Season 1, Episode 8: Gardening At Night

Season 1, Episode 8: Gardening At Night

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It was a quiet winter evening in the A-frame. Missouri, John, and Bobby were having coffee in the living room.

None of the hunters had bothered to light the fireplace. Ellen would have had a cheery blaze going if she'd been at home, but she was out visiting Pastor Jim Murphy.

Still, the house was cozy. Missouri had put one of the vintage records on the turntable, and the music played softly in the background. It was a peaceful scene, except for Bobby Singer's pacing.

"Damn kid conned me," he grumbled.

"Give it a rest, Bobby," John said.

"I just can't get over how Caleb played me for a fool. I've known that boy for years."

It wasn't just the sting of being outwitted by the younger man, John knew. Bobby was genuinely hurt that Caleb hadn't trusted him enough to tell him the truth.

"I understand why Caleb lied, Bobby. If a hunter really wants out of the life, the only sure way is to cut off all ties. Caleb died bloody," John reminded Bobby.

As if any of them needed reminding, he thought wryly. They'd all died bloody, unsurprising in their line of work. And that, he thought, was the point Bobby needed to understand.

"Whoever or whatever brought us here, we're in the closest thing to heaven I can imagine. You can't blame Caleb for wanting a shot at living a normal life, something better than what he got his first time around."

"From what Ellen told me, Caleb and the others didn't do it maliciously," Missouri spoke up as Bobby resumed his pacing. "I agree with John. They just wanted out. Can you really blame them?"

Bobby scoffed.

Bobby might have had more to say on the subject, but John got up abruptly. Setting his coffee aside on the mantle, he said, "That's not the album you were playing, Missouri."

She tilted her head, focusing on the music. "No, doesn't sound like it."

"'Someday Soon'," John said, reaching for an album sleeve that seemed to have simply appeared on the floor by the record cabinet.

"That was Mary's favorite song." John gripped the album cover in large hands, and his voice became urgent. "You said the phonograph plays on its own sometimes, before another hunter arrives, didn't you? It played 'Hair Of The Dog' for me. It could be playing 'Someday Soon' for Mary."

"Well, yeah, but that's just it, nobody but hunters have ever come through, least not that we know of. And your wife wasn't a hunter, right?" Bobby prompted.

"No, she wasn't, but why else would her favorite song be playing?" John demanded, stubborn. He was half afraid to even dream of being reunited with Mary after so long, but arguing with Bobby Singer was an entrenched habit.

"I dunno, John, but Judy Collins was real popular in her day. It might well be some other hunter's song." Bobby was usually just as eager to get into an argument with John, but on this topic he was hesitant. Hell, he could empathize. What he wouldn't give to have his own wife back. But Bobby also knew the pain of that particular dashed dream all too well.

"I just don't want you to get your hopes up too high, is all I'm sayin'."

Missouri stood and laid a reassuring hand on John's arm.

"We've been calling this place 'Hunter's Heaven', but it seems to me like that's just incidental. It's really meant to be Dean's heaven. After all, it's his name on the deed," she said. "I can't imagine it being much of a heaven for your boy, without his mama here too. Don't give up hope, John!"

"

Just then the doorbell rang with the timing of a television sitcom. John sank into a chair as the record player went silent, feeling overwhelmed. Were he and Mary really going to be together again, or was this supposed clue just a random coincidence? There wasn't enough evidence either way to know, John decided. Not yet. He dragged his attention to the front door.

"I brought cookies!"

"Morgan, so good to see you, honey. Here, let me take your coat," Missouri said warmly.

"And let me take those cookies for you!" Bobby chuckled as he took the plate.

"I baked them myself, Bobby!" Morgan said. "The chocolate is fair trade, of course."

"Of course!" Bobby agreed with another chuckle.

He sounded almost... Giddy, John decided after a moment of mental searching. It wasn't a word he thought he'd ever associate with Bobby Singer.

