Scrapbook (a family album) 
Honey and the Moon
by Maygra 

A little birthday present (late) for Gekizetsu Happy Birthday, B! 

Supernatural, all audiences, future-fic. Characters: Dean, Sam/Sarah. Notes here.

Set in Eighth-horizon's "Salvation" universe, by permission (possibly by coercion). Scrapbook is more concept than story; a series of snapshots, future, past, present in the Salvation universe. They are of varying lengths, various POV's, some more connected than others. (The first three or four particularly) If anyone wants to contribute actual photomanips or pictures to add/enhance the photo album feel of it, that would be lovely and appreciated. 

(5,869 words) 

The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the WB. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.


Scrapbook 7 - Honey and the Moon

Don't know why I'm still afraid If you weren't real I would make you up now I wish that I could follow through I know that your love is true

Honey and the Moon ~ Joseph Arthur (Right click and save as for song. Full Lyrics below)


He hadn't expected to be nervous. Not like this. Not about this he thinks, twisting the ring on his finger. Silver, not gold. Not Platinum. Not white gold. Silver. Silver for blessings. Silver for power. Silver for magic. Silver for purity.

Silver that was soft, could tarnish, that could be dented or torn. Tensile strength much lower than that of steel or even gold. It made perfect sense to him when they were picking out the rings, when Sarah kissed him swift and her eyes danced. "I know a guy -- an artist."

The silver was braided -- not traditional. Smooth on the inside, the wrapped metal thick and prominent on the outside. The guy had been good -- Eric, Eric something or other. He couldn't even see the solder seam.

This inn had been Sarah's idea too. Sam had thought beaches and Florida, the Gulf Coast, Key West, maybe southern California. Sarah had wanted wild woods and old trees, wild coasts where you couldn't swim, but you could be impressed. The coast of Maine, like the pacific Northwest was a place where the land met the sea suddenly, no easy slide of sand and beach into deep dark waters, just boom -- land ends, sea begins.

The inn itself held no sentiment for her. Her parents had not honeymooned or vacationed there; she hadn't visited as a child. She'd picked it for a lot of reasons, but he hadn't missed the mischief in her eyes when she'd finished reading the long list of amenities and finished with-- "and it's supposed to be haunted."

There was some great cosmic joke in there somewhere, Sam was sure. Of course, he was still half-waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him.

It wasn't the wedding night or the thought of a honeymoon. Tradition on tradition -- he was still half blind from staring at Sarah in white; his Sarah, his bride. White for purity and innocence had never had so much meaning for him as when watching Sarah walk down the aisle on her father's arm. Odd because Sarah was really neither of those things. She was wicked and funny, sexy and seductive, laughed more easily than Sam could remember doing since childhood, never missed Dean's innuendo or minded his locker room humor.

She sometimes treated Sam like he was the one that needed to be handled gently, soft and warm and calm, like he was a skittish wild animal or a damaged one. He couldn't exactly blame her and his cheeks flushed darkly as he fingered the ring on his finger.

Sarah was unafraid.

Not without fear. She was too smart not to know that there was inherent danger in the life he and Dean and his father led, real corporeal blood on the sheets, piss-your-pants kind of too-close-to-dying risk in what they did.

She knew until death us do part was more than a rote formula. More than a promise of fidelity.

There was guilt in the thought that Jessica might not have ever understood those promises for what they were. That Sam might have let her walk into this life blind. He didn't have the words to apologize for that any longer.

He was damned grateful Jess hadn't haunted his dreams in years now -- hadn't come back to cast even more doubt on doing this at all. But she wouldn't. Jess had always wanted him happy. Always.


Dean had balked at coming with them. Sam had been surprised when Sarah brought it up, but it took him less time than Dean to understand. He might have married Sarah for that alone if he didn't already love her so much.

"It's your honeymoon. I think that's supposed to be, you know, bride. Groom. Together. Alone."

"It's a haunted inn."

"I'm sure you and Sam can handle it just fine."

"Not the point."

"Sarah, you just got married, for Christ's sake."

"Duh. I was there. You just don't want to watch Sam and I make calf eyes at each other."

"You already do that. Honeymoon. I think you're past the chaperone stage."

"Family vacation. That means you. I asked your Dad, too."

