Upon a Midnight

December, 2008

He doesn't really know where else to go. Christmas Eve is supposed to be a time for celebration-not that the Winchesters were ever big on parties, but at least they were together. Now Sam Winchester is the last one left, and the closest thing he can come to celebrating with family is visiting his mother's grave.

Bobby has told him he's welcome there, but the truth is, Sam's afraid to take him up on the invite. It seems like everyone he cares about dies, and he doesn't want to be responsible for the old hunter's death. Not that Bobby would look at it that way, but Sam has lost so much already that he doesn't want to take the chance.

Although he's no stranger to cemeteries, being in one on a snowy Christmas Eve is especially bleak. He hugs his jacket a little closer against the cold. A year ago, he and Dean were in a bar-in Pittsburgh, of all places-Dean hustling pool and him nagging about what a sleazy way this was to spend Christmas Eve, since it might be Dean's last.

Sam's eyes sting. With Dean gone, he berates himself. How could he be such a selfish jackass? If his brother wanted to hustle a little pool, he should've cheered him on instead of sitting there at the bar like a Grinch.

It's his fault Dean is dead; he made that deal with the Crossroads Demon to save Sam's life. Everything is his fault: John gave his life to the Demon for Dean, but the only reason Azazel was interested in it was because of him, Sam Winchester. Likewise, Jess would probably be alive and getting ready to graduate from Stanford if she hadn't crossed his path. And the woman whose remains are beneath the stone, the mother he doesn't even remember-

"It's all my fault," he says aloud to Mary Winchester's headstone. "I wish I'd never been born."

As he speaks, the bells in the nearby church chime a call to midnight services, and Sam starts briefly, looking through the trees to the small church. That's fine for people who believe, but Sam's faith was shredded at a crossroad in Oklahoma months ago. He'd like to have something to believe in, but at the moment, he doesn't even believe in himself.

Looking back at Mary's tombstone, Sam blinks. He hasn't moved, barely glanced away for a few seconds, but the stone is different. It's wider, for one thing. This declares that Mary Winchester died November 2, 1984, on the same day as her six-month old daughter Samantha, who is buried with her.

Sam feels the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It's like an episode of the Twilight Zone. He reaches for his phone to call Bobby, but although he checks all his pockets, there's no phone. Not only that, his money clip is missing, and so is the knife he usually keeps in his boot. All he has in his pockets is a handful of change and a few little odds and ends: a bottle cap, a couple paper clips, a rubber band.

That's strange. Maybe, just maybe, he left them in the car. Turning away from the mysterious grave, he trudges through the cemetery to the street. The Impala is gone. His first visceral thought is that Dean is going to kill him dead. His second thought is to wish Dean was there to kick his ass.

When his panic dissipates enough to think clearly, Sam looks at the street. The parade of cars that lined both sides of the thoroughfare for the midnight service is nowhere to be seen, and the recent snowfall looks undisturbed.

"What the hell?" he mutters. He feels a little sick; he's lost the one thing Dean had to give him. Report it to the cops? Right. They'll check his prints, call the FBI, and it'll be "Go to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200".

It's a good thing he has a few quarters. He'll give Bobby a call-he can't think of a better idea-and maybe Bobby will have contacts somewhere nearby, someone with a cheap beater who doesn't hold a grudge against the name of Winchester.

In the distance, there are lights that promise civilization, and hopefully, a pay phone. Not too distant-only a couple of blocks-and yes, there is a phone. Now all he has to do is remember the number-he's used to having it programmed into his cell.

A discordant tone sounds in his ear, and a recorded voice tells him that the number he has just dialed is not valid in that area code. Maybe he transposed a number, or hit the wrong button with his numb fingers. He'll call collect, that way he can be sure he's got the right number.

The operator is nice-he feels sorry for her, having to work Christmas Eve-but she gets the same canned message both times she tries. She passes him along to directory assistance, who briskly tells him she has no listing for Singer Salvage in that Sioux Falls or the surrounding area. No, she says, with thinly disguised impatience, there is no residential listing for a Robert or Bobby Singer. Sorry, thank you for calling. Then he's listening to a dial tone.

This can't be happening. He knows perfectly well Bobby is in the yellow pages under Singer Salvage, because he has a copies of the ad pinned up on every bulletin board in the area. Sam helped him with that last spring, knowing it was Bobby's idea of busywork after Dean-

Think. What would Dean do? No car, no phone, barely enough cash for a beer-he'd find a place to hustle a little pool. Sam rummages through his pockets. He fiddles with a paper clip, and after ten minutes or so of tedious jiggling, he gets the coin box of the phone to yield up $12.75. Woohoo, he's set.

