Two a.m. Dean stumbles face-first into his mattress. Go time.
Siri takes him out of town, within a mile and a half of the coordinates the Men of Letters recorded. After that he’s on foot. Flashlight cuts a cone through the black. Steep slopes and wet leaves make the going treacherous. He toes around in the underbrush for sturdy roots, braces his hands on thick trunks.
He’s a lot more concerned about snakes than meth hogs.
Up and over a little rise there’s a clearing. Would have seen the oak’s red leaves a mile back in the daylight. Its neighbors thrust bare branches toward the stars, but this tree – must be three hundred years old or more, the trunk’s so thick – carries a full canopy.
He unshoulders his pack and digs out the prescribed ingredients. From his wallet, a golden curl tied with thin red ribbon. Been there, tucked behind Jess’s old high school senior picture since they changed their relationship statuses. That was, how many wallets ago?
He pours a circle with the salt and sets the flour inside. Drinks a sip of whiskey and drains the rest into the ground. Lays the lock of Jess’s hair on the flour sack. Waits. Prays.
Rustling. Gibbous moon high overhead lights the clearing. Fluttering white cloth appears, fritzes, then –
“Sam?”
His teeth clench, eyes squeeze shut. If he looks, if she’s burned, if she’s black-eyed…
“Sam.”
A sharp exhale. Somehow he’d forgotten the exact pitch of her don’t-fuck-with-me voice. He faces her.
“Jess.”
“What’s going on? I was at the party where we first met and I – ” Her head tilts. “Sam you look…” Her mouth falls open, recognition breaking. “I’ve been dead a long time, haven’t I?”
He chokes up, eyes stinging. “Yeah.” He steps toward her, breathes deep. All he smells is the woods.
Jess walks the inside of the salt circle. Chin up, she takes in the mountains, the moon. “Where are we?”
“Kentucky.”
The smile he once missed like a phantom limb spreads across her features. “Too bad. There’d be a Field of Dreams joke here if it was Iowa.”
Soft laughter. “There’s no mountains in Iowa, babe.”
Jess shrugs. Looks him over. “So. You got a plan here? Some deep question about, I dunno, the meaning of life? What happens when we die?”
He swallows hard. “I-uh.” Drags a hand across his chin. “No. Tell the truth I really didn’t think this was gonna work.”
She laughs, wide-mouthed and honest. “Of course you didn’t. This isn’t like you, Sam. Dabbling in the mysterious. I didn’t think you even believed in an afterlife.”
At this rate he’s gonna grind his teeth down to the nub. “Jess? Are you okay? Are you happy?”
She gets serious as she studies him. “Yeah.” Her forehead crinkles. “I mean, it’s weird. I knew I was dead, but I don’t… You texted me. Said you’d be home soon, and then Brady came over and…” Another shrug. “Then I was back at that party, remember? Sig Ep. End of the World.”
She doesn’t remember. Tears well up and fall in relief. After Adam…
“Sam? What happened to me?”
He freezes.
He can’t…
“You slipped.” The lie rolls out easy. “Hit your head. Brady tried…”
She nods, lips pressed to a line. “It’s okay, Sam. Well. It sucks, but…” Eyes wide. “How ’bout you? Are you okay? ’Cause, I gotta say, you calling me here, it’s – ”
“Stalkery?” His smile is thin. He knows it.
She doesn’t call him out though. “Worrying.”
God, she hasn’t changed. Still looking out for him. Real smile, this time. “Don’t. Please. I’m good.” He drops his chin, cuts his eyes up toward her. “Curiosity just got the better of me, I guess.”
Jess folds her arms, fakes stern. “You know about curiosity and the cat, right?”
A chuckle. And under his breath, “But he has nine lives, apparently.”
Her brows draw down. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He spreads his palms. “Nothing!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously! I just thought we were swapping clichés.”
She shakes her head. Fritzes. “Sam?”
“I think our time is up.”
“Oh.”
“It’s good to see you.”
One last smile, and “I love you, Sam. Be hap – ”
**
He gets back to the room with the rising sun. Dean’s had his four hours, and then some. If he’s busted, well…
Snoring greets him as he eases through the door, balancing grease-stained bags and coffee.
FILL: "Red Oak" (2/2) - Gen. Sam. A visit from a ghost.