"What?" Sam hadn't known that.

"I've spent a total of 72 hours with the man in almost two years. I'd like to get to know him a little better."

"Sam, your girlfriend -- wife -- is nuts."

"A little, yeah." She'd elbowed him in the ribs for that.

"John said he had something he had to get back to."

"He was lying," Dean said.

"I know. Are you going to lie to me too?"

Dean had opened his mouth and closed it again. He'd glared at Sarah and she'd smiled sunnily back at him.

"Tell me you don't want to go. That you've got something more fun than spending a long weekend with us."

"You're just afraid now that you've married him, you're going to be bored silly."

"Exactly. I only married him for his looks. You're the entertainment package."

"I have to study."

That set Sam off into laughter like nothing else could, as did the pained look Dean gave him. "It's your honeymoon."

"I think we covered that."


Sam had wrapped his arms around Sarah from behind and met Dean's eyes, eyes that were pleading for a way out -- except Dean hadn't said no. Hadn't said he didn't want to go.

It was a long drive back to California alone. "Think of it as saving us airfare. We could drive back with you." It didn't matter that Sarah's father -- his father-in-law now -- was footing the bill.

And when he thought about it, he really wanted Dean to be there, too. Maybe it was odd, but if felt odder to be without him -- Sam was happier than he could ever remember being. That was something that needed to be shared. Demanded to be spread as widely as possible.

Dean put a premium on Sam's happiness. Time he caught the flip side of that particular edge.

Sam was not completely unaware of what his most sincere expression could do to Dean, but he suspected in this case, it was more Sarah than him.

"This is our new life. The start. Tell me you don't want to be there."

"Tell us you shouldn't be there," Sam said seriously, and he knew they'd won.

Dean sighed and tried his best to maintain his glare but it was hard to do when he was looking away. Staring into the sun. That was the reason for rubbing at his eyes. "So, tell me about this ghost."


The Inn by the Sea wasn't old. Built in the late 1980's, it still had a rep for being haunted, primarily by the ghost of a young woman who walked the beach in front of it in the moonlight, a woman who died in a shipwreck, on the way to her wedding.

"You have a twisted sense of humor," Dean said, following the porter to the cottage held for them.

Sarah had laughed loudly, eliciting smiles from everyone they passed. "She's supposed to be pretty quiet. She's not out for vengeance or anything. Plus, if you get really bored, I know where she's buried."

"You should take this more seriously," Dean said.

"I do," Sarah said. "People get married here all the time. She looks toward the sea. Nothing awful happens. The elevators go up and down with no one in them, the tableware gets rearranged."

Dean had raised his eyebrows behind Sarah's back and Sam shrugged. "We broke her in on cursed dolls and werewolves."

"Just tell me I have my own room," Dean said.

He did. Sarah was generous but she wasn't an idiot and the moment after they'd all toured the cottage, tipped the porter, and Dean had happily found the beers in the refrigerator and gone to his room to unpack, Sarah closed the door behind her on their room and eyed Sam speculatively. "We could unpack now or..."

Sam was sometimes cautious, but never slow. He pulled his windbreaker off and unbuttoned his shirt. "Or later."

Sarah had a penchant for running pounces and Sam was very glad of sturdy new England furniture construction. Not to mention sturdy Winchester body stock.

Dean was psychic or otherwise occupied if the music from within the cottage's interior was any judge. Sam went with otherwise occupied for himself with Sarah's warm weight draped over them and the bed thoroughly and noisily tested. He threaded his fingers through hers so their rings lay side by side. "Honey - moon. I think we're supposed to wait until the sun sets at the very least."

Sarah made a dismissive sound and nipped along his jaw. "Old wives tale. Fertility and nonsense. Besides, we'll be hunting for Lydia Carver's ghost at moonrise."

He'd rolled them then, grinning when Sarah stretched like a cat underneath him, white teeth, creamy soft skin, shining eyes, and dark hair tumbling over pillows. He wouldn't let her pull the sheets up as he chased sunlight and shadows across her breasts and along her belly with his lips. He wanted daylight to see this, sunrises and moonrises and every thing in between.

"Mrs. Winchester, " he said, somewhere around her left hip, nipping at the curve of her waist. She was ticklish there.

