All is Well

Chapter 2

Coming to Jim’s had always brought Dean a sense of peace, a nostalgic feeling of returning home, especially at the holidays. Jim made an effort to make everything seem like some freakin’ TV special. From the first Christmas Dean spent there when he was five, he’d secretly loved the idea of being surrounded by all the sights, sounds, and smells It reminded him of Mom.

But now, walking the path to the farmhouse only brought dread and fear. Scout’s greeting bark rang hollow. Dean ignored the cold nuzzling the big black Labrador attempted as she brushed alongside of his legs.

He braced himself as voices floated from the kitchen through the screened porch. Dean took a deep breath. The night air was sharp with the scent of wet earth, fallen leaves and pine-everything laid bare by the first touches of winter.

Jim’s enclosed porch was alive with blooming cacti and all colors of poinsettias. The pastor loved flowers. Dean knew they reminded him of his late wife Emma. She enjoyed gardening. Jim tended to the plants with all the care he used to lavish on the boys when they were young.

Dean swallowed down the lump in his throat, resisted the call of solitude the pond offered, and maneuvered around Scout to enter the house. The screech of the screen door quieted all conversation. It sounded painfully loud.

Jim’s face was the first thing his mush-filled brain conceptualized, He had to look away quickly before the watery blue gaze had him losing the tenuous grip on his composure. That wasn’t an option in front of the group gathered before him. It might have been Jim’s kitchen, but not all those around the table were family. There were strangers among them.

Harland Sawyer sat closest to the door with Bobby Singer to his right. Ian Hastings leaned against the upright freezer and Joshua Sawyer was by the sink. Mackland sat at the far end of the table, his head bowed, looking small.

It wasn’t as if Ames took up space in a room like John Winchester, but he emitted an aura of power just the same. The psychic had a knack for drawing people in like the warmth of a campfire on a cold night. But now that light was gone. Dean felt colder than he did while in the night air. He realized painfully it was a cold he brought with him; one he would carry with him from now on.

Mackland seemed to sense the scrutiny or perhaps the realization someone new had entered the house. He lifted his gray gaze from the intense study of the table, briefly meeting Dean’s eyes. A hint of dimpled smile touched his lips, but vanished quickly as he looked towards the door where John and Sam had just entered.

Sam moved to Dean’s side. Dean didn’t rebuke the close presence. He imagined Sam was feeling out of sorts like him. It was an odd sensation to have at the farmhouse.

Any other time, Sam would have stripped off his jacket, thrown it on the table and took off for the pile of presents in the living room, Scout loping behind him. The Lab wasn’t above sniffing out her gifts from the massive stash and together they would entertain themselves for the next hour, Sam trying to guess the contents of each package.

His father’s deep voice brought him from his thoughts. Dean watched the man move towards Mackland.

“Mac.”

Mackland stood, and extended his hand to John. John gripped it, then pulled his friend in for a hard embrace. They exchanged words only between them, then John stepped back.

Dean was struck by the presence his father commanded. It was an immediate effect. Everyone straightened, holding their shoulders back as if preparing to be dressed down by their drill sergeant.

It brought another wave of longing as a vision of Caleb entered his mind. His friend was immune to the John Winchester effect. Caleb would greet his mentor with a carefree, devil-may-care attitude with a cocky smirk or grin, depending on his mood.

John would act annoyed or bark a few reprimands, but Dean never missed the flash of amusement in his father’s dark eyes, or the hint of pride as he regarded Caleb. It was a look he had noticed Dad giving Sam these last few months when the terrible teens had him stepping out of line.

“Johnathan, it’s good you’re here.” Jim’s voice broke the spell. Dean forced himself to look at the man. After all, Murphy had his own way of demanding attention. “We were discussing our next course of action.”

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Sam watched his father ignore Pastor Jim in favor of stepping to the chair where Harland Sawyer sat. “First, I want to hear what the hell happened.”

The youngest Winchester watched the other hunter stand. He felt Dean move closer to him. Any other time the protective move might have annoyed Sam, but considering his brother’s mood since the news, he would just about let him get away with anything.

Besides, Sawyer was big and just about as hardheaded as their father. He was nearly as tall as John, but leaner. Joshua had inherited his light hair and eyes from the man. Harland had the same well-bred look as his son. Caleb liked to call them the Stepfords. Although, Sam wasn’t quite sure of the reference, he understood the eldest Sawyer was quite aware of his height advantage over most others.

“I’ve explained the situation to Jim.”

John didn’t back down, Sam held his breath as his father stepped in the other hunter’s personal space. “Explain it to me.”

“Or what?” Harland countered with a mocking scoff. “You’ll draw Excalibur and run me through, Knight Winchester?”

“That’s enough,” Jim said.