Of course, the phone book that should be hanging there is gone, but Sam is slightly reassured now that he has a little more money. He'll find a local who can point him in the direction of the nearest saloon…he rounds a corner, and for a second, he thinks he's found the Impala.

A closer look at the vehicle sitting on the trailer proves him wrong. It's an Impala, but not Dean's glossy black beauty. The paintwork on this one is dull and pitted with rust. There are patches of primer indifferently applied over filler. "11" is painted on the doors, blue numbers in a white oval. He blinks at the logo "Winchester and Son Garage" amid decals for petroleum products.

Sam is still trying to absorb that when a familiar voice nearby yells, "I know, I know! You've only told me twenty times!" He's standing there in shock when Dean strides through the gap between the Impala and the truck that's towing its trailer.

It's his brother, and yet-it isn't. This Dean is at least twenty pounds overweight. He wears an old school sports jacket with his name on it; it's a size too small for him, maybe two, and he's scruffy. It's not only that he's skipped shaving for a couple days-his hair is almost as shaggy as Sam's, the tee shirt under his half-open jacket is grungy-gray, and he's wearing white athletic shoes and gray-white socks, stuff Dean wouldn't be caught dead in.

"Then do it, for God's sake!" his father's voice yells from somewhere on the far side of the trailer. His father, who's been dead for two years now….

Christo, he really has wandered into the Twilight Zone.

Dean clambers onto the trailer, exhibiting none of the grace Sam associates with his brother. "Wish the old bastard would stop riding my ass for five minutes," Sam hears him mutter as he adjusts a tie-down on the car. "I've been doing this since I was fourteen. Asshole."

The hair on the back of Sam's neck is standing straight up. Dean never, ever would've called Dad names like that. Hell, he'd given Sam shit about it, when he bitched about what a totalitarian prick Dad could be. He takes a deep breath and tries to sound normal.

"Hey, Dean! How's it going?"

Dean looks his way. "Same shit, different day," he answers. "Getting ready to head out to the speedway and see if we can make a few bucks."

There's nothing in his tone to indicate that he knows who Sam is, and Sam doesn't want to push the issue, afraid that he really hasn't been born in this place. Or maybe this is a dream, maybe he's still in the churchyard, freezing to death, and this is just a weird brain-blip on the way out.

"That sounds like fun," he says, aware of how inane that sounds. "So, how've you been?"

"Workin' my ass off. The last time I tried to take a vacation-"

"Who the hell are you talking to?" John Winchester demands, coming around the back of the trailer. If Dean is out of shape, Dad looks even worse. His hair is more salt than pepper, and he's built like a barrel on legs, not the fit ex-Marine who dogged Sam through training most of his life. He nods a greeting. "Friend of yours, Dean?"

"Uh…" Dean stalls. Sam knows that look: He really doesn't remember.

"From school," Sam lies, instinctively covering for his brother. "We haven't each other in, wow, how long has it been?"

"Too long, man, too long," Dean answers. He jumps down from the trailer and winces. He's limping a little, but he takes the few steps to where Sam is standing and thumps him twice on the shoulder.

They used to joke about that, Sam thinks ruefully. It was one of their in-jokes. The back-slap code: twice was for mere acquaintances, three times was friends and family, and four or more times was get a room.

"Sam," he says, offering his hand to his dad, and feeling a sense of surrealism as he does so. John's expression is as void of recognition as his son's was. "Sam…Singer."

"Nice to meet you, Sam. How doesn't owe you money, does he?"

"Jesus, Dad!" Dean yells. "Mind your own damn business, will ya?"

"No, Dean doesn't owe me anything." I'm the one who owes him, for everything….

"You need a ride home? We can drop you off on the way to the track."

"I don't really know where I'm going," Sam admits.

"No family?"

"No, sir." The 'sir' comes out automatically. "My mom died when I was a baby and my dad died-" He stops. His dad died two years ago, and he's standing right there.

"That's a shame, not having any family on Christmas Eve," his dad says. "You can come to the track with us, if you want. They're holding the North Pole Spectacular tonight." He intones the title as if he's a DJ, like maybe ads for it have been playing on the radio for weeks.