"Aw, Missouri, I've missed you," Morgan said as the hunter pulled her into a motherly embrace. "I hope you'll be staying for a while."

"Missed you, too, kiddo. I'm so glad you dropped by."

"You trust this woman? Are you sure she's even human?" John confronted Bobby in a whisper as the women stood talking, apparently catching up on each individual second of their time apart. Or that's how it seemed to John, although he did note with relief that Missouri was sticking to their 'just normal suburban folks' story.

"She's the next-door neighbor. Gamble Acres is a close-knit little community, John. It's not like we can ignore her, not if we want to fit in," Bobby whispered back. "And yeah, we made sure she was human. We're not idjits! Silver, holy water, salt... Hell, Ellen had a long talk with her about religion. The girl never flinched once, and Ellen said she must've said 'Christo' to her half a dozen times. Morgan's a Wiccan, by the way," he added, sotto voce, "so don't go losin' your mind if she tells ya she's a witch. She's harmless."

Bobby chuckled again. John hadn't seen him this relaxed in... Well, never, he thought. The closest he could remember to Bobby being in this good a mood was back when Sam was just a toddler.

"Damn good cook, too," he added, happily munching a cookie.

"...Coconut oil, and of course, no processed sugar," Morgan was nattering as she and Missouri settled on the sofa.

John wondered sourly what magical ingredients she'd put in her damn cookies to make two jaded, battle-weary monster hunters behave like suburban housewives at a wine-lubricated Tupperware party.

"John, this is our next-door neighbor, Morgan Magenta. Morgan, meet John Winchester, a dear friend who's sort of the patriarch of our little family."

"Hello, John!" Morgan chirped.

"Uh-huh." John limited his response to a grunt.

At last the visit came to an end. John stood as Morgan approached him, forcing the petite woman to look up to meet his eyes.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, John." She chuckled, an earthy, seductive sound. "Now I know who to call if I need a big, strong man around the house," she said, reaching to give his bicep a playful squeeze.

John brushed her off, a swift, reflexive motion, teeth gritted at the restraint it took him not to knock her hand aside with a block rough enough to break her wrist. It was an over-reaction, he knew, but somehow this woman's presence in the A-frame felt hellishly wrong. As if her being here was an affront to his late wife's memory, John thought, though he wasn't sure it was rational to blame Morgan for the unfortunate timing of her visit. But she'd come barging in just moments after the place had kindled hope of seeing Mary again, setting off every mental alarm bell.

"Don't touch me," he barked. Irrational or not, he wasn't about to hide his dislike of their little 'Wiccan' neighbor.

Bobby Singer did some barking of his own once Morgan Magenta had taken her leave of the A-frame.

"Ellen, Missouri, and I can all vouch for Morgan," Bobby told John. "This ain't Earth, and it sure as hell ain't Hell. You better wrap your sick, stubborn, paranoid mind around the idea that we've been given a second chance here. It may not be Heaven, but it's a damn sight better than anything any of us had in life. You were outta line, treatin' Morgan like an enemy. She's a friend."

John scowled at the lecture. He wasn't about to apologize. "Yeah? Well, I'm not used to having friends."

"Gee, I wonder why!" Bobby reacted with typical sarcasm.

He'd take the sarcasm, John thought, suppressing the urge to smirk. Better that than Bobby acting like a love-sick teenager.

Later that night, after the others had gone to bed, John roamed the house, hoping the place would drop more clues. As a hunter, he knew he should follow Bobby's advice: don't get his hopes up. But as a husband, oh, how he wanted to believe in the hope the crazy old house held out.

Pacing through the living room, John saw a jacket slung over the back of a chair. Had Ellen dropped it here, or could it be Mary's? He didn't think it was Ellen's. Didn't Mary have a jacket like this, back when they were dating? He hadn't been a hunter back then. Hyper-vigilance hadn't honed his memory and skills of observation. Damn it! He just couldn't remember. His hopes were clouding his perceptions. He threw the jacket back on the chair.

