Sleeping Sickness and Things that Bite

Epilogue

"A little to the left… no left…" Sam sighed and resisted the urge to scratch at his bandaged shoulder. "I said left Dean! I swear you're doing this on purpose!"

Dean huffed. "Not my fault you don't know left from right."

The door to the cabin swept open and a flurry of snow drifted in.

"Boys stop arguing! Dean quit annoying your brother!" John shook the snow from his head and backed inside, dragging a small but bushy Norwegian Spruce with him.

Pastor Jim looked up from the stove where he was busy stirring a meaty looking stew. "Need a hand with the trifid there, John?" he drawled.

John scowled. "Nope!" he replied, stubbornly. "I got this."

Jim rolled his eyes and turned back to the chilli. It was Bobby's recipe, a kind of peace offering for not being there for Christmas. He claimed he was busy on a hunt down in St Louis, but Jim suspected it was more to do with John Winchester than anything else. The two men hadn't spoken to each other since a major falling out some years ago, and no one knew what kicked it off. All Jim knew was that if John ever showed his face around Bobby Singer's yard again, he'd better be wearing bullet proof pants.

So, to make up for his absence, Bobby had given Jim his precious and coveted chilli recipe. It was famous for its intense heat, ability to curl wall paper, and to leave the kind of scorch marks in the toilet basin that would more likely be observed on the deck of an aircraft carrier. Jim looked up and grinned to himself. Already the ceiling was turning brown. That was a sign the stuff was almost ready.

He had fixed a beef lasagne for himself and Sam based on the notion that food which could be used as a substitute for paint stripper probably wasn't a wise choice for someone fresh out of intensive care, but John and Dean… now there was a prank just begging to happen.

Jim smothered a snort. Even though it was Sam's idea, the priest had to admit he was probably going to hell for this. But it was going to be more than worth it just to see the looks on their faces.

Those two wouldn't know what hit them.

Sam was slowly but surely grating some cheddar and parmesan, using his bad arm to hold the grater steady, tongue sticking out the side of his mouth in concentration. The bowl was soon full of cheese, piling up like the foothills of the Himalayas, complete with small cheesy avalanches that tumbled over the edge of the bowl.

Sam relaxed his grip and sat back with a sigh. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and his wounded shoulder ached from the effort of keeping the grater in place.

"That enough?" he asked.

Dean eyed the small mountain of cheese. "Enough to keep a whole family of mice happy for a while." He gently patted Sam's good shoulder and handed him a cold beer from the fridge. "That's it for today, Sammy. Take it easy and get some rest."

Sam's mouth twisted in annoyance. "It's Christmas Eve, and there's still the tree to decorate…"

"Which you can supervise from the comfort of the sofa," said John, firmly.

Dean nodded. "Yep, you just tell us where to stick stuff…"

"Don't tempt me," Sam muttered, mutinously.

"…and we'll do the rest," Dean finished without missing a beat, then grinned and took a swig of his beer.

Too tired to argue any longer, Sam gave in and did as he was told, while his father and brother struggled with the tree. Pastor Jim set the table and buttered bread, and outside the window the gentle snow fall picked up. Pretty soon the window panes were smothered, but through the occasional gaps caused by the heat of the cabin, Sam could see that the wintry sky was thick with snowflakes dancing on the wind. A blizzard was setting in, closing off the roads and mountain passes, sealing Jim Murphy and the Winchesters inside their Christmas retreat.

Sam smiled to himself. Good job they had enough food and drink to last for at least a month. This was largely thanks to a last minute Christmas shopping trip made by Dad and Pastor Jim, after Dean had complained about the slowly dwindling supply of beer and whisky. Which he claimed no responsibility for.

The log fire crackled, throwing out leaping shadows and making the Christmas decorations sparkle charmingly in the light. The otherwise drab and dreary cabin was filled with a warm, inviting, cosy glow.

Watching his family argue good naturedly over the tree with the scent of good, home cooking wafting up his nose, Sam smiled.

He could almost believe there was nothing to worry about, nothing to be scared of.

He could almost believe that the world was a place of light, love and beauty, and that true evil was nothing more than a myth or child's nightmare.

"Come and get it!" Jim announced, with barely disguised glee.

Sam watched his father and brother dig into their bowls of chilli and cheese. They stuffed their mouths until their cheeks were bulging, teeth chewing and gnashing at the ground beef, nodded and grinning, and making the most obscene moaning noises of pleasure.

Sam and Jim watched as the chewing slowed gradually, and a strange look came over Dean.

"Uh… this is a little… uh…" he said, weakly, and looked down at his bowl.

John stopped chewing altogether and his eyes widened with shock.

The serenity of the wintry night was interrupted by the sound of the cabin door slamming open, followed by what might have been two wild animals howling in pain. Rabbits scurried away in fear, and a young stag, out courting a young doe, was frightened off his stroke. The poor thing was never living the embarrassment down.

Sam nodded and grinned at Pastor Jim when dad and Dean stumbled back in from the cold, snowmelt dripping from their dangling, red tongues. The twin expressions of bewildered indignation on their faces would be a memory to keep Sam laughing all through winter.

For tonight he would let himself believe.

Tomorrow was another story.