
It wasn’t that Dad never praised him, because he did. But this particular comment came from left field. Especially after what Dad had just said about distracting him from his hunting. Dean wasn’t sure what had prompted it. Dad sounded almost apologetic, like he was trying to dull the edge on his last comment.
”You said to get him out of there,” Dean said, puzzled. Maybe Dad was testing him.
“Mm-hmm,” Dad agreed. “But you didn’t hesitate.”
Dean shrugged both shoulders. Did Dad really think he’d ignore an order, after nearly getting Sammy killed that one time?
Dad rested his chin on his hands. He seemed to be weighing Dean’s failures against his successes. As if it would help him decide which way the scales tipped.
“This kind of thing gonna happen again? Lying to me because you lied to a teacher?”
“No, sir.” He might lie again, but at least he’d tell Dad next time it happened.
“I’m serious, dude,” Dad lectured. “There are reasons to lie and because-you-feel-like-it ain’t one of them.”
“I get it, Dad.” He really did. It was hard to talk—his throat felt tight and his eyes burned. He didn’t want to cry in front of Dad, though. Not twice in one week.
Dad persisted, as if he had to continue the thought whether Dean got it or not. “I can’t protect you and Sam if I have the wrong idea of what’s going on.”
Dean nodded. He knew if he tried to answer, his voice would break, and the tears would spill. But if Dad didn’t insist on a verbal reply, he could hold it together. He knew he could.
Dad grimaced before continuing. It looked like he’d run out of steam, or maybe he just saw that Dean felt like crap about the whole thing. When he spoke next, it was like they were buddies again. Almost. “We been kinda slackin’ off since Turkey Day, huh, son?”
Dean cleared his throat. “Uh…training? Yes, sir. A little.”
“All this snow,” Dad murmured, looking out the window. By the time he turned his head back to Dean, Dean had swallowed a few times and could meet his father’s gaze again without the fear that he’d fall apart. “Well, you’ve got one more week left in school before the holidays. Then we’ll see.”
“We’re leaving again?” Damn. His voice did crack.
“Soon, yeah. So looks like you’ll get a do-over.”
“Yes, sir.” He looked down at Sam, still sacked out with his head and arms akimbo. “Sammy kinda worried you’d, uh, cancel Christmas,” he ventured, hiding behind his brother to satisfy his own curiosity.
“Haven’t ruled it out yet, dude,” Dad said dangerously. He narrowed his eyes. “You feeling okay? I’m talking flu, here. All the excitement didn’t spike your fever or anything?” Dad leaned forward to swipe his hand over Dean’s forehead.
Dean ducked it. He didn’t trust himself not to lean in to his father’s touch, and he didn’t want to appear needy. “No, ’m fine, Dad. Just tired out.”
“Yeah,” Dad said, and cleared his throat. His hand hovered in the air for a second before he dropped it into his lap and laced his fingers. He smirked. “Running from vicious sprinklers’ll take it right out of a guy.”
Dean chuckled. He didn’t know why Dad felt like joking, but he’d take that over a dressing down any day. “Roger that.”
Dad drew in a breath and let it out in a ragged sigh. He stiffened his back. It seemed to Dean like Dad was remembering to be severe with him. “Okay. You go on and get ready for bed. Let me talk to Sam.”
Dean rose reluctantly, easing Sam’s head down onto the couch as he withdrew his hip-shaped pillow. He still wasn’t sure if he was really in trouble or not, or how much. He was pretty sure he hadn’t been forgiven, completely, mostly because Dad offered no hand on his shoulder or tap on the knee to send him off, not even a swat on the butt like he sometimes did with Sammy. So perhaps Dad had decided to let him twist a little while longer before leveling his real judgment. But then again, Dad seemed more tired than pissed. And he’d definitely been back in an okay mood when he teased about the sprinklers. So maybe Dean had dodged the firing squad. Maybe Dad was just in the Christmas spirit. His thoughts turned back to the movie he’d surfed past, about Scrooge. He’d dreamed of ghosts and as a result had had a change of heart. Dean knew ghosts didn’t do good things like that, which was probably why he hated that story. But maybe finishing his job meant Dad was in a mood to be lenient.
And he must have finished the job, or they wouldn’t be leaving.