She laughed. He hadn't said that yet. "Mrs. Samuel Winchester, according to my father." Her fingers drifted through his hair and she bent a knee to nudge him up toward the head of the bed, hands stroking across his sides to do some chasing of her own.

"He thinks those extra syllables make me smarter." Or sound richer, Sam thought but didn't say it. His father-in-law was making every effort to be happy in Sarah's happiness, had gone above and beyond in the desire to ensure it, but there had been The Talk, over dinner in a favored restaurant when they'd both come back to New Paltz to finalize the wedding plans.

"She is the most precious thing in my life," was all Daniel Blake said, and Sam hadn't taken that lightly or as fatherly hyperbole.

"I love her," Sam said, steadily and evenly, with no hesitation. "And I take that pretty seriously."

"Your father never remarried."

"No, sir."

"I met and married her mother when she was couple of years older than Sarah. I knew when I met her she would be the only woman for me. That sounds very old fashioned."

"No, sir. It doesn't."

Blake had leaned forward then, eye toward the hallway where the ladies room was. "There's been a great deal of tragedy in your family history, Samuel. Brave hearts can be foolish ones. You love her and believe it or not, I don't doubt that, but can you bring her the happiness she deserves?"

Sam had been unprepared for that much of a direct question, but it wasn't entirely out of the blue. "No offense, sir, but I don't think happiness is something that you work for. It comes to you, sometimes when you least expect it. Maybe even when you least deserve it. I think we all deserve to look for that, to have that. No matter our family history."

He'd said it quietly, but even in saying it, he found it to be true for the most part. What he thought he deserved and what he got, seemed to be two entirely different things. He caught sight of Sarah coming back, smile on her face, so beautiful she took his breath away. He half forgot Blake's question. "I don't know if I deserve her, but I know enough to be grateful for what I've got," he said and stood up to meet her.

Daniel Blake hadn't brought it up again.

And stretched out on a sunny bed with his bride, Sam wasn't so much grateful as fiercely happy.

Fierce enough to fight to his dying breath to keep it.


Dean grumbled and snarled when they dragged him out of bed before dawn to participate in a whale watch, complaining that getting sloshed on by gigantic fish was in no way preferable to sleeping in. Yet he clung to the railing on the opposite side of Sarah, watching a pod of humpbacks breech the water. Sarah bought him a snow-globe of whale flukes and lighthouses, and Cape Elizabeth in overly florid script, complete with a Velcro attachment. Sam had never in his life seen Dean attach anything permanently to the dashboard of the Impala, but the Velcro went down and the double stick tape would leave marks, and every time they hit a rough spot on the road, the snow fell over the whales, and the glitter made the tiny waves shine.

Sarah leaned across the back of the seat and hooked her arms around both of them, and promised Dean a hula girl if they ever got to Hawaii. That prompted a dozen stories of road-side kitsch seen in a hundred truck stops and small motels. Dean's regard for Sarah went up a hundred fold when she proved to him that she knew all 4 original verses of "Plastic Jesus" by heart, and a good 20 besides that.

Sam remarked it was entirely possible that Dean and Sarah had been split at birth which in effect was similar to marrying his brother. That got him the entire song sung three times in harmony on the drive back to the inn, and by the time they arrived, he knew all the lyrics, too.

They'd walked the beach the night before, with flashlights and jackets and a six pack of beer. No shotguns, though, for all that the talk around the inn was that the ghost of Lydia Carver showed up pretty regularly. Lydia didn't show, and really none of them expected her to, despite the plethora of tales and the willingness of the inn staff to talk about her. She was as much a draw to the inn as the food and the location. She evoked more curiosity than fear, more compassion than caution.

Dean actually did find time to study, as did Sam, sitting out in lawn chairs, trading ever more complicated escalating mysteries of contract law and human physiology while Sarah read them the more lurid passages out of a garishly covered romance novel. Dean and Sam cried uncle first, until Dean pulled the book from Sarah's hand and read nearly half a chapter in a squeaky falsetto and then hauled Sam up to offer up a counter to the most wretched bit of purple prose theatre Sam had heard of outside of Moll Flanders.

Sarah was red-faced with laughter, flailing and failing to get to her feet to snatch the book back and even more so, when Sam pulled her up to pose for the cover, while Dean took picture after picture on a disposable camera and then shoved them both into the pool.

