Comment fic: Rusty Chevrolet pt. 1
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“This is what I hustled my way through half of Kentucky for?”
The girl on the far side of the low shelves peers at him and he smiles, aiming for reassuring and missing by a mile, judging by the way she pales a little and heads not-quite-nonchalantly for the door. Shrugging, Dean turns back to the rows of decorations lined up before him, eying the price tags with a dull, weary resignation. Scanning the packs of glittering baubles and pearlescent, glass snowflakes he works his way along the shelves, trying to imagine them hanging the gewgaws on a thick, tall pine.
Makes a change from a beer-can wreath, I guess, he muses, crouches with a wince as something on the bottom shelf catches his eye.
“It's been a popular line this year.”
The voice above him doesn't quite make him jump, he caught sight of the shadow approaching him, felt the weight of the sales girl's attention before she spoke, instincts still spiking a thin edge of adrenaline. He can't help but feel cornered as he looks up at her, wants to stand but can't stomach the flicker of pity he knows will cross her face as he struggles with his bad leg.
“I can tell,” is all he says, tilting the empty box that's all that's left on the shelf at her. The hollow space behind the clear window is what snagged his attention, standing out when the rest of the display is all gaudy color and sparkling glitter.
“I think there's one left in the window, if you'd like? I'm not sure what state it's in though. A little brat got into the display yesterday, just about wrecked it before we could get him out.”
Dean's brows climb at the uncharacteristic bite in her tone and she blushes, shrugs one shoulder.
“Long day. Would you like to take a look at the one from the display? I might be able to drop the price a little.”
“Sure,” he answers and she heads for the front of the store, leaving him to lever himself to his feet with another grimace as his thigh cramps. It fades quickly as he follows her, getting to the window just as she grabs a bedraggled looking fairy from the top of the tree.
“Sorry,” she says, holding it out to him. “It really is kinda mangled.”
Dean takes it, has to grin as he takes in the ripped and torn dress, the crooked wings and the painted smile that looks more like a leer.
“You know what? It's perfect,” he looks up, meets her surprised stare. “It's for my brother, so, you know. Mad fairy. Perfect.”
“Alright,. I'll bag it up for you. That for your brother as well?” and she points at the basket in his hand. His smile widens as he hands over the stuffed bear and she lifts it, waggles it to make the bunny ears flop, flicks the fluffy tail and the jet black bowtie and the white satin cuffs.
“Yeah.”
“Okaaay,” and she casts a bemused glance at him as she heads for the checkout.
Pretty soon he's forging his way out of the store with a bulging bag in one hand, stuffing her phone number into his pocket with the other. The space around him is crammed with people, screaming children and frantic parents, sulking teenagers and a few solitary, bemused figures pushing against the raucous, heaving tide of elf-hats and reindeer antlers. Idly, he scans the crowd as he edges through them, calculating trajectories, rate of flow, decides that if they made a stand against the wide, faux-marble pillar on one side of the gallery, they might be able to hold out long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
Sighing, Dean juggles the already crushed bag from one hand to the other, his trigger finger itching for the feel of cold metal. Yeah, 'cause shooting a mall full've crazy civillians'd go down real well, he thinks, determinedly ignoring his own 'retirement'.
'Can't be a hunter if there's nothing left to hunt, boy,' Bobby had growled at him, three months after the final battle and finally, after almost a year of canvassing the country, criss-crossing from state to state, searching for a demon or a vampire of even just a mildly annoyed restless spirit, he'd admitted defeat and hung up his shotguns behind the mechanic's back door.
They'd won the war, paid the price for their victory and now the Winchesters are as civilian as the next man. Mostly. They don't hunt, but the small cabin they inherited is layered with wards and sigils, salt and iron sealed in grooves above and below every door and window and every room is stocked with at least three concealed weapons, some - like the antique, ornate and exquisitely sharp battleaxe hanging above the smoky fireplace - hidden in plain sight, others stashed behind wardrobes or holstered beneath tables.
With a quick grin, Dean pictures his brother's face if Sam finds the pistol he plans on tucking into the branches of the Christmas tree the younger man's been tasked with getting today. Smile turning wicked, he digs into his jacket pocket, still scanning the horde of people tramping past him, arms weighed down with bulging carriers. One woman, three young girls in tow catches his eye, and his brows climb when she lets her gaze slide down and up again, meeting his stare with a lascivious leer. Unconsciously, Dean pushes back into the wall, watches her warily as she's swept away in the tide, the girls bickering around her, voices piercing the muted roar as they squabble.
Huffing out a bemused chuckle, Dean hits speed dial, listens to the warbling trill, squinting curiously at the bright red reindeer antlers bobbing toward him through the crowd.
“Dean?”
“Dude, this place is nuts.”
Sam chuckles and Dean can hear the distant sound of chainsaws behind his brother. “You still at the tree place?”
“Yeah. Man, you wouldn't believe what they're charging over here. Remember that mountain up in Washington State? With the black dog?”
He does, flashing back a decade or more, to air so cold he thought his breath might freeze solid in his throat, snow hip deep pristine beneath the wide, tall trees that clawed at the clear sky and the way the hounds' blood had been the only warm thing he'd known as he'd dug his way out from beneath its carcass. He nods before belatedly remembering Sam can't see him but the younger man goes on anyway.
“We should head up there, bring down a couple dozen trees, we'd make a killing.”
“I'm gonna make a killing in a minute,” Dean mutters, almost unthinkingly, hears Sam laugh again and grimaces as he ducks to avoid the small child riding on a tall man's shoulders, the kid waving a tube of bright red wrapping paper like a blood-drenched sword. “Jesus. How'd I end up with this gig, anyway?”
“Always with the scissors, Dean.”