He brushed his teeth and used the toilet. When he crossed the hall, he could hear Dad and Sammy talking in the same subdued way. He couldn’t hear the words, just their voices. Dad had his arms crossed and sounded annoyed. Sam’s half of the conversation was pretty whiny. Bad news for Sam, Dean decided; he really should learn to respond to Dad with more deference, less defensiveness. He didn’t linger, though, because Dad could see him in the hallway and he’d ordered Dean to bed, besides. Dad had chosen to play their interrogations in isolation. Since they’d teamed up to deceive him, Dean figured that was fair. He could catch up with Sam once the ordeal was over.
Dean double-checked the salt lines on the windowsill before he lay down on the mattress to wait for his fellow condemned criminal.
~*~
John touched Sam’s shoulder to wake him up.
“Need somethin’, Dean?” he said sleepily before realizing Dean was gone, and he was lying directly on the couch cushion. “Oh,” he continued, seeing his father where he sat on the table. “Dad. Um. Hi.” He struggled against the couch cushions to push himself straight.
“Hey, Sammy,” John didn’t trust his voice at full volume, so he continued to use the same half-whisper he’d used with Dean.
“’M really sorry,” Sam volunteered, in a preemptive effort, apparently.
“Are you?” John quipped. He’d intended to be kinder, but Sam’s wheedling pissed him right back off. “Do you understand why what you and Dean did is unacceptable?”
Sam took that in the way he always processed the unexpected, jaw going a little slack, eyes widening and nostrils flared. He pulled his jaw to one side in self-recrimination. “’Cause if they think we’re not normal, they’ll look for other things to be wrong with us?”
It was a stock answer and that meant Sam wasn’t thinking it through. “That’s one reason, yeah,” John said impatiently. “You didn’t just lie to the school, though. You lied to me. To my face, Sammy.” He tried to sound stern instead of hurt.
A bit of Dean’s impishness crept into Sam’s face. “Technically, the first time, I had my back to you,” he observed wryly. John’s disapproving glare quelled him in an instant.
“I’m not kidding around, Sam,” he said, making no attempt to hide his irritation. “Don’t you lie to me.” He forced himself to moderate his tone, pull back so Sam wouldn’t spook or worse, flare. “I don’t care what it is—if I don’t like what you have to say, that’s a different story. We’ll deal with that separately. But don’t you dare lie to me. Ever.” He took a steadying breath to keep his voice from rising. “This is bigger than forgetting to tell me something—it’s more serious than that. You got me?”
Sam dropped his gaze. “Yessir.”
“On top of lying, you made me spend a lot of time trying to fix the wrong wagon. Those conversations with Miss Johnson? And all that business with Mrs. Farnsworth?” John stabbed his finger toward Sam’s nose. “It was disrespectful to all of us, Sam. Do you understand that?”
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Sam’s voice cracked, but he didn’t start crying, quite.
John waited to make sure Sam meant it. When Sam sniffed and let out a ragged sigh, John could tell that his message had sunk in. He lightened up his intensity a hair. “All right, then. Way I see it, there’s two issues here. First is, you got yourself a pass on a school activity you should have been part of. Second is squaring yourself up with me. Now as for the first, we’ll have to talk to Miss Johnson—you owe her an apology and it’s up to her to decide what’s the best course.”
“Yessir,” Sam mumbled.
“Can’t hear you,” John pressed.
Sam’s head came up. “Yes, sir,” he said more distinctly.
“Far as you and me are concerned, well….” He paused. Half a lifetime ago, when he and Mary had been expecting Dean, she’d made him promise he’d never strap their children, the way he’d been raised. Grounding made no sense, since a seven-year-old in Michigan didn’t have much of anywhere to go. He’d already decided they’d both step up their training; that wasn’t strictly speaking punishment, though, just good sense. And despite his threat to Dean (and Bobby’s recommendation), he couldn’t bring himself to completely cancel Christmas, as Dean had put it. That left increased chores, decreased privileges, or a combination. With Sam, some sort of penalty was usually necessary, unlike Dean, who took everything to heart. Bobby was right about that much. John sighed, decision made. “I’m sure Dean wouldn’t object if we shuffled chores a bit. Dish and laundry detail for one month.”
Sam’s mouth opened slightly and his eyes widened, but he didn’t complain. John soon understood why he didn’t object; he was more anxious about other things. “What…what about Christmas, sir?” he asked tentatively.
John sighed, crossing his arms. “Sam, that Transformer thing, it’s just a waste of money.”
“It’s really cool, though,” Sam said, as if that made a damn bit of difference.