They ate too much lobster and drank too many beers on the second night only to end up playing scrabble where Dean met his match in the made-up-words department because Sarah had an art degree from an American university and that made all foreign words she'd learned fair game.

They could see the beach front from their own little private veranda and Sarah fell asleep with her head in Sam's lap and her feet tucked onto Dean's. Dean was halfway there himself, nodding at the sound of the waves and if Sam could have frozen them all right there, he might have wished it. But then Sarah stirred and woke and turned her face up to his, and he wanted every moment after that; no stopping, no pausing, moving ever forward.

Their last night at the inn was on a Saturday, and the inn was holding an on the beach clambake with bonfire and music and the promised ghost tour. There was a fair crowd: couples and families, and four young women there for one of the inn's special packages -- a bachelorette party. It was too much of a temptation for Dean not to flirt, and tease, and the women were happy enough to play along, refusing to tell him which one was engaged until he'd danced with all of them. They'd tried for Sam as well, but Sarah flashed her ring and a laugh and refused to rescue Dean even when he'd begged.

Dinner was messy and fun, and they ended up sharing a picnic table with the girls, and for the first time maybe in forever, neither Dean or Sam had to come up with a cover story, able to talk about their courses of studies, about life in California. The moon was high when the families started calling it a night and the inn's offered ghost walk was started, a tour guide telling the story of the shipwreck of 1807 that cost 16 people their lives. Of reports of people hearing the wreck -- the tearing of timbers and the cries of the doomed. They'd already heard the story of the bride-to-be Lydia, who was found the next day washed ashore next to the trunk containing her wedding dress.

Sam and Sarah dropped back. They'd heard this story, and seen the tombstone near the inn. Sam had his doubts that Lydia was actually buried there, thinking it odd that she'd buried there rather than with the rest of her family in Freeport. Dean dropped back as well, walking next to a girl from the party, speaking low.

Sarah offered to make a bet with Sam on whether Dean would make it back to their cottage that night. The girl was pretty, dark hair swept up like Sarah's was, worked messy and loose by the light breeze off the ocean. She was wearing one of those long-skirted, gauzy-beach dresses, that were popular swim-suit cover ups. She was barefoot, picking her way carefully over sand and rocks, occasionally taking Dean's hand as she hopped over small tide pools. Dean was playing gentleman, assisting her where he could but otherwise keeping his hands in his pockets. He seemed happy enough to talk to her though.

Sam didn't take the bet. Instead he hoisted Sarah up piggy-back, her arms clasped around his chest and her breath warm against his cheek. The rest of the group moved forward more quickly, the guide's voice getting lost under the rush of the waves. Every now and then they could see the flash of light from Cape Elizabeth.

The moon slipped behind clouds and turned the water silver and Sarah slid down watch the glow over the waves from the circle of Sam's arms.

"What do you think would keep her here?" Sarah said quietly, fingers linked with Sam's.

"We haven't seen her," Sam said and got an elbow nudge.

"For all you've seen, why doubt this one?"

Sam wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Not so much doubt as probability. Spirits that remain usually want something, or are reenacting something. Lydia just strolls the beach. There's no expectation of her fiancé looking for her or she for him; he wasn't on the ship. She isn't looking for anything. So, what would keep her here?"

Sarah chewed on her lip. "I don't know, a dream unfulfilled? Her life unfinished?" She leaned into him. "It just seems sadder than if she were angry about something. I would be."

Sam slid around to face her, back to the ocean. Moonlight edged Sarah's hair to silver, and shadows added to the small laugh lines around her eyes and mouth. He had a snap and shift image of her, years from now when the silver wasn't light borne and the deeper grooves spoke of a lifetime of laughter, forty years from now or fifty. It was gone in an instant and it came with nothing but anticipation and wonder. "You want us to dig up her grave?" he asked seriously, pushing a stray strand of hair off Sarah's face. "Or we could run up to Freeport, see if there's any burial records there."

"You think they'd do that? Lie about the story?"

"I think the Inn was built twenty years ago, give or take, not two hundred. I would guess there's been no reports of her prior to that. Maine's got a lot of ghosts, and people like the idea of them more than they would if they really knew what makes them appear. But if you really want to know, then we can treat it like any other case -- do the research, check the stories."