Sam hesitates, but the chance to spend Christmas with his family-even if they don't know it-is too alluring to resist.

Lawrence Motor Speedway is a dirt oval ringed with concrete walls and no-frills metal bleachers. It's decorated for the holidays with a lot of tracking lights and tinsel and a giant inflatable snow globe of Santa in the infield. Christmas music plays tinnily over the PA system, punctuated by announcements.

As soon as the Impala is off-loaded, Dean disappears with a mumbled excuse about registration. Sam is helping John set up their "repair bay" in the back of the truck, and only catches his father's frown as Dean vanishes into the crowd.

"He'd better be registering, and not placing a bet," Dad mutters. He's checking tire pressure on the two spares-different sizes for front and back-and wheezing slightly, as if he's getting over a bad chest cold. "He's already gone bankrupt once. I'm not going to bail him out again."

Dean's gone an awfully long time, and when he gets back, he has a Styrofoam cup of coffee in one hand and there are traces of powdered sugar on his jacket.

"What are you doing?" he demands of John, who's leaning over the engine compartment.

"Tightening the fan belt," his father answers. "It was a little sloppy."

"Well, don't. Don't screw with my car, do you hear me?"

Sam is stunned. Dean and Dad don't fight. Ever. Oh, Dean might disagree once in a while, but all John ever had to do was give him The Look and he'd back right down. Even in his own worst adolescent rebellion, he'd never-well, just once, when he'd left for Stanford-but this? Is wrong on so many levels he feels sick.

"I was just checking the belts." John sounds defensive, and Dean is contemptuous.

"Yeah, well, just leave 'em the fuck alone. If you were a halfway decent mechanic, Mom and Sammy would still be alive!" Dean accuses him. The older man doesn't reply, just looks blankly away toward the infield.

"Guys, don't fight. It's Christmas Eve!" Sam pleads. What's Dean talking about? He thinks of the tombstone: Mary and Samantha. How many times did Dean call him "Samantha"? But this Dean, this brother who doesn't know him, spits at the broken old man who isn't their father and ignores Sam completely.

Dean told him about the djinn's vision, of the perfect life Dean had imagined for himself, but this is some weird dark side. Sam thinks he's awake-he's aware of the cold, the sound of engines revving around them, of the smell of exhaust and the fried-food smell of the concession stand-but the world seems real and unreal at the same time.

There aren't any of the preparations Sam expects to see. Dean wears what he has on, not a fire-resistant jumpsuit; his only protection is a battered-looking football helmet.

Watching Dean drive, Sam's convinced he's gone crazy. Dean, his Dean, would sooner throw himself on a grenade than let anything happen to the Impala. Now, during the race, he's using the car as a weapon, rear-ending cars ahead of him, shouldering them to pass.

As he's inching up on the lead, the car third back rams him and the Impala shudders. It's veering toward the center of the track, then another car clips it and Sam sucks in a horrified breath as it starts to tumble. It rolls end over end into the infield, taking out the inflatable snow-globe.

It comes to rest on its roof, and then there's a belated crackle as sparks arc from wherever the snow-globe was plugged in.

Sam doesn't think; that's his brother, he can't just stand here. He bolts toward the track, just as the front-runners come around again. He dodges and they swerve and somehow he makes his way to the battered black car.

His first crazy thought is that it isn't nearly as torn up as when the semi T-boned it. He smells gas, scary with a live wire nearby, then he's on his hands and knees, reaching in through the driver's window trying to get Dean loose as flames begin licking at the seeping fuel.

Even though Dean's wearing a helmet, Sam does his best to avoid letting him hit the ground headfirst. And yes, he's aware that if Dean's got a broken back, he might be making things worse, but compared to being burned alive, well, he'll take that chance.

Someone grabs him-he starts to lash out, then realizes it's one of the rescue crew. He steps back reluctantly—but they're professionals, after all-and looks around for Dad.

John is leaning against the infield fence, clutching his chest.

Sam sees his father having a heart attack, looks toward the Impala, which is being sprayed with foam as the rescue workers try to extricate the driver. The ambulance is parked away from the Sam's position on the other side of the Impala.

He reaches John's side. "Come on, let me help you to the paramedics," he coaxes.

"My son!" John groans. His face is clammy with sweat, although it's a cold night. Sam gets his shoulder under John's arm and half-carries him toward the emergency vehicle. Sam's not puny, but it's a real job. John must be at least fifty pounds overweight.