Sawyer waxed apologetic. “I’m sorry, Jim.” He made a pointed gesture of turning to Mackland. “It’s been a tiresome couple of days. I meant no disrespect. I’m not trying to make this harder. I know how I would feel if I had left my son in those woods.”

“But you didn’t.” Dad’s voice was cold. He had yet to remove his eyes from Harland. “You left Mackland’s.”

“You act as if I had left one of yours.” Harland’s voice had regained its bite; he flicked his ice blue gaze to Dean and Sam. “Perhaps you should take a headcount.”

Sam shivered, unconsciously sidling closer to his brother. Scout whined from her perch sitting on Sam‘s feet.

“John.”

Mackland’s voice stopped Dad from moving closer; but Sam didn’t miss the raging look he shot Sawyer. The man was lucky he was still standing upright. “Tell. Me. What. Happened.”

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“The werewolf happened.” Bobby spoke up. He recognized the look in his friend’s eyes. The man was on the proverbial edge. Singer stood up, his muscles protesting the action. He suddenly felt so damn old.

The mechanic took a deep breath and faced John. It wouldn’t do any body any damn good if Winchester busted Harland in the mouth. Bobby might have enjoyed it, but Jim would not have appreciated the spilling of more blood. “We split into pairs-separated to cover more ground. Caleb and Rick didn’t meet back up with us.”

“What the hell, Bobby?” John growled, sliding a hand over his mouth.

Singer didn’t need an interpretation. John expected him to stay with Caleb. He trusted him to watch the kid’s back. Not a Sawyer and definitely not a Hastings, even though Rick was nothing like his younger brother, Ian. “The boy didn’t ask my damn permission, John.”

In fact, Caleb hadn’t said anything to him. They’d had words earlier. The kid could be moody and thin-skinned at times. Bobby wasn’t good at tact. It made for awkward situations, awkward in that Bobby usually ended up feeling like an ogre and wanting to knock some sense into the boy's head.

“Orders don’t require permission.”

“It was my hunt,” Harland interrupted. “I sent Reaves with Rick. Bobby with Ian. And I went with Joshua.” He glanced to Jim. “That’s how it works, correct? Older hunter and rookie pair off?”

“None of this bullshit matters,” Ian spat, pushing off from the freezer. “We should be out there hunting that thing down. It killed my brother, too. A fact you all seem to have forgotten.”

Bobby sighed. He didn’t like Ian; but the kid had been through the ringer. “No one has forgotten that fact, son. The moon is in the wrong phase now. We won’t see that wolf bastard again for another month.”

“We need to recover the bodies,” Jim said, reverently. “Bring the boys home.”

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Something snapped inside Dean. He wasn’t sure if it was Ian’s proclamation that his brother was dead or the idea of Caleb being referred to as a body by Jim. All Dean knew was that he had to escape from Jim’s kitchen where all ills were cured by a hot cup of coffee or a glass of iced tea and a slice of apple pie. Nothing felt right. Dean didn’t feel right in his own skin. He had to find some relief.

The pond was his first thought, but then that would mean crossing his father’s path. He chose the passageway of least resistance. He ducked his head and strode to the far end of the kitchen where the staircase lay behind a squeaky-hinged door. Dean heard his brother call out to him as he climbed the wooden stairs two at a time; but he was too far gone to stop now. Over a cliff, freefalling.

He entered his and Sam’s room, moving like a ghost towards the doorway across from his bed. Dean laid his hand on the cool metal doorknob, knowing it wouldn’t be locked. They never locked it. He rested his forehead on the wood and took a deep breath. He squeezed his eyes shut, steeling himself, garnering a strength he wasn’t sure he had.

With only a slight resistance the door swung inward. Dean crossed the threshold into Caleb’s room. Nothing had changed in the last few months since they had been there, a weekend stay to help Jim put up hay for the winter. They grumbled about the task, but showed up every year. Mac, John, even Bobby. It was more of a ritual than Thanksgiving or Christmas, which Dad sometimes ignored depending on his mood and job he was working. But helping Jim was sacred.

Caleb’s bed was haphazardly made. Dean forced his eyes away from the achingly-familiar flannel shirt thrown over the metal rails as he took a seat and buried his head in his hands. “Goddamn you.” He breathed, trying to quell the sudden onset of nausea as he realized Caleb wouldn’t take up space in the room again. How could that be? How could life change so quickly?

Dean brought his hands down from his face, gripping the quilt beneath him. He blinked the hot moisture from his eyes and looked towards the nightstand. Caleb was everywhere, but blatantly missing at the same time.

All the boys left pieces of themselves here, memoirs of their childhoods. It marked the farm as their home.