"We're supposed to leave tomorrow. It's Sunday. The newspaper offices won't be open until Monday. You really don't believe she's real, do you?"

"It's possible, but I don't think so. I'm willing to find out. We can find a less expensive place to stay for a couple of days. We've got a week until classes start up again and we can make that drive easy."

Sarah didn't say anything, worrying at her lower lip. Sam only pulled her to him. "Hey, Dean?" he called and his brother looked up. He'd stopped as well, talking to the pretty dark haired girl at the edge of the water. She had her skirt pulled up a little wading through the small waves still washing up on the beach. "We thought we might run up to Freeport tomorrow. You up for a change in plans?"

Dean came closer, the girl walking beside him. "Uh, sure. Early start?"

"Yeah. Maybe. Sorry to interrupt," he added to Dean's companion.

"It's no bother," she said. "You two were just married, weren't you?"

"Yes," Sarah said, turning around to smile at her. "I'm Sarah. This is Sam. And Dean you've met."

"I'm Anne," she said and offered her hand. "I should go. Thank you, Dean, for the company," she said.

"My pleasure, Anne. Uh, you want to walk back with us?" Dean offered.

"No, thank you. It's nice out here and the group will be coming back this way. I hope you enjoy Freeport. It's a lovely town. God bless your marriage," she said and headed back down the beach toward where the flashlights were bouncing over the sand and voices could be heard getting closer.

Dean watched her go for a long moment before turning back. "So, what's up?"

"Now I feel stupid," Sarah said before Sam could say anything. "She seemed really nice," she added.

"Anne?" Dean shrugged and then eyes, Sarah, a sly grin sliding across his face. "Ah...yeah. She's the one getting married. We were just talking. She's from Freeport. Now, what's going on?"

"We thought, while we were here, we might look into the Lydia Carver story. See if there were any reports or sightings prior to the inn being built," Sam said. "You know, just to be sure."

Dean looked from one to the other, eyes lingering on Sarah's face for a moment before shrugging. "Sure. Why not."

"You're both just humoring me," Sarah said.

"Yeah. A little," Sam said tugging her back again. "But it's okay. Because we've looked into stuff for a lot less than reasonable doubt."

Sarah's eyes scanned along the beach, then out toward the sea, then back to them both where Dean waited with patient humor and Sam rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. This was small thing, trivial and huge at the same time, because Dean wasn't just indulging Sarah nor was he.

There was a give and take in the Winchester family that didn't always feel like equality but was never wholly dismissive. Unspoken was the idea that you couldn't really bring someone in part way. It was all or nothing.

Sarah's hand tightened in his and she linked her arm through Dean's as they headed back to the Inn. "Yeah. Just a day or so. Just to be sure." Her arm slipped around Sam's waist and he reached across to lay his arm on her shoulder, tapping Dean's then letting his hand rest there as they walked, and figured out where to look first.

Really, it wasn't as simple as all or nothing -- it was everything, and that was always more complicated.


They were in Freeport by the time the shops opened. There was small local museum on Main Street that opened at noon on Sundays and they sat in the Starbucks down the street to wait, Sarah going over the information Sam had pulled off the internet.

The posted version of the story said Lydia Carver was from Freeport, that her father had business in Portland. She'd been making the journey between Boston and Freeport when the ship, the Charles, went down, but there was no mention of any other family traveling with her.

"In 1807? She wouldn't be traveling alone," Sarah said. In the bright light of day, the story seemed even less likely. "Do you think the wreck happened at all?"

"Probably," Dean said. "The Maritime museum is open too. It's more likely the locals embellished the actual events for the tourists."

Sarah used her finger to lift the foam off her cappuccino and Sam decided he was buying a cappuccino machine as soon as they got back. He was never going to get tired of watching her do that; of licking the foam from her fingers. Ever. She was looking a little too innocent, but he let it slide, especially when she gave up the pretense and grinned at him, propping her sandal-clad feet in his lap.

"You know, they arrest you for public sex in Maine," Dean said dryly. "Maybe we should get you two a room and I'll go to the museum."

Sarah laughed and flicked foam at him.