On another pass through the room, he found a pistol. Now, that definitely hadn't been there before. John laughed out loud, a manic bark devoid of humor. The house had dropped a red herring! Mary had never so much as touched a gun in her life!

Or, he thought when the surge of adrenalin had worn off, he'd been so focused on Mary, he'd ignored a weapon that had been there all along.

Ugh, John thought, I need a stiff drink. This is making me crazy.

Many stiff drinks later, John wandered outside. Maybe the fresh, cold air would help clear his mind. Can't sleep, he thought, resigned, and can't drink any more. He didn't want to be passed out if Mary really did make it through to 'Hunter's Heaven.'

The house next door caught John's attention. Like all the others in the subdivision, it was an A-frame, nearly identical to this one, but in John's mind the house now seemed sinister. There were no lights on inside or out. May as well take a look around, John thought.

He squeezed through a gap in the fencing, mindless of the cold that raised goosebumps all along his bare forearms.

John started to cross the back yard with purpose, but after only a few strides he stopped, astounded. Behind him it was winter, trees bare, snow drifted on the ground. In front of him, it was high summer, flowers in full bloom, the grass a rich, dark green, thick and cushioned under his feet.

This lush landscape hadn't been visible from the other side of the fence. John felt a surge of satisfaction. His instincts had been correct. Morgan Magenta was no ordinary human being.

"Sneaking into my garden under cover of darkness? Why John, how bold of you!"

Her voice, warm as the summer air, startled John, and he mentally cursed himself. Kneeling beside a flower bed in the darkness, she was effectively camouflaged.

"What kind of magic is this?" John demanded. "Illusion?" It had to be, he thought. "It's the dead of winter. This garden can't be real."

Morgan stood up. "I won't be coy about it. I'm a very talented gardener," she said with her dark, earthy chuckle.

"Turning winter into summer, that's some talent," he scoffed, laying the sarcasm on thick. "I know what you are. You're a witch."

"Ah, yes, but I am a good witch." She'd turned on a dime, joking and flirty to serious, and it threw John off balance.

He was drunk, he realized belatedly...Or spellbound. He pulled his attention back to Morgan with an effort. She'd moved in close. Too close, but he didn't pull away. He wanted this. No, he was starved for this. A hundred years in Hell, enduring every imaginable form of torture. Hell, he was pretty sure he'd endured some things the human mind couldn't even comprehend. Now, this stranger standing so close promised pleasure, not pain. It wasn't even sexual, John rationalized. He just wanted--no, needed--to feel something that didn't hurt like Hell.

"You're an intelligent man, John, so I won't engage in subterfuge. I'm not an enemy, not at all. In fact, I want to be a friend." She slid her arms around him. "I can tell you're troubled. I can help, if you'll let me."

It took everything he had in him, and more, but John managed to pull away. He felt anger rise at the witch's manipulation, and let himself ride that wave to tower over her.

"I told you once before: don't touch me. I won't warn you again."

Morgan sank to the ground, but with casual ease, not intimidated the slightest bit.

"I allow you entry into this lovely garden and you rebuff me? I offer you solace and you respond with threats? You are not welcome in my presence any longer." Her voice was soft, but it held the same bite of command as a drill sergeant's when she told him, "Leave me."

You don't have to tell me twice. Witch. John meant it as an insult, but he didn't say it out loud. He was in no condition for...Well, anything. Damn it, he'd been a fool to come here. He had to consider himself lucky the witch was letting him walk away.

Twenty minutes later, John didn't feel so lucky. Lovely garden? A jungle is more like it, he thought. Reminds me of 'Nam.

Half an hour after that, he realized he'd been walking in circles.

It took another hour, maybe more, for John to give in and admit he needed help. He fumbled for his cell phone.

...And it's dead.

John indulged himself in venting his frustration for a moment.

"Morgan, you bitch!"

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