God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman
By: Tidia, December 2007
Beta: Household Six
Disclaimer: I don't
own Supernatural—just borrowing. And Ridley C. James created The
Brotherhood AU
Timeline: Comes after To The Victor Go The Spoils
(taking place May 2007), and two other stories we have
planned—Offerings and Takings set in late summer and The Edge of Winter
set in the fall. So there are some mentions of these, and they will be
written in time.
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Chapter 3/4
Mackland took a deep breath. This bed felt different than the one from
the hospital. He took in another breath; the air smelled different,
warm with scents of cooking. He sighed, apparently alerting the other
occupant of the room.
"Dad?"
Mackland distinctly heard the question. It sounded like Caleb, but he
was unsure. He didn't open his eyes, just in case he was about to be
disappointed. "Caleb?"
"Yeah,” the voice said as if it were the most obvious answer in all the
world. “Dad, are you going to open your eyes?"
Mackland was relieved and did as he was asked. There was his son, his
real son. "Thank God."
Relief clearly flashed across Caleb’s eyes as he sat on the edge of the
bed. Mackland recognized the room. It had been Pastor Jim's master
bedroom. A picture of Emma was on the bureau.
"What happened?"
Caleb raked a hand through his hair. "The shelf fell on you." Caleb
pointed to a spot on his own head. "At the same time, Esme and Josh
showed up. We got you to your room, then Esme did something, said you'd
wake up soon."
"How long?" His hand went to an aching spot on his head. It felt moist.
"Just twenty minutes." Caleb moved his father's hand away. "Don't touch
that. Esme took care of it. I should go get her." Caleb started to move
away.
He wanted more time with his son. "Wait a minute." Mackland put his
hands up to show he wasn't going to touch anything. "I had the
strangest dream."
"Was Esme in it?" Caleb crossed his arms.
"Yes, and—"
Caleb interrupted his explanation, "Then I don't want to know."
The doctor, however, really wanted to share the experience with
someone. "You were there, too."
"Dad!" Caleb covered his eyes. "God, now I really don't want to know."
Mackland finally understood and frowned his annoyance at his son.
"Since when does every conversation involving a female connate sex?"
Caleb covered his ears. "Don't say it! You think any kid wants that
image on their mind. . . of their parent. . . NO!"
Mackland couldn't stop laughing. It actually took the pain away from
his headache. Once he regained his composure and Caleb lost his
horrified expression, he began to relate his dream state in another
fashion. "Do you still paint?"
"Sure." Caleb rolled his eyes. "It's right up there with saving the
world from the worst demon attack in over one hundred years."
He hated his son's self-deprecating jokes. He still carried the image
of the winsome artist Caleb Reaves in his mind. "Caleb, it is. When
this is all over, I want you to be happy."
"I am happy." The younger man gave his father an overtly fake smile.
"Well, sorta— as much as I can be with all the stuff that's going on."
There was too much happening. That was the overwhelming problem. Dean's
expiration date, issues within the ranks of The Brotherhood, and the
never-ending list of demons all needed their time, but there just
wasn’t enough time to go around. Still, hadn't Jim encouraged faith?
Mackland wanted to believe, too. "Painting makes you happy. Don't give
it up. Maybe one day, you'll give me one."
Caleb grinned, but Mackland knew it was false. They had been together
for over twenty years as father and son. He knew his boy's heart.
"Had I known, I would have given you one for Christmas. Would have
saved me a lot of money."
"Caleb—" Mackland placed a hand on his son's wrist.
Caleb looked down and patted his father's hand. "The carolers are going
to be by soon, and you know how much I love carolers."
Mackland recalled one of the early Christmas celebrations at the farm.
"I thought you hated them? Something about a birthday being near
Christmas?"
Caleb pulled his hand and wrist away. "Oh, yeah, I still carry the
resentment, but this year Dean said he would help me scare them." Caleb
raised his eyebrows. "Should be fun."
Mackland knew he should give some sort of speech to his son about
scaring the neighbors, especially during the holidays, but couldn't
manage it. "How old are you?"
"Old enough that I know I'm doing okay." Caleb winked. "And before you
ask—at this moment—Dean's okay, Sam's okay, and I guess Josh is okay,
too."
"And Esme?"
"I think I'll leave that answer up to you." Caleb stood up and squeezed
his father's shoulder.
However, it was difficult to have any conversation with Esme. Every
time she came upstairs with a cup of tea, something to eat, or to check
on him, she had an escort. Dean took pleasure in being Esme's
companion. He bent down and whispered, "Damien's paying me a hundred
dollars. What did you say to scare the hell outta him?"