Sarah's urgency and concern of the night before diminished as they walked and window shopped, then found their way to the museum. It was housed in a converted bungalow, different rooms dedicated to different sections of Freeport's history

It was small and very local, most of the books and displays donated over the years by the inhabitants. No admission price but Sam stuffed a twenty into the donation box, and grinned when he saw Dean deeply engrossed in a series of pictures and recountings of the whaling industry in the area.

He found Sarah looking through the History of Shipwrecks registry for some indication that the Charles had ever sailed.

Sam stuck to the local history and genealogy, and fended off the kindly inquiry from the woman at the desk when he sat at a table to go over the large, unabridged version of the town's residents from the late 1700's to present.

It didn't take him long to confirm that, yes, the Carver family had actually existed, Amos and Lydia and their seven children. Birth and death records stored on microfiche at the town hall, although the actual documents were kept elsewhere, stored carefully and in environmentally controlled rooms to preserve them. People could look but it required an application and appointment. But they could look up Lydia tomorrow, see the record of her death.

They'd be lucky if the death registry said anything about the shipwreck -- death by drowning was more likely, but they might be able to discover if she was buried where the tombstone near the Inn by the Sea was kept carefully tended.

"Sam?" Sarah spoke softly but her eyes were wide and Sam was on his feet in a flash.

"What is it?" he asked because while Sarah wasn't pale or shaking she'd obviously been rattled. She shook her head but took his hand, leading him into a room near the back of the house. Sam tried to catch Dean's eye, but Sarah was insistent.

The room had been a formal dining room at one time, most likely, long and narrow with windows only on one side. It squared against the kitchen on one side and interior hallway and the front parlor on the other. That much wall space and lighting made it perfect for the rows of portrait, town fathers and early families. Sarah pulled him toward the back wall.

Amos Carver had been a successful businessman, well able to afford to commission a painting of himself and his family. It was pretty standard for the period and difficult to tell how much the likenesses reflected the actual people who'd sat for the portrait. Sarah still hadn't said anything and Sam took that for the hint it was. She'd seen something and needed him to confirm it without a clue.

None of the people were smiling, not Carver or his wife, their children, from the infant on Mrs. Carver's lap to the stern looking man just to the right of Amos Carver's shoulder -- eldest son no doubt. The younger sons were arranged by height and probably age. The three girls were arranged by height behind Mrs. Carver's left shoulder. The youngest was perhaps seven or eight and the oldest...

Sam stepped back. The portraits weren't huge and the details probably not that accurate. She wasn't smiling and the severe upsweep of her hair and demure cut of her dress made her look both more serious and older than the girl he remembered.

"I'm not imagining this, right?" Sarah asked softly. Sam squeezed her hand. "She said her name was Anne."

"Her mother's name was Lydia too -- not unusual in the times. She might have gone by a middle name. You want to get Dean?"

Sarah nodded and backed away, leaving Sam to study the face of a young woman who had died two centuries earlier but he was pretty sure had strolled the beach with his brother the night before.

He tried to remember the girls from the bachelorette party who'd vied for Dean's attention, but honestly, he'd had his eyes more on Sarah the whole evening, and his actual observation of the foursome had been cursory at best. It had been emotional rather than analytical -- they'd had Sarah laughing by his side and Dean was soaking in the flirting and the teasing and the attention like a sponge. Brain shifting from improbability to possibility, he realized Anne's gauzy dress might have been less beach cover up or peasant dress than nightshift, if she'd been sleeping when the ship went down.

Without turning around he knew when Dean came up behind him, even before Sarah slipped her hand back into his.

"You have to be kidding me."

"I wouldn't put too much faith in the likeness, but you two talked," Sam said.

"Not about much of anything. She said she'd been coming to this beach for awhile, talked a little about her fiancé. Asked about California, wanted to travel. I thought..."

"Those four girls..."

Dean rubbed at his face. "I couldn't keep them straight. Wasn't trying that hard."

"They were checking out today, right?"

"Yeah," Dean said, confusion on his face clearing. "We leave now we can probably catch them."

"I shook her hand. She felt warm and real," Sarah said.

"Sometimes it's hard to tell." Sam hadn't gotten anything off her either and obviously Dean had taken her for flesh and blood.