For Sam it was the one-eyed WooBee bear, a handful of miniature dragons lined purposefully on the dresser, a wild-haired troll doll among their ranks.

Dean’s first ball glove and an old L.L. Bean backpack resided on his bedpost along with a frayed Red Sox cap. There were numerous baseball trophies, including a prominent MVP ball with his name, several framed baseball cards, a collection of bird feathers and a toy silver winged horse on a shelf above his bed.

Caleb had a painting by his mother, pictures of his grandmother, Ruth, the quilt she’d made him which Dean was currently sitting on, several model bridges, sketches, and the book. It was a leather bound tomb Mackland had given him on the day his adoption was final. The Three Musketeers.

They’d all read it or been read to from its pages. Nothing spoke more of his friend than the story of a boy who wanted above all else to rise above his own station in life and simply belong to a group of men he saw as heroes.

It was resting on the nightstand atop some architecture digests and a tattered Clancy paperback. Dean’s hand seemed to reach for the novel of its own volition, his fingers brushing against the gold-embossed lettering. He picked it up. His eye caught sight of the marker peeking out from the middle of the book. A playing card. The deuce of spades.

Dean’s throat felt as if it were closing. His eyes burned causing his vision to swim in and out of focus. He clutched the book to his chest and did something he had not done since his father told him Caleb was dead. He cried.

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Sam looked anxiously towards the stairway where his brother had disappeared moments before. He was worried. Dean didn’t dash out of a room. That was more Sam’s thing. Dean wasn’t big on drama. But this was a side of his brother Sam had never seen..

With a slight surge of desperation, he moved to go after Dean, but Pastor Jim stopped him with a sad shake of his head. Jim nodded to Mackland who stood and followed after Dean.

The preacher moved to where Sam was, inconspicuously slipping an arm around the boy. “Sometimes it helps the most to help another,” he said softly.

Sam wasn’t sure what Jim meant, but he leaned into the man’s embrace, tried to reclaim some of the warmth that had escaped him. He wished they were alone so he could talk to the preacher. The presence of the others kept him restrained and silent. Sam let his fingers settle on Scout’s head, wrap in the Lab’s soft hair instead, settling for Jim’s proximity for now.

The pastor seemed to understand his turmoil. He squeezed his shoulder before addressing the others. “We’ll begin the search before first light.”

“I’ll take Bobby and Harland with me.” Dad looked at Jim. “There’s no reason for everyone to be involved. There won’t be a threat from the werewolf.”

“You going to be the one to explain that to Mackland?” Bobby asked with a snort. “Because I’m sure as hell not going to back you up on it.”

Sam watched his father. Dad wasn’t one to back down or negotiate-ever. He gave orders. That was his job.

Dad crossed his arms over his chest. “You think it’s a good idea for him to go?”

Bobby copied his father’s body language. “I think he’ll knock you on your ass if you suggest otherwise.”

Dad shook his head. “Damn it, Bobby. You know he shouldn’t be there.”

“Neither should you!”

Sam expected his father to protest, but instead he only appeared to deflate, his arms dropping loosely to his side, shoulders sagging.

Bobby sighed. “Hell, as far as that goes neither should I.”

“Joshua and I can go,” Harland stated. Both Dad and Bobby glared at him.

The elder Sawyer raised his hands in submission. “It was merely a thought.”

“I’m coming too,” Ian added. “I have a right.”

“What you have is an obligation to follow orders.” John turned on Ian, his usual gruffness returning. “You’re staying here. Do you understand me?”

Sam tensed. Jim again squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Ian was glaring at his father with murder in his blue eyes. Sam could see his fists were clinched tight, his arms shook slightly. After a tense moment, Hastings nodded sharply. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.”

Ian cut his eyes to Harland who glanced away. Sam had a sudden sense of empathy for the older hunter. It wasn’t like he had ever talked to Hastings; but the man had lost his older brother. It was something Sam feared everyday-losing Dean to a hunt. Now they had lost Caleb. The pain was worse than Sam imagined. He could barely breathe.

“I need some air.” Ian echoed Sam’s thoughts.

Ian turned towards the door. John’s hand shot out, catching his shoulder. “I’m sorry about Rick.”

Ian nodded, then hurried on. He pulled the door open to reveal a woman Sam didn’t recognize. The teen didn’t know who looked more surprised, Ian or the pretty stranger.

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Esme had been about to knock, was steeling herself for the scene she imagined lay just beyond the door when her opportunity for composure was stolen. Ian Hastings nearly ran her over in his haste to exit.

“Mrs. Sawyer?” He steadied her with a hand on her arm. She forced a smile for his benefit. He knew as well as anyone she had not been ‘Mrs. Sawyer’ in years.

