A birthday bunny

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Peace In the Valley


The valley seems peaceful in the moonlight. The hills and buttes of rusting cars at Singer Salvage are quiet. Even Nixon, the scrapyard dog, is slumbering without a care. Inside the old house, Bobby Singer is snoring expressively. His battered trucker's cap waits for morning on a bedpost. On the nightstand, gold-rimmed reading glasses glint atop a worn Bible. Although the cacophany in the room sounds like a vacuum cleaner with the hiccups, it's untroubled rest.

In a bedroom down the hall, his houseguest is writhing and thrashing in his bed, the only restless spirit in evidence tonight. The sleeper is muttering---it sounds like Latin---and his tone is anxious and pleading.

One moment, the guest room is moon-dark, the next, it's illuminated with clear, white light. The light fills the room. It shows how the agitated sleeper has twisted loose the top and bottom sheets and reveals his long, flailing limbs. "Dean, turn off the light!" he complains. Then he bolts upright in bed. "Dean?!"

"It's just me, Sam," The figure standing in the midst of brightness sounds apologetic.

"Dad?" Sam asks, incredulous.

John Winchester's smile is tinged with sadness. "I've been worried about you, son."

Sam's pretty sure he's dreaming. He's used to being chewed out by his dad, not being on the receiving end of benevolent smiles and concern.

"Dean's dead," he whispers, looking guiltily down at the tangled sheets. "He's in Hell and it's all my fault."

"No, it's my fault." The definitive tone is more what he's used to from his dad, although hearing him admit to being wrong is a novelty. "I didn't set a very good example for him, and I'm sorry for that."

"I really miss him." Sam's face is forlorn.

"I know." John's voice is low, gentle. "I'm aware of the situation, and I'm doing everything I can on my end."

"I tried to save him."

"I know you did." John sighs. "I never thought I'd hear myself saying this to you, but don't do anything stupid."

"What d'you mean?"

"No deals. No spilled blood. And if it seems too good to be true---"

"---it probably is," Sam finishes with him.

"Promise me."

His father sounds persuasive, which is a welcome change from barking orders, but Sam hesitates. "But Dad, what if---?"

"Sam. I'm asking you. Please."

For a moment, he tries to summon an argument, a loophole, anything...but no clever ideas have penetrated the echoing loneliness of the last couple months. "Okay. I promise."

"Good." John smiles again, but his dark eyes are solemn. "One more thing...this is going to be a lot harder."

"Sure, Dad." Hope has vanished along with his brother. Right now, the idea of Father-knows-best is seductive.

"Forgive yourself."

"But it's my fault." Growing up, Dean took the blame for so many of his misdeeds, but he owns this one.

"None of this has ever been your fault. Promise me you'll try."

Sam's adam's-apple bobs. "I'll try," he says in a low voice. "I promise."

"Okay. Get some sleep now."

Obediently, Sam lies back against the pillows and closes his eyes. The radience is gone as swiftly as it came. In the darkened room, Sam's breathing slows, and his motions as he shifts position are languid and calm. No nightmares race behind his heavy lids. Peace descends upon the valley.

***

A very happy birthday to jdsgirlbev!