There was a flurry of activity at the Inn's lobby -- cars pulled up and baggage being sorted into different cars. Even so, it wasn't difficult to find the four women and their convertible, the porter slinging their overnight bags into the trunk.

She was there in jeans and a loose white button down, hair braided and even so, Sam couldn't be sure the facial features were exactly right. This woman was obviously not a ghost.

He glanced at Dean and got a shrug and a spread of hands. Dean wasn't sure either. Awkward was the only way through and Sam took a breath, trying to come up with a story.

"Anne!" Sarah's voice rang across the cobbled court and the woman's head lifted and turned. Sarah didn't hesitate and Sam and Dean could only follow.

Dean got smiles and waves and even Anne smiled but her eyes didn't linger on Dean's face, nor her smile. She turned that toward Sarah, waiting with polite and unwary interest.

"Hi. I'm glad we caught you," Sarah said and pulled her own sunglasses from her pocket. "I think you dropped these on the beach last night -- during the walk?"

Anne looked confused and shook her head. "No. They aren't mine. I didn't go on the tour, I went back to the room after dinner," then her smile was turned on Dean, warm and slightly shy. "The dancing was fun but..." She shrugged.

"She had to call David," one of her friends said looping an arm around her shoulders. "Karen, Lisa -- are these your sunglasses?"

Denials came on all fronts, and the apologies and good-byes were made with nothing more to say.

Leaning against the front quarter panel of the Impala, the three of them watched as the foursome got in their car and drove off.

"I'd swear that's the girl," Dean said quietly. "Only you know, except for the fact--"

"That she wasn't there," Sam said. "We can get in to see the records tomorrow probably or..." he glanced toward the small garden where the tiny cemetery was hidden by hedges.

"She didn't seem unhappy," Sarah said thoughtfully.

"Sometimes...I don't know. I guess spirits can leave impressions of joy as well as anger," Sam said. "We just don't hear about them as often. Or notice, I guess, unless they are messing with the living."

"The wreck happened at night and suddenly," Sarah said, tapping her glasses on her thigh. "She'd have been asleep...maybe. Dreaming of her wedding."

"Yeah, Maybe," Dean said. "What do you want to do, Sarah?"

Sarah looked down then slipped her pinky around Sam's and put on her sunglasses. "Let's go home," she said.

Sam glanced over her head at Dean, who tilted his head and shrugged and scooped the keys out of his pocket, opening the door.

They were twenty miles out of Port Elizabeth before Sarah popped up from her reclining position on the back seat, flopping her romance novel over the front. "Hey, Dean? Did you kiss the dead chick on the beach?"

"She was engaged!"

"Two hundred years ago. She was cute."

"Are you matchmaking?"


"I don't kiss engaged women. Or dead ones."

"Oh, now wait, Dean - there was that ghost down in Arkansas--

"She wasn't a ghost..."

"Zombie, ghost. Dead is dead."

"Wait! You kissed a zombie? Oh, gross."

"She wasn't a zombie -- she was..."

Sarah leaned over further...

"Okay, so maybe she was but she wasn't engaged."

"We have got to work on your standards."

"Sam, I think you need to get your wife to be quiet."

It took a little manhandling and a couple of squeals and Dean almost got kicked in the head when Sam hauled her into the front seat, but really, Sarah was laughing too hard for Sam to make her entirely shut up.

But he tried. He really did.

Only not too hard.


By the time they hit the California state line, they'd added another five verses of their very own to "Plastic Jesus".



Plastic Jesus Lyrics
~George Cromarty and Ed Rush

Well, I don't care if it rains or freezes,
Long as I have my plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
Through all trials and tribulations,
We will travel every nation,
With my plastic Jesus I'll go far.

Plastic Jesus, plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
Through all trials and tribulations,
We will travel every nation,
With my plastic Jesus I'll go far.