Ian was not her favorite of Joshua’s friends, too much of Harland’s influence evident in his manner and attitude towards hunting. But he had suffered a terrible loss. Her heart went out to him.

“Ian.” She, reached out to squeeze his arm. There were no words.

Ian stepped back from her touch, but held the door for her. “Excuse me. I was on my way out,” he said, curtly.

“Of course.” Esme stepped inside, feeling all eyes on her.

“Mother?”

Her son’s voice caught her attention instantly. She sought visual confirmation that he was unharmed. His phone call concerning the hunt gone terribly wrong had shaken her on several levels.

“Joshua.” She smiled, resisting the urge to cross to him, touch him. He was a man in a room full of his peers. In a room with his father.

“What are you doing here, Esme?” Speak of the devil.

Esme turned and met Harland’s icy blue gaze with an unflinching calm. “I’m here because of what happened to Rick and Caleb.” She glanced around the room, hoping to see Mackland’s face. The doctor was nowhere in sight. “I’m here for my friend.”

She imagined the doctor needed one in the worst kind of way. This aspect of their relationship was new. They were still more friends than anything else. But she and Mackland had shared things, understood one another on a level most people would never be privy to in the ‘normal’ world. She hoped she was not being presumptuous; but she imagined he would have returned the gesture if God forbid something ever happened to Joshua. The man had lost his son; there would be nothing she could imagine more horrible.

“Isn’t the winter solstice upon us? Shouldn’t you be burning sage and dancing sky-clad in a field with your coven friends?”

Harland’s insult brought her attention back to him. Esme had the overwhelming urge to slap the condescending smirk from his smug face. It was a desire that came often on the rare occasion she found herself in close quarters with the man. He loved to make light of her crafting, and knew better than most why she had never been loyal to a coven. Harland was a bastard; but he was still Joshua’s father.

Jim Murphy kindly spared her a reply by stepping forward and taking her hand. “Your presence here is always a breath of fresh air, my dear. Mackland is upstairs. He should be down soon. Would you like to take a cup of tea in the sitting room?”

“I don’t want to intrude.” Esme glanced around at the hunters again, this time making it a point of meeting John Winchester’s gaze. Her father had been The Knight. She understood protocol very well.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have come. It was more awkward than she had imagined. Her only thoughts had been of Mackland and his loss. Of Joshua, too. She wanted to help, to somehow offer comfort. But now, she wondered if she had not stepped over some invisible bounds.

“You’re not.” John spoke, surprising her. He could have just as easily asked her to leave, and she would have done so. “Thank you for coming. Mackland will appreciate it.” His deep voice was sincere, holding a gentleness she had not noted in their previous encounters. She suspected he was in a great deal of pain, too. He had lost someone he loved.

Esme smiled gratefully up at him, then looked to Jim. “Tea would be nice.”

Jim glanced at the young dark-haired boy at his side. “Samuel, would you mind?”

Esme shifted her attention to the teen. He was all legs and self-conscious posture. She remembered Joshua at that age, couldn’t keep the wistful smile from her face. Esme had not had the pleasure of meeting either of John Winchester’s children, but knew Samuel was one of them.

Mackland had spoken of both boys often with great affection. He wasn’t exaggerating when he said Sam was his father’s son. “If you’ll show me where Pastor Jim keeps things, Sam, I’d be glad to help.”

Sam ducked his head, his long bangs falling across his eyes. Esme resisted the motherly urge to reach out and sweep them off his face. The teen shrugged. “Sure.” Sam gestured to the cabinets on the other end of the room. “This way.”

Esme squeezed Jim’s hand before following Sam. She smiled at her son as she passed. Joshua joined them.

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Sam knew Joshua had a mother. He’d heard the blond hunter mention her before; but he had never imagined her as a real person. She was pretty. She seemed a lot nicer than her son, Sam thought as the woman hugged Joshua once they were away from the other hunters.

“Mother, why on earth did you come here?”

Esme stepped away from Joshua, brushing her fingers through the hair across his forehead before briefly resting a hand on his cheek. “I wanted to see if you were okay, and I think I explained myself earlier.”

She glanced at Sam, then focused once more on Josh. “How is Mackland?”

“I haven’t spoken with him,” Joshua replied. “We’ve not been back from Tennessee for long.”

“I see.” Esme turned to Sam, smiling. Sam liked her smile. “Shall we make the good doctor a cup of tea? I believe he likes his with cream and sugar.”

Sam nodded. He pried his eyes off the woman long enough to retrieve a canister from the top cabinet. Esme was a novelty.

In many ways ‘mother’ was one of those abstract concepts for Sam. Like air, hope and the Pythagorean Formula. He knew they existed; but wasn’t really able to identify them with something tangible. A mother’s actions and mannerisms were only as authentic to him as Carol Brady from re-runs of the Brady Bunch and Clair Huxtable of the Cosby Show.