It's a nightmare, and everything is moving in slow motion. They have Dean on a stretcher now, moving him toward the ambulance. He knows that if they load Dean and go, John won't get help until it's too late.

The Impala erupts in a fireball, knocking Sam, John and the crew transferring Dean to the ground. The winter-dry grass is aflame, and Dean's clothes have ignited. John is trying to crawl toward them, rasping out his name as he gasps for breath. Sam remembers Dean saying Dad had died of a heart attack in the djinn's universe-is that always going to be his fate?

Thank God one of the paramedics hurries over to check on them. Sam insists that they take John in the ambulance with Dean-he doesn't have to argue hard; the medic is hollering for backup after one look at the stricken man.

The race has been suspended by the smoke billowing across the track. The emergency vehicle eases out of the infield and off the track. Outside the walls, it engages its siren and speeds away.

Sam trudges back to the pit where John's truck waits. What would Dad expect him to do now? This John isn't his dad-or at least, he doesn't know it-but his real dad would have a fit if he left all the tools and everything lying here and went tearing off to the hospital.

That answers that; he packs everything up, wincing a little as he slings the tires into the truck bed. He's okay, he's just banged up a little, but there's a sick feeling in his stomach. Dad and Dean may be dying in this reality, too-why can't they ever catch a break?

Lawrence General Hospital is where it's always been, and Sam doesn't have any trouble finding parking, even with the trailer. It's Christmas Eve, and anyone who can avoid this place, is.

The woman behind the ER information desk doesn't want to tell him anything, and no, she really can't guess when he might be able to see them, try back in the morning.

When, he reads between the lines, it'll be someone else's shift and someone else's problem.

Instead of leaving-because where's he supposed to go, anyway?—he finds his way to the blood bank. They can always use a pint of A-positive, right?

"Your timing is great," says the technician who deftly sticks a peppermint-striped band-aid over the puncture in the crease of his elbow. The pretty brunette seems to be okay with spending Christmas Eve sticking people with needles, and Sam feels bad on her behalf. She should be out somewhere having fun. "We have surgeries going on—yes, even tonight!—and we really do need this. Here, have some juice and cookies to give your blood sugar a boost."

She's on the phone as soon as she has the blood typed, letting someone named Jordan know that there's another unit available if they need it.

There's no one else in the little lab, and Sam hopes she's less uptight than the woman from the ER. "Is there any way you can find out about someone for me? They were brought in from the racetrack a little while ago."

"I heard about that," she says, turning to her terminal and tapping at the keys. "Let's see…Dean Winchester, first and second degree burns, cracked ribs, concussion, no internal injuries…they're somewhat concerned about the concussion, but the burns are the worst part, it seems."

"And Dad—I mean, his dad was brought in too, with a heart attack."

"We've got a very good cardiac team," she tells him as she retrieves the information. "They did a workup as soon as he arrived, detected a blockage, and they're putting in a stent. It's a common procedure, it mostly depends on what condition he's in."

Sam's heart sinks a little. This John Winchester is in crappy shape. He starts to ask if she has any idea of what the statistics are, when a man in a lab coat hurries in.

"You said you've got more A-positive?"

"Thanks to this gentleman here." The technician indicates Sam, and Lab Coat spares a thin smile and a nod. "Is this for the stent patient?"

"That's right." He turns to go. "Thanks, Carmen."

Sam feels light-headed, but that could just be from the night's events and recent blood-letting. Didn't Dean say that the Carmen in the djinn's world worked in a hospital?

"Are you okay to drive?" she asks, concern on her face.

"Yeah." He manages a smile. "It's been a long night." He shrugs back into his jacket, which has mud plastered down the front and smells of burnt rubber. "Hey, Carmen, could I ask you a favor?"

"What did you have in mind?"

"My friend Dean, the burn patient—could you visit him when you get a chance? I don't know how long I'm going to be in town, and it's the holidays and all—it's just him and his dad."

"I know how that is. I don't have any family, either." There's a trace of sadness in her eyes, but she gives Sam a smile and turns back to her work.

This Dean isn't his Dean, but maybe the poor s.o.b. will get lucky.

It occurs to Sam as he walks through the parking lot, that there is one person in Lawrence who may be able to help him figure out what's going on. He returns to the garage and unhitches the trailer. He wonders briefly what will happen to the Impala, but she's not the same vehicle as the one he grew up with, either.