I don't care if it rains or freezes
As long as I've got my Plastic Jesus
Glued to the dashboard of my car,
You can buy Him phosphorescent
Glows in the dark, He's Pink and Pleasant,
Take Him with you when you're travelling far


I don't care if it's dark or scary
Long as I have magnetic Mary
Ridin' on the dashboard of my car
I feel I'm protected amply
I've got the whole damn Holy Family
Riding on the dashboard of my car


You can buy a Sweet Madonna
Dressed in rhinestones sitting on a
Pedestal of abalone shell
Goin' ninety, I'm not wary
'Cause I've got my Virgin Mary
Guaranteeing I won't go to Hell



I don't care if it bumps or jostles
Long as I got the Twelve Apostles
Bolted to the dashboard of my car
Don't I have a pious mess
Such a crowd of holiness
Strung across the dashboard of my car


No, I don't care if it rains or freezes
Long as I have my plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
But I think he'll have to go
His magnet ruins my radio
And if we have a wreck he'll leave a scar


Riding through the thoroughfare
With his nose up in the air
A wreck may be ahead, but he don't mind
Trouble coming, he don't see
He just keeps his eyes on me
And any other thing that lies behind

Plastic Jesus, Plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
Though the sun shines on his back
Makes him peel, chip, and crack
A little patching keeps him up to par

When pedestrians try to cross
I let them know who's boss
I never blow my horn or give them warning
I ride all over town
Trying to run them down
And it's seldom that they live to see the morning

Plastic Jesus, Plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
His halo fits just right
And I use it as a sight
And they'll scatter or they'll splatter near and far


When I'm in a traffic jam
He don't care if I say Damn
I can let all sorts of curses roll
Plastic Jesus doesn't hear
For he has a plastic ear
The man who invented plastic saved my soul

Plastic Jesus, Plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
Once his robe was snowy white
Now it isn't quite so bright
Stained by the smoke of my cigar

God made Christ a Holy Jew
God made Him a Christian too
Paradoxes populate my car
Joseph beams with a feigned elan
From the shaggy dash of my fur-lined van
Famous cuckold in the master plan

Naughty Mary, smug and smiling
Jesus dainty and beguiling
Knee-deep in the piling of my van
His message clear by night or day
My phosphorescent plastic Gay
Simpering from the dashboard of my van

When I'm goin' fornicatin
I got my ceramic Satan
Sinnin' on the dashboard of my Winnebago Motor Home
The women know I'm on the level
Thanks to the wild-eyed stoneware devil
Ridin' on the dashboard of my Winnebago Motor Home
Sneerin' from the dashboard of my Winnebago Motor Home
Leering from the dashboard of my van

If I weave around at night
And the police think I'm tight
They'll never find my bottle, though they ask
Plastic Jesus shelters me
For His head comes off, you see
He's hollow, and I use Him for a flask

Plastic Jesus, plastic Jesus
Riding on the dashboard of my car
Ride with me and have a dram
Of the blood of the Lamb
Plastic Jesus is a holy bar


Honey and the Moon Lyrics
~Joseph Arthur

Don't know why I'm still afraid
If you weren't real I would make you up
I wish that I could follow through
I know that your love is true
And deep
As the sea
But right now
Everything you want is wrong,
And right now
All your dreams are waking up,
And right now
I wish I could follow you
To the shores
Of freedom,
Where no one lives.

Remember when we first met
And everything was still a bet
In love's game
You would call; I'd call you back
And then I'd leave
A message
On your answering machine

But right now
Everything is turning blue,
And right now
The sun is trying to kill the moon,
And right now
I wish I could follow you
To the shores
Of freedom,
Where no one lives

Run away tonight
Freedom, freedom
Run away
Run away tonight

We're made out of blood and rust
Looking for someone to trust
A fight
I think that you came too soon
You're the honey and the moon
That lights
Up my night

But right now
Everything you want is wrong,
And right now
All your dreams are waking up,
And right now
I wish that I could follow you
To the shores
Of freedom
Where no one lives

Run away tonight
Freedom freedom
Run away
Run away tonight

We got too much time to kill
Like pigeons on my windowsill
We hang around

Ever since I've been with you
You hold me up
All the time I've falling down

But right now
Everything is turning blue,
And right now
The sun is trying to kill the moon,
And right now
I wish I could follow you
To the shores
Of freedom
Where no one lives


Notes: The Lydia Carver story is true as far as it goes. And the Inn by the Sea really exists. The Freeport Museum also exists but I've never been there, so much of the description is based on other similar historical society setups across the country. However, as much as I would like to go to Maine to vacation, I didn't verify anything in this story and further than Google.


Comments or feedback? Drop me a line at maygra @ or leave me a comment in my livejournal.