Siri takes him out of town, within a mile and a half of the coordinates the Men of Letters recorded. After that he’s on foot. Flashlight cuts a cone through the black. Steep slopes and wet leaves make the going treacherous. He toes around in the underbrush for sturdy roots, braces his hands on thick trunks.
He’s a lot more concerned about snakes than meth hogs.
Up and over a little rise there’s a clearing. Would have seen the oak’s red leaves a mile back in the daylight. Its neighbors thrust bare branches toward the stars, but this tree – must be three hundred years old or more, the trunk’s so thick – carries a full canopy.
He unshoulders his pack and digs out the prescribed ingredients. From his wallet, a golden curl tied with thin red ribbon. Been there, tucked behind Jess’s old high school senior picture since they changed their relationship statuses. That was, how many wallets ago?
He pours a circle with the salt and sets the flour inside. Drinks a sip of whiskey and drains the rest into the ground. Lays the lock of Jess’s hair on the flour sack. Waits. Prays.
Rustling. Gibbous moon high overhead lights the clearing. Fluttering white cloth appears, fritzes, then –
“Sam?”
His teeth clench, eyes squeeze shut. If he looks, if she’s burned, if she’s black-eyed…
“Sam.”
A sharp exhale. Somehow he’d forgotten the exact pitch of her don’t-fuck-with-me voice. He faces her.
“Jess.”
“What’s going on? I was at the party where we first met and I – ” Her head tilts. “Sam you look…” Her mouth falls open, recognition breaking. “I’ve been dead a long time, haven’t I?”
He chokes up, eyes stinging. “Yeah.” He steps toward her, breathes deep. All he smells is the woods.
Jess walks the inside of the salt circle. Chin up, she takes in the mountains, the moon. “Where are we?”
“Kentucky.”
The smile he once missed like a phantom limb spreads across her features. “Too bad. There’d be a Field of Dreams joke here if it was Iowa.”
Soft laughter. “There’s no mountains in Iowa, babe.”
Jess shrugs. Looks him over. “So. You got a plan here? Some deep question about, I dunno, the meaning of life? What happens when we die?”
He swallows hard. “I-uh.” Drags a hand across his chin. “No. Tell the truth I really didn’t think this was gonna work.”
She laughs, wide-mouthed and honest. “Of course you didn’t. This isn’t like you, Sam. Dabbling in the mysterious. I didn’t think you even believed in an afterlife.”
At this rate he’s gonna grind his teeth down to the nub. “Jess? Are you okay? Are you happy?”
She gets serious as she studies him. “Yeah.” Her forehead crinkles. “I mean, it’s weird. I knew I was dead, but I don’t… You texted me. Said you’d be home soon, and then Brady came over and…” Another shrug. “Then I was back at that party, remember? Sig Ep. End of the World.”
She doesn’t remember. Tears well up and fall in relief. After Adam…
“Sam? What happened to me?”
He freezes.
He can’t…
“You slipped.” The lie rolls out easy. “Hit your head. Brady tried…”
She nods, lips pressed to a line. “It’s okay, Sam. Well. It sucks, but…” Eyes wide. “How ’bout you? Are you okay? ’Cause, I gotta say, you calling me here, it’s – ”
“Stalkery?” His smile is thin. He knows it.
She doesn’t call him out though. “Worrying.”
God, she hasn’t changed. Still looking out for him. Real smile, this time. “Don’t. Please. I’m good.” He drops his chin, cuts his eyes up toward her. “Curiosity just got the better of me, I guess.”
Jess folds her arms, fakes stern. “You know about curiosity and the cat, right?”
A chuckle. And under his breath, “But he has nine lives, apparently.”
Her brows draw down. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”
He spreads his palms. “Nothing!”
“Uh-huh.”
“Seriously! I just thought we were swapping clichés.”
She shakes her head. Fritzes. “Sam?”
“I think our time is up.”
“Oh.”
“It’s good to see you.”
One last smile, and “I love you, Sam. Be hap – ”
**
He gets back to the room with the rising sun. Dean’s had his four hours, and then some. If he’s busted, well…
Snoring greets him as he eases through the door, balancing grease-stained bags and coffee.
Dean pushes up to his elbows. “Breakfast?”
“Just how you like it. Extra grease.”
“Sweet.”