There were no corporeal mothers in his small world. Dean was the closest it came. Sure his friends at school had moms, but Sam had grown-up with only men for role models. Caleb didn’t have a mother. Neither did Jim, Mac, or Bobby. It suddenly struck Sam as very strange. The idea of a mother was more of a fairytale to him than the wicked witch or the boogeyman in the closet.

“Will you be joining us, Sam?” Esme asked when Sam offered her the tea.

The teen shook his head. “No thanks.” As curious as he was, he was even more uncomfortable. It was odd to have so many strangers in Jim’s house, his home. He wouldn’t be sure as to what he was supposed to say or how he was supposed to act.

Esme touched his shoulder. “Are you sure? I’m quite the connoisseur of tea. Just ask Joshua.”

Sam nodded. He removed two cups from the cupboard, then placed them on saucers. He reached for the tea kettle.

“You shouldn’t have come, Mother,” Joshua continued. “I told you I was unharmed. You could have waited until the funeral to pay your respects.”

Sam fumbled at the word ‘funeral,’ the kettle nearly slipping from his fingers as he managed to turn the water on. His momentary awe at having an actual live woman at the farm had momentarily taken his mind from the harsh reality surrounding her visit. His thoughts went to Caleb. He felt his eyes burn.

“Joshua,” Esme reprimanded. “Do not be disrespectful.”

To Sam’s surprise Sawyer’s face flushed. He shifted his blue eyes to the teen. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean that to sound so harsh. I'm sorry about Caleb. Truly.”

Sam didn’t reply. Joshua often said worse things and rarely apologized. Bobby said he was born with foot and mouth disease.

“I wanted to help,” Esme said softly. She took the kettle from Sam, her fingers brushing lightly against his hand. “Although I know there’s not a lot I can do at a time like this. No one can, I’m afraid.”

“You should go,” Joshua insisted. “As you’ve pointed out, there’s nothing you can do.”

Sam caught the faint scent of flowers and vanilla as Joshua‘s mother breezed past him to collect the cream. Esme smelled nice. Sam liked the soft tinkling of her voice. It reminded him of Mrs. Collins, one of his favorite teachers in school. “Mackland's upstairs.” Sam informed her, although he was sure if Jim had already told her. She wouldn’t want to leave without seeing the doctor first.

Again she smiled at him. “Would you like to take a cup up to him?”

Sam shook his head. “He’ll want to see you.”

Sam didn’t flinch when Joshua’s mother proficiently brushed his hair from his eyes with a gentle sweep of her fingers. “That’s very sweet of you to say, Sam.”

“Yes. So sweet,” Joshua growled.

Esme raised a defined brow at her son. Again the blond hunter looked instantly contrite. “If you’re going to stay perhaps I should help you off with your coat and scarf, Mother.”

The woman’s smile was back. Sam felt instantly better as she beamed at him again. “I‘ve always taught Joshua that manners are extremely important.”

Sam thought Esme would be very disappointed if she knew how her son typically behaved. He wasn’t about to tell her. “I can take your things in the study for you,” he offered. His father had taught him manners, too. “And I’ll tell Mac that you‘re here.”

Sam ignored the fact Joshua was rolling his eyes at him as he helped Esme remove her jacket. “I see Joshua isn’t the only one that knows how to treat a lady.”

Sam ducked his head and moved quickly to turn on the stove. He placed the kettle to boil before reaching out for her coat and scarf. “The sugar is in the far cabinet,” Sam offered as he backed out of the room. “There’s vanilla in there, too.”

“We’re quite capable of finding it,” Joshua said. “But you’ve been very helpful.”

If Esme noticed her son’s snide tone, she didn’t let on. “Yes. Thank you, Sam.”

Sam nodded once more and went in search of Mac and his brother. Maybe having a mother at the farm would make Dean feel better, too. Even if she did belong to Joshua.

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Mackland waited in the hallway until he could no longer hear Dean's suffering. He told himself he didn’t want to embarrass the boy; but honestly he was terrified to enter the room. It was something he had avoided. Dean was a bigger man than he.

Finally unable to prolong it any further, Mackland entered his son’s bedroom. “Dean.” He turned on the small lamp near the door, foregoing flooding the area with the overhead light.

Mackland couldn’t help but to glance at the oak desk Jim had bought not long after Caleb had come to live with the doctor. It contained a few pictures, one of his son’s grandmother, and a shot of Caleb, Dean and Sam from a few summers before. B

ut what caught his eye and briefly halted his heart were the model bridge and the old sketchbook. Mackland felt the walls closing in on him.