“Yeah, it’s cool this week. Wait six months and you won’t care anymore.” Behind Sam and the couch, Dean came out of the bathroom. He froze for an instant, glanced down the hall toward John, but unstuck himself and crossed into the bedroom discreetly. It occurred to John that he might be able to shift some responsibility off himself, as well as test how what Sam had witnessed this afternoon had affected him. “Besides,” he said, sliding his eyes to look out the window, “that’s up to Santa, isn’t it?”
Sam bit his lip. He had obviously been thinking along those lines already, because his argument was quick to take form. “Do you have to tell him?” he whined.
“Samuel,” John said sharply. He suspected that Sam would cling to any hope of the best outcome, but from the beginning of their conversation, Sammy had been ducking the impact and the consequences of his little trick. And while some part of him was grateful Sam could still believe in fairy tales, it was rapidly engulfed by the growing piece of him that wanted Sam to grow up already and face facts. He could feel his impatience rising and forced it back down. “You think you deserve that toy after all this?”
Sam hung his head. When he looked back up, the puppy eyes were in full force. “I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” he insisted, sounding on the point of tears again. Typical: he wouldn’t stoop to defend himself with John, but looking bad in Santa’s eyes shamed him. John willed himself not to get offended by the difference; just to be glad there still was a difference. It didn’t work very well.
“I never said you meant any harm,” John assured him through gritted teeth. “Sometimes that don’t matter.”
“Is Dean getting his Gameboy?” Sam asked hotly.
“We’re not talking about Dean; we’re talking about you,” John bit out.
Sam’s defiance flared for another heartbeat: his breathing heavy, his face storming. Then he deflated. “Yes, sir.”
“So,” John continued, letting himself ride his frustration to keep the impact of his words as strong as possible, “I’ll ask you again: Do you really think you deserve a big fancy toy after your behavior?”
“Guess not,” Sam mumbled dejectedly.
“Then I don’t want to hear any more about it. Now go on to bed. Brush your teeth.”
“It’s Saturday,” Sam protested, but he was already sliding off the couch.
“Bed,” John repeated, waving vaguely into the hallway beyond. He aimed a light swat at Sam’s butt as Sam rounded the corner of the sofa.
While Sam busied himself in the bathroom, John cleaned up the files and the other stuff he didn’t need anymore. He wanted to pour himself a whiskey, but he still had work to do tonight, so he settled for a beer. He read through the papers and circled an item of interest. There was one other thing he wanted to check in the paper, so he pulled out the Saturday ads for a little specialized research. After a few minutes, he set aside one page.
Eventually, Sam crossed the hall and the light in his and Dean’s room clicked off. John turned the TV on at a low volume. He sat in front of it, not really paying any attention, to add a preliminary entry on Askefrues and Huldras to his journal.
A little after midnight, the phone rang. John answered immediately.
“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat.
“John?” the voice quavered. “It’s Gina.”
“Mall’s all shut up?”
“Yes. I just got the call.” She sounded a little shaky, but she returned his terse question with a business-like tone.
“Good,” he told her, meaning both to acknowledge the news and to reward her self-control. “It’ll take me half an hour to get there, this time of night. Still set on coming along?”
“You’re not going to convince me otherwise.”
John growled through a smile. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”
He grabbed the package of mistletoe on his way out, not noticing when a sprig of it fell free.
~*~
No flare of orange light marked the end of this job, not this time. The usual tools of John’s trade—shovel, salt, accelerant, and fire—remained in his large trunk—except for the sharp-bladed spade. Digging into frozen ground was no easy task. But he’d done it before and sure would again.
At least this time, he had someone to hold the flashlight.
Gina had stood back at the perimeter of the mall atrium, per John’s instructions, while he took out the mistletoe and held it loosely by his leg. It occurred to him that he had no idea how to entice the spirit, except that flushing her out with fire was not recommended. Neither Ellen nor Bobby thought there should be any ritual, so John simply spoke.
“Look, I think we can solve both our problems if you come out and talk.” He laid out the mistletoe in front of himself. “You want to live—we don’t want you to die in here. Come on out.”
He did his best to ignore his audience. Gina had told both guards to take a break, which they did readily enough after John added fifty bucks each for incentive and promised that the accidents would end that night. But Gina had refused to leave his side. She was still so upset about Lyle that John hadn’t felt he could refuse. If she found his current conduct a bit bonkers, John didn’t blame her. He’d have had a hard time standing and watching someone else make such a fool of himself, if he didn’t know what he knew.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he muttered in a childlike sing-song more appropriate to the boys he’d left sleeping. No answer. Not even the twitch of a pinecone.