Mackland had swatted him away, begged to be allowed downstairs. Esme
had put herself in charge as his medical practitioner; she would be the
one to determine if he was fit. She confined him to quarters.
Hours later, the house was quiet. Mackland was amused as he thought of
the old The Night Before Christmas poem. He had rested so much, he
wasn't tired.
There was a soft rustling at the door. Esme entered, wrapped in a
bathrobe, her hair pulled away from her face. She clicked the door
softly shut.
"Mackland, we have helicopter children," she said with barely a whisper.
"Esme, I was giving up hope that you were going to come upstairs alone."
She came closer to his bed and slipped off the bathrobe. "Your son kept
following me, making sure I was sleeping in the den. My son is no
better. I had to sneak up here, Mackland. A woman my age sneaking
around—"
"But I'm worth it."
Instead of answering, her eyes shined in the dark. "How are you
feeling?" She pulled the clip from her hair. He liked when she wore her
hair down and she knew it.
"Better now." He pushed the blankets aside and invited her into his bed.
She curled into him, her head near his shoulder. "They might do a bed
check, Mackland."
"I think we can risk it."
On Christmas morning, he was suspicious when Dean asked how he had
slept and let his eyes glance over to Esme. Neither Joshua nor Caleb
commented, so either they were ignoring the situation or they didn't
know.
Presents were opened. Pancakes, eggs and bacon were served, and then
they were ordered out of the kitchen.
Bobby had called. He had been expected at the gathering. "Well, if it
isn't the famous Robert Singer," Mackland had announced when he
answered the phone.
"You okay, Mac? Too much eggnog?"
"No, no." He wasn't going to explain his dream to Bobby. Ever. "Are you
on the road?"
"The thing is. . .with Ellen alone
and all. . ."
"You're spending the holidays with Ellen?" Mackland said it loud enough
so everyone in the room could hear.
Dean and Caleb reacted, as expected, with catcalls. Esme admonished
them without success. Mackland covered his mouth so she wouldn’t see
his smile.
"Shut up. Merry Christmas."
"Merry Christmas, Bobby."
With dinner almost ready, Dean and Sam had been ordered to wash the
pots and pans. Joshua and Caleb were assigned with setting the table,
fetching firewood, and opening wine. It was strangely domestic—funny
what effect a woman in their midst could have. They couldn’t deny her
requests.
They sat at the kitchen table, piled with food and drink. Mackland had
found Jim's old camera. A roll of unfinished film still lay inside. He
placed it on the counter.
"Shouldn’t we say grace?" Sam asked as his brother's fork stood poised
over the roast.
"I think that would be appropriate."
Dean's fork retreated. Mackland looked down the table at Esme. To his
left was Caleb, and right, Sam. Esme had Dean seated on her left, and
Joshua was supposed to be seated on her right. There was an empty chair.
"Where's Josh?" Caleb asked.
"He's making a phone call. He'll be right in," Esme replied, placing
her napkin in her lap.
"On Christmas? Who's in trouble?" Sam asked.
Dean poked him with his elbow. "If it's Halle Berry, he'll let you
know."
"He's calling his father," Esme explained, fidgeting with her napkin.
"Oh." Sam looked at Mackland.
Joshua returned quickly, his demeanor let them know he had either
received no reply or a terse one.
"Last one to the table has to say grace," Dean announced as Joshua took
his seat with a glance to his mother.
"I don't think so," Joshua replied.
"Should be easy for someone in PR. But maybe you're not that good—just
smoke and mirrors." Dean cocked his head.
"Deuce, was that a challenge? Josh, you aren't going to answer a
challenge?" Caleb gave him a slight shove.
Mackland thought it was obvious they were trying to distract Joshua.
The effort was appreciated.
Joshua pulled away from Caleb. "Fine." He bowed his head. "Blessing
upon the food we eat and the company at this table. Grant me patience
to deal with them. Amen."
"Joshua—" Esme said.
"Mother?" Joshua retorted.
She wrinkled her nose. "Dean?"
"Damien."
"Sammy."
"Mac."
Mackland had watched the domino exchange. "What is the point of this?"
They all started chuckling, which turned into full fits of laughter.
Tears rolled down Esme's face. Sam rested his head on the table and
gulped in air. Caleb would try to stop only to succeed in bursting out,
pointing at Dean, who threw his head back. Joshua shook his head but
laughed along with them.
This life had chosen them: Esme and Joshua, Dean and Sam, Caleb and
Mackland. They were lucky to have each other. They would have been lost
without The Brotherhood in their lives, making sense of the
supernatural and giving them a purpose.
He joined in the laughter, too.
This was a picture worthy of Pastor Jim's photo album.
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