Mackland felt a coward, but his need to seek out Dean overrode his own fear. After all, Caleb would never forgive him if he didn’t at least try to offer the younger boy some kind of comfort. It would be just like his son to believe the impossible of him.

Mackland cleared his throat. “May I come in?”

Dean quickly brushed the back of his arm over his eyes. He straightened his broad shoulders, cleared his throat and nodded a silent response.

Mackland moved forward, taking a deep breath to clear his head to get his blood flowing again. The room smelled like Caleb. It caused his eyes to sting, his chest to tighten. He faltered, but tried to focus his attention on Dean. The doctor wasn’t ready to deal with anything else. “I thought I might find you here.”

Dean looked down at his hands. Mac noticed the book he was holding.

“I wanted to be alone.”

His voice was laced with emotion. The doctor was taken back to the first time he met a five-year-old Dean. Jim had asked him to talk to John Winchester’s son. Mackland hadn’t been quite sure what to expect. He knew only factual details. The child had been traumatized by watching his mother burn to death on the ceiling. He hadn’t spoken to anyone but his baby brother and his father, but only in direct response to questions.

All those years ago, he’d looked into those hurt-filled green eyes feeling by the despair reflected in one so young. He could comprehend what Dean was feeling. He lost his own mother at birth. Mackland was cheated of the chance to know her, therefore spared the pain of losing her.

But Mackland knew Caleb. He loved him with a fierceness he never imagined himself capable of. It was ironic. Now, Mackland understood all too well the pain swimming in Dean’s eyes. They shared the same grief.

The doctor exhaled heavily, took a seat on the bed ignoring Dean‘s wishes. He couldn’t leave yet. Caleb might be watching. “It seems like he should be here.” He gestured around them. “Everything reminds me that he’s not.”

The younger hunter glanced up at him with red-rimmed eyes, remaining silent.

Mackland pointed to the book, specifically to the playing card peeking out at the top, marking a place in The Three Musketeers. “Has he ever told you why he calls you Deuce?” Mackland slid the card out, ran his fingers respectfully over the black spade.

Dean shook his head. “He’s done it forever.” He lifted one shoulder let it fall with a huff. “Figured he was just making fun of Dad calling me Ace.”

Mackland smiled sadly. “I can assure you it had nothing to do with your Dad, Dean.” The doctor sighed. “The first time I heard him call you that…I knew he would be alright.”

“You see, I had been with him for almost a year and even though he seemed to be doing well, adapting, I worried he was still on some invisible edge. At any minute he could tumble over, out of my reach. Then there was that Christmas when your father and you boys came here to the farm. We spent it together.” Mackland raised a brow. “Remember?”

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Dean remembered all too well. It was the first memory of a Christmas. It wasn’t a happy one, not really. Those came later. When Sam was older-when they were closer to Jim and the others. But that first time was significant for Dean and Caleb.

“I remember.”

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December 1984

"Jim put stockings by your bed." Caleb gestured to the red and white striped socks hooked on the knobs of the nightstand.

"Yep." Dean gave them a quick glance. He wasn't concerned with the stockings. He was thinking of his true Christmas wish.

Caleb sighed. "Oh, kid, don't go there."

Dean frowned in puzzlement. "I'm not going anywhere."

Reaves brushed his hand through his hair. "Santa's not going to bring your mom back."

Dean lifted his head, propping himself up on his elbows. "You don't know that." The boy said quietly, gripping a piece of Sam's pajama tightly. Santa was going to bring his mother back.

“Once you lose someone, they don’t come back. It didn't work last year.” Caleb turned so he was facing the five-year-old. "Look, kid, I know. When my mom and dad died I went to live with my grandmother. She was good to me, but she wasn't my mom and dad."

"You're lucky kid; at least you got your dad." Reaves cleared his throat.

Dean looked away, and let go of his brother's pajamas. "There's no such thing as Santa Claus, is there?"

Caleb shoulders dropped in relief. "No, but you're not surprised."

Dean shook his head. He smiled down at his brother. "But, Sammy believes in Santa."

"Yeah, I can see that." Caleb said. Sam was cuddled close to him. He returned his gaze back to Dean. "Hey, why are you talking to me?"

Dean lay down once more on his side, facing the teen and his brother. "'cause you're a kid, like me."

Caleb snorted. "Dude, I'm gonna be 14 in a week. I'm so not a kid."

The five-year-old nodded. He closed his eyes, then opened his eyes again. "What happened to your family?

Reaves exhaled sharply. "It's not a bed time story, Mac'll kill me."

"You can tell me." Dean perked up. "I won't say anything. I promise."

"Yeah, I get that you can be trusted to stay quiet." Caleb paused. "I swear, you say anything it will be like the Godfather all over again."

"Who's the godfather?"