After a moment's fumbling, he figures out which key will let him into the garage, where he locates a local phone book in the office. He "borrows" the truck again, sadly sure that its owner won't miss it any time soon.

Sam stands on the front porch, shifting from one foot to the other, cold and tired and praying that he can get some answers here.

"Well, well, if it isn't George Bailey," says a familiar voice. Missouri Mosley looks up at him, head cocked to one side, nodding as though she's expected him.

"No, it's Sam, Sam Winchester. You know me! Or…you did."

"Hmm. You know me, or you think you do. But I don't know you. Huh, that's strange. Come on in, Sam Winchester, and have some cocoa."

Over a mug of hot chocolate, marshmallows melting into gooey white islands, Sam pours out the whole story. His mother's death, his dad's quest. Old Yellow-Eyes and his "special" children, Cold Oak and Jake, Dean's deal and his death, and his lonely visit to Mary's grave which had spun him into this strange other reality…and how bad things are still happening to the people he loves.

"Let this be a lesson to you, George Bailey," she says in that no-nonsense tone of hers. "You are not the cause of everything bad that happens in this world."

"Why do you keep calling me that?" Sam asks, weariness making itself felt after a long, hectic day.

"George Bailey was the hero in 'It's a Wonderful Life'," she reminds him. "He wished he was never born, and an angel showed him what a difference his life had made."

"Jimmy Stewart," Sam says automatically.

"Jimmy Stewart was the actor, George Bailey was the character." She begins clearing away the mugs. "You can drive me to church for the midnight service, I'd appreciate that."

"Okay, so I didn't cause the trouble Dean and Dad are having in this time and place," Sam says as he holds Missouri's coat for her. "But I haven't seen any angels, either."

She looks at him for a long moment. "Yet."

While she's attending the midnight service, Sam returns to looks at the curious stone where Mary and Samantha are resting. Nothing has changed since he first saw it, except that John may be joining them soon. He hopes the procedure is a success, hopes his blood will make a difference, hopes this Dean will find some measure of happiness with Carmen….

The church bells are peeling the conclusion of the service, and Sam starts.

"Sam Winchester!" Missouri calls.

He stands up, stiff from cold, and turns to look at her. Her coat is different. The garment he'd held for her had been green wool, this is red and black plaid. He stares, bemused.

"How are you?" she asks, giving him a hug. "Oh. Oh, Sam, I am so sorry about Dean."

Beyond her is the Impala, shiny and unblemished,, as if she's been parked there all along. The headstone is Mary's alone. Sam is back in the real world, and now he's not sure he ever left.

"Let me give you a ride home, and I'll tell you all about it."

By the time he finishes his tale, he's swaying with fatigue. The six hours he spent in the other time zone on top of the day he'd been on the road has left him exhausted.

"That's quite a story, Sam." Missouri is yawning, too, but she smiles and pats him on the arm. "We can talk about it some more tomorrow, but right now, I'm going to make up the spare bed for you. Poor thing, you need to get some rest." She's leaving the room, and calls back, "And tell your friends they're welcome to come for Christmas dinner."

What? Sam's trying to process that, when his phone rings. He scrabbles to fish it out of his jacket pocket, and stares at the display. 'Incoming call: Bobby Singer', it reads.

"Bobby! Hey, it's good to hear from you!"

"I didn't wake you, did I? Where are you?"

"I'm in Lawrence. I'm about five minutes away from crawling into bed, so your timing's great."

"Okay, that's good. I was afraid you were up at my place waiting for me. I'm in Grand Island at my friend Pamela's house. She said I should call you, so…I'm calling you."

Bobby's got a lady friend? Will wonders never cease? Sam scratches at an itch on his left arm. "I'm glad to hear from you," he says thankfully. "I tried calling earlier and there was no answer."

"I was probably out of cell range. There was this poltergeist-"

"Hey, Bobby," Sam interrupts, unbuttoning the cuff of his shirt. "How about you and your friend come for dinner tomorrow and tell us all about it?" He rattles off Missouri's address.

Bobby agrees that he and Pamela will be there at 3 PM. They'll all have a good dinner and he'll bring a bottle so they can drink a toast to Dean-

"Sounds good." he says. "Merry Christmas, Bobby." The screen goes dark as the call ends.

Sam stares at the peppermint-striped adhesive stuck to his arm and wonders if he made a difference..