“Listen, we mean no harm. I ain’t got all night.” He stared into the tree. Had one of the full branches rustled a tad? “If you don’t come out, I’ll have no choice but to burn the tree.”
An ethereal laugh resounded in the open mall crossroads. Gina gasped; John gestured to her with the mistletoe to keep cool. He spared her a fleeting glance to make sure she’d be okay, and she nodded at him resolutely.
“Nein,” the laugh’s owner said. Her voice sounded raspy, like wind through the pines. Like something ancient mixed with something always fresh and green and young. “Burn me? I’ve seen what happens now, thanks to you: Wasser will come.”
“Not if we’re not inside,” John countered. “And you’re leaving this place tonight, one way or another.”
There was another ripple of laughter and the apparition stood in the branches. She glowed slightly, but not as bright as some ghosts John had seen. Her skin was sallow and sagging. Her hair had a ragged, dull look. Her dress, which others had reported as flowing or full-skirted, hung in tatters to her knees. “What can you do against me?” she taunted. “I have lived for two hundred years—you are but a speck upon the earth, a blight on green growing things.”
John was unimpressed by the archaic speech or the attempted put-down. “I’m a speck that can get you back to the forest,” he retorted.
“Lies!” she screeched. The echo bounced off the glass. The branches shook, sending one or two ornaments to shatter. She drew up one gnarled, twisted hand. Her face darkened like scarred wood, her eyes went black and dead like a shark’s, and every instant of that 200 years showed in her skin, like bark flaking and peeling off an old trunk. She batted her hand at John as if to swat a fly. Nothing happened.
John held up the mistletoe. It hadn’t worked well as an enticement, but it seemed to protect him from her attack. “You lie!” she said again, less vehemently. “I am dying and there is naught you can do to stop it. But say what you will and leave me.”
“You’re not dead yet,” John said. “Long as part of the tree lives, you still got life. Right?”
“Ja.”
“So you let me cut a section…a graft. You travel in it with me, and I’ll plant it somewhere you can survive.” He tinged his voice with steel. “You leave this place and leave the people here alone.”
“How do I know you will not break your word and burn the branch?” She stepped forward, eyes back to a deep green.
“You’d just come back to the tree, wouldn’t you?”
Her eyes flinched down to the mistletoe. John thought he understood. “Mistletoe. It’s a parasite…. It’s a binding herb, isn’t it?” he wondered aloud. “Look, all we care about is that you stop harming humans.”
“They harmed me first!” she declared.
“You sound like my seven-year-old,” John told her testily, the conversation with Sam coming back to irk him all over again. He forced himself to take a deep breath and calm down, concentrate on the job. Bargain with it, for crissakes. Ellen owed him one. “Think about it—back outside, back in the green with your own…kind.”
“Not as many of us, anymore,” she said mournfully.
“Gonna be one less, you don’t stop bitching,” John said impatiently. “This is the best offer I’m gonna make. If not, I’ll cut the graft anyway, bind you into it, and burn it.” He almost wished she would attack, just to give him the satisfaction of killing her.
As if granting his request, the Askefrue snarled at him. John brandished his sprig of mistletoe in one hand, a large, serrated blade in the other. Before he could make good his threat, she backed down.
“Ja,” she sighed. “Done. Es ist ein Abkommen. It is a bargain.” She disappeared. A moment later, one of the lower branches twitched. “Herr Jäger!” her voice called faintly.
John dove under the tree, blade out. The tree base was anchored in a large pot with water and multiple screws to keep it upright. The pot itself had been hidden, skirted with a large quantity of cotton batting and fabric, padding his knees. The cord from the lights threaded through the wispy cotton batting. A few of the plastic shavings that looked like fake snow were strewn over the skirt as well. As he inched forward, static made the flakes stick to his jeans. He kept the mistletoe in his off-hand against an attack, now that he was so close in her reach.
“Cut down here,” he heard the voice say.
“Where?”
“Dumkopf, heren!” she yelled. John felt a tiny sting on the back of his hand. He looked down and saw a tiny version of the spirit. She pointed to a low limb. “Cut on a slant, as much trunk and root as you can manage,” she chided.
Should have brought a saw, John realized. Within ten strokes, the blade was coated in sticky, tan sap the same color as the tears that had streaked the Askefrue’s face that afternoon.
John hacked away at the branch until it came free. The spirit, still in its pixie-like incarnation, rode on a pinecone.