Caleb shook his head. "Never mind." Reaves placed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it. "I don't like to talk about them. . ."

Dean reached out a hand, brushing it against Caleb's arm, prompting him to continue. "My mom, she was beautiful, and my dad, he was tall and strong. He didn't smile a lot. We had this house by the water. I liked it. Mom and Dad were fighting and something happened to my Dad." Caleb looked up. "I hate the ocean now—it makes me sick."

Dean understood. "I don't want to go home either. I think maybe your mom and my mom would have been friends."

"Maybe." Caleb smiled. "Get some sleep, I'll take this watch."

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“Caleb told me there wasn’t a Santa Claus.”

Mackland frowned. “He what?”

The doctor looked taken aback, as if his memories and Dean‘s were in direct violation of one another. “It was for my own good.” Dean looked at the doctor. “I was being a stupid kid-wanted Santa to bring Mom back. I thought she’d be waiting under the tree. Caleb told me people didn’t come back from being dead. Not even on Christmas.”

Ames sighed, ran a finger over his brow. “Caleb knew what you were thinking.”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged his shoulders again. “He told me how it was.”

“He knew from experience.”

“Yeah. He knew.” Things had changed for Dean after that. Caleb had given him a safe outlet, someone on his own level to talk to. Sammy was only a baby then, but Reaves was a kid, despite the fact in his own mind fourteen was closer to an adult than to a five-year-old. Suddenly the idea of losing that connection had Dean reeling, grasping for that little boy faith again. “What if he’s not dead, Mac?”

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Mackland winced. “You don’t want to believe he’s dead, Dean.” It was a trick of the mind, a protection device. Denial. The first stage of grief.

Dean’s fingers grasped his sleeve. “Maybe he’s hurt and lost out there somewhere and …”

“Son…” That word was painful to say. Mac tasted bitter regret as the sound of it registered. How many times had he used that tone with Caleb? “I don’t think we should…”

“What?” Dean snapped. “Give him the benefit of the doubt?”

“Harland and Bobby found Caleb’s and Rick’s things covered in blood. Caleb’s shirt was…” Mackland didn’t want to think what had happened to his son. The pictures that sprang to mind were torturous. Dean should be spared the gory details. “It didn’t bode well for survival.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s dead. Caleb’s beat the odds before. Jim says he has more lives than a cat.”

“Then where is he, Dean?” Mackland sounded more weary than angry, although frustration was nipping away at his reserves. “A werewolf doesn’t leave its victims alive unless it wants to infect them. You heard Bobby. The moon has moved to another phase. That isn’t the case here.”

“How do you know?” Dean continued. Mackland was sure the boy had been pondering the idea for awhile. “Have you tried to sense him?”

“Do you mean have I tried to find his body?”

The teen nodded.

Mac sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve tried.” Bobby had brought him Caleb’s destroyed pack including the silver flask Bobby had given him on his eighteenth birthday. No images came-no life energy. Only empty darkness. “But nothing comes to me. It’s like my abilities have shut down.”

Dean looked heartsick. “But you’ve had a shock.”

“Yes. We all have.”

“That can affect your abilities.”

There was still hope laced in the boy’s voice. He was grasping at straws. Mackland recognized it instantly, having heard the same tone from many loved ones praying for one last connection to those they had lost. “I know. That’s what my head tells me, but my heart is pretty pissed that I can find other people’s children at the drop of a hat, but I can’t find my own son.”

Dean glanced down at the book he was holding. “You think it’s because he’s dead? You’re blocking it.”

“Yes. I believe that could be why.”

Dean looked up at him, eyes shimmering with held back tears. “Is that your heart or your head talking, Mackland?”

Mac wasn’t sure how to answer. As a doctor he had always been wary of giving false hope, but now when it came to his own son, he could not bring himself to be so clinical.

God. He wanted to latch onto Dean’s train of thought. He wanted to hold out until the very last bit of hope was torn away. Only the inevitable would be delayed, inhibiting healing. It would prevent him for being there for Dean and Sam. Something he could not deny his son. Not even to ease his suffering.

He handed the card to Dean, resting his fingers briefly on the boy‘s hair. “He loved you Dean. Like the brother he was robbed of. And what you two had, the bond you shared, that will never die.”

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December 1984

"Five more minutes,"Caleb mumbled. Dean watched his brother wipe a hand down the teenager's face. Finally he grabbed Sam's hand. "What?" Sam Winchester smiled above him, wiggling his hand out of Caleb's grip.

Dean sat cross-legged on the bed, his stocking in his lap. There was a red apple, an orange and a super bouncy ball. He had been awake for awhile, entertaining Sammy with the orange.

With a groan Caleb propped himself up. His stocking had been placed on his chest by Pastor Jim during the night. "Shit," he uttered.