“Schnell!” she exclaimed.
“Hang on,” John said. He cut a strip of the cloth batting and dipped it into the pot next to the trunk. After soaking it, he wrapped the batting around the cut spike of pine branch.
“You must hurry,” she insisted. “This branch will die unless joined to another tree soon.”
“Fine,” John told her. He crawled out from the tree. Standing up, cracking his back, he lifted the branch out to salute Gina with it. “Phase One.” He walked up to her.
She stared, wide-eyed, at the branch, but after a little gulp to steel herself, she whispered, “Now what?”
“Now we get out of here, and I have to take this to plant it with another tree.” John took her arm to steer her down the corridor. “You don’t happen to know the way to the nearest pine grove?”
“Nein,” the miniature Askefrue said. “I will tell you where to take me.”
“Super,” John grumbled. He and Gina walked toward the exit. “You don’t need to—”
“I’m seeing this through, John,” Gina insisted. “Though I do wish it weren’t quite so cold out tonight.”
They took his car, leaving hers at the mall. John overruled the spirit’s protests of timeliness and made a stop at a 24-hour McDonald’s to fill a thermos with coffee, which he and Gina sipped as they drove north. After about an hour, the Askefrue directed him onto the side of a mountain and into an old growth forest. They had to stop the car by the side of the road and walk in the rest of the way. At last, the spirit had pointed to a tree. “Expose the roots of that one, and I will bind myself to it.” John had started digging.
The beam of light trembled; Gina was shivering.
“Almost done,” John told her. He thanked heaven for small favors: at least he didn’t have to open an entire grave in this frozen earth.
“G-g-good,” Gina told him. She sniffed.
He twisted the spade in the ground and met the resistance of the root. Taking out his blade, he cut away part of the root so that the branch and the root could meld. The spirit had been quiet for about half an hour, while John had shoveled through snow and then hacked his way into the frozen ground. John wasn’t sure if she’d died. He didn’t much care, either. Dead or alive, she wasn’t going back to kill more innocent humans. Mostly innocent, anyway.
He unwrapped the branch and placed it in the earth, its exposed innards facing toward the open root. Before his eyes, the two pieces fused. Then he shoved the earth he’d just turned back into the hole. It took a while to get enough back in to cover the root back up.
“Danke,” the spirit said softly.
“Bitte,” John answered reflexively. Tuesday, only four days ago, he’d translated O Tannenbaum for Sammy. It felt like years had passed since then.
The sky was lightening by the time he and Gina made it back to the Impala. No one had disturbed the car on the road, but frost had formed over the windows from the cooling condensation. John started the engine and let Gina warm up inside while he scraped as much as he needed to see.
Dawn had come and gone when they returned to the mall lot. “I have something for you,” Gina told him as he pulled up alongside her car. “Wait here.”
He waited for her to dig in her glove box. She came back to his window, which he rolled down for her. “I didn’t want to chance leaving it in the office, in case we didn’t have time to go in. It’s your check. The eight hours you were scheduled for…plus a little bonus.”
“But—”
“You got rid of that thing,” Gina overrode his protest. “I still don’t know exactly what it was, but I know it would have been a lot worse if it hadn’t been for you.” She swiped at her eyes, though John couldn’t tell whether she was crying again, or if the cold was making them tear up. “I’ll get your Santa suit back to the Macy’s—they rent from the same supplier we do. If you’re staying in town for a few more days, I’ll see if I can get them to pay you what they owe you, too.”
“Gina,” John looked at the check, and the number on it, in disbelief. “This is….”
“Enough for your family to have a decent Christmas. I figured you wouldn’t want to risk coming back here, not after everything.” She patted his arm in a motherly way.
“It’s not…I don’t….” He smiled sadly. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“John,” she said, sniffing, and this time it wasn’t just the cold in the air, “no one’s going to believe what they saw, and soon enough, they’ll forget what you’ve done. But I’ll remember.” Her eyes brimmed. “Merry Christmas.”
John began to protest, but couldn’t argue with her sincerity. “Merry Christmas.” He found it hard to meet her eye.
Gina kissed his cheek. When she stood up, his face felt faintly wet and cold from the spots left by her tears. “And good luck. God bless you.”
Continue to the Conclusion in Chapter 17
no subject
no subject
Dean's is more in the form of self-torture....
It's kinda weird that it's almost over. I can't believe that what started as a pretty basic exchange fic request turned into a full-length novel!