"Not supposed to use bad words around Sammy." Dean warned.

Caleb waved him off, then dumped the contents of his stocking. There was a pear, banana and some walnuts. "This sucks, want to trade?"

Dean shook his head. He didn't want the fruit, but the bouncy ball was cool. He climbed down from the bed, and reached for his brother, sitting him down with the stuffed lamb.

In a moment Caleb had closed his eyes, so Dean shook his arm.

"What?"

Dean handed him a package of peanut M & M's. "Dad bought them for me on the ride over. You can have them. Mrs. Morris says I know how to share."

Caleb smiled. "You're not too bad Deuce."

Dean scrunched up his face. "My Dad calls me Ace." He corrected the teenager.

Reaves swung his legs over, and stood up. He tussled Dean's hair. "You're Deuce to me."

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Dean took the card, blinking to keep the tears from falling. The black spades of the deuce card blurred out of focus, he swallowed against the growing lump clogging his throat. “I don‘t want memories, Mac. I want him to come back.”

The weight of the doctor’s stare was tangible. The grief was immense, a bulking presence between them. Dean forced himself to face The Scholar.

Mackland glanced away. “Get some rest, Dean.”

The doctor turned and made his way to the adjoining door of their rooms. Dean caught site of Sam, leaning in the entranceway. Mackland pulled the teen in for a brief hug as he passed. Dean heard Mac's words as he glanced over his shoulder. “Watch over your brother, Samuel. He needs you.”

“Dean?” Sam stepped hesitantly into Caleb’s room.

“Go way, Sam.” Dean put the card back into the book, tossing it on the bed beside him. “I’m fine.”

“But…”Sam looked so unsure. A part of Dean wanted to talk to the kid, offer some kind of comfort. But Dean didn’t have anything left to give at the moment.

“I mean it, Sam. Get out of here.” He put as much heat in his words as he could manage. He would not break down in front of his kid brother. Sam didn’t need that.

“What if it wasn’t a werewolf?”

“What?” Dean shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“The thing that they were hunting. They thought it was a werewolf, but it might not have been.”

Dean exhaled, ran a hand over his face. “Sammy, I just want to be alone. Alright?”

Sam apparently took the softened tone as an invitation. He crossed the room, taking a seat on the bed beside Dean. “No. It’s not alright. I believe you, Dean.”

“Then prove it and scram.”

“I believe Caleb's alive.”

“Sam,” Dean growled. “Just stop. Stop talking about him.” It was a ridiculous idea. Mackland was right. Hearing Sam say it had him realizing how stupid and childish it sounded. He was only making things harder for everyone, himself included.

“I heard what you said to Mac.”

Dean pushed off the bed, paced a few feet away before turning angrily back to his brother. “And did you hear what Mac said to me?”

“Yeah.” Sam looked down, bit his lip. He glanced up again. “But I still believe you, Dean.”

Dean shook his head. Sam would believe donkeys flew if Dean told him so. “Why? Because I’m your big brother?”

“Yes.”

The answer was heartening, but it did little to help Dean feel better. “That’s not really a valid reason, tiny Einstein.”

“Caleb always says I should trust my feelings.” He pulled his shoulders back and looked his brother square in the eye. “I don’t feel like he’s dead, Dean. Something tells me I would if he were gone.”

“Yeah.” Dean felt the anger return three fold. Some of it directed at Sam, but most of it reserved for the one person who couldn’t argue back-Caleb. “But dead is dead. You’re a rookie. Trust me; you’ll recognize it the next time it comes around.”

Sam’s frown grew. “I felt like there was a big empty hole when Atticus died.” He touched his chest. “This is different. I just feel scared and worried. Like we should be doing something.”

Dean swallowed. He hated the look on his little brother’s face. Sam related Caleb’s death to a dog. They all cared deeply for Atticus, but it didn’t begin to compare to what they would go through in the following months. “You should be scared, Sam. Death takes everything you have.”

Sam tilted his head. Dean recognized the stubborn set to his jaw. “Pastor Jim says we haven’t lost everything until we lose hope.”

“Pastor Jim is sending Dad to get Caleb’s body, Sam.” Dean moved to stand in front of his brother once more. “What the hell does that tell you about how much hope he has?”

Sam clenched his fists. “I’m not going to give up on Caleb and I’m not going to let you either.”

“Hey, knock yourself out. Wasn’t it just last week you were making out your list for Santa?”

Sam shook his head sadly. “He would never give up on you.”

“Really?” Dean tightened his jaw. “A lot of good that does me now, huh?”

Sam stared at his brother for a moment before pushing past him, slamming the door behind him.

Dean sat down on the bed, letting his head rest in his hands once more. “Damn you, Damien.”

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