Rolling his eyes, Dean shifts, reaching down to rub at the dull ache in his right leg. “One friggin' day, man, swear to god.” He grins again, thinking about the stuffed toy in the bag. “You got a tree picked out yet? 'Cause I got some awesome stuff to stick underneath it.”
Sam pauses and Dean can almost hear him fidgeting.
“Nah. I, uh... I wanna make sure we get the best one.”
That we can afford. It's unsaid, but Dean knows his brother's wallet is almost as empty as his own. They're civilians now, living a normal, civilian life, which comes with jobs and taxes and no more credit card fraud. Sometimes, when he sees the distant, haunted look on his brother's face, he figures it's probably worth it, but it's taken some getting used to. Especially when Sam just wants to celebrate the holidays, the first time they've really been free to - no ghosts, no monsters, no deals hanging over their heads or angels and demons wrangling for their meat suits.
No struggling to put themselves back together again, after the fallout from the end of the war.
“Yeah. I know,” he replies quietly, gaze roving listlessly over the busy throng. He barely sees them as he rambles into the phone, “Hey, man, this gig ain't so bad. I mean, you should see the elves, dude, Santa's one lucky sonofabitch and they were givin' out free gluehwein in one store, that stuff was alright.” His stare skips past the man desperately trying to hide the Victoria's Secrets bag from his wife, the young kid huddled against the wall of the gallery overlooking the two story atrium and the pandemonium on the first floor, the middle-aged couple trying to decide between the diamond or ruby studded collar and leash for the poodle yapping at their ankles in the store beside him. “You gonna make your eggnog again? You should make your eggnog again.”
“You know the elves are probably jailbait, don't - ”
Sam's voice in his ear snaps out, drowned in a rush of static as his head whips back in a double-take so sudden his neck crackles and pops. The kid over by the low glass wall meets his eyes through long, dirty blonde bangs, his lower lip just beginning to tremble and Dean swears to himself, snaps “I'll call you back,” into his phone and stuffs it into his pocket as he sets off across the river of people. Angry mutters follow him as he employs elbows and shoulders, his grumbled apologies lost beneath the din of shoppers and caterwauling children and Bing Crosby crooning from the tinny speakers.
“Sorry. 'scuse me. Comin' through,” Dean mumbles, forcing his way against the current until he staggers free, tripping and barely catching himself against the glass wall. A few feet away the kid smirks, even with watery eyes and Dean huffs, plays it up a little, exaggerating as he finds his balance and crouches.
“Hey, dude.”
The kid blinks at him.
“You lost?”
A tiny nod, and another wobble of the chin, tears welling up in the kid's eyes and Dean scoots closer. “Hey, hey, it's okay. You got a name, kiddo?”
“Leo.”
It's even smaller than the nod, barely audible over the racket.
“Leo, huh? You here with your mom?”
A shake of the head. “Your Dad?”
“Gramma.”
“Oh, okay. You wanna see if we can find your Gramma then?”
Another shake of the head makes him frown, but before he can say anything else, Leo sidles close enough to whisper into his ear:
“I wanna go home.”
And then he finds himself wrapped up in thin arms, hands clutching desperately at his jacket, wet heat spreading down his neck as the kid clings to him and bawls.
“Hey! Hey, Leo, it's okay kiddo.”
Awkwardly, glancing around, feeling suspicious eyes on him he pats the boy's back, tries unsuccessfully to pry one arm loose.
“I wanna go hoooooome!”
“Hey, come on kid.”
His fingers skim across slick warmth and he freezes, blinks back too many memories of blood on his hands and finally manages to pull the boy off his neck, finding the skinned knees and the long scrape that runs the length of Leo's arm from elbow to wrist.
“Hey, now, what happened? You fall over?”
Leo nods, still trying to burrow into him and Dean gives up, lets the kid bury his face into his shoulder.
“It's okay, hey, you're gonna be fine. He's fine,” he says a little louder, glaring at the crowd that's gathering around them and thinks a quick prayer of thanks in Cas's general direction when they take the hint and move on. Slowly, Leo's sobs wind down into hiccups and in between, Dean coaxes the story out of him - how the kid had tripped and found himself on the ground in the middle of the heaving throng, how he'd crawled until he found his way out to the wall, wandered along it, bruised and shaking and scared until he'd realized he was utterly lost.
When the boy's just sniffling, Dean leans back, ducks his head to meet Leo's red-rimmed, watery eyes.
“You think Gramma'd take you home?”
Shakily, Leo nods, sniffing hard and Dean sighs and ruffles his hair.
“C'mon kiddo. How 'bout we find the information desk? I bet they'll put out an announcement, let Gramma know where you are.”
When the boy bursts into tears again, he's nonplussed and all he can do is pull Leo close again, rocking the boy gently until he sobs out; “I can't remember her name!”
Fighting back a weary smile - Sam was just as clingy, if not quite as noisy when he was Leo's age - Dean hesitates for a moment, then dips into his bags, squashed between his hip and the wall and grips the stuffed bear.
“Hey, Leo. You want an early Christmas present?”
The boy goes from bawling to wide-eyed hope in a second flat and Dean lets the smile play across his face.
“Won't Santa mind?”
He laughs a little at that, shakes his head. “Nah. I reckon the big guy'd say you've earned it.” Leo nods enthusiastically and then his eyes bulge impossibly wider as Dean pulls the bear out of his bag. The kid turns a wondering grin to him when he sees the bunny ears and the fluffy tail, the black bowtie and the satin cuffs and the hunter winces at the incredulous glee. He'd figured the kid would be too young to recognize the iconic 'outfit', but Leo's giggling like Dean's just cussed in front of a class full of kindergarteners and just when he thinks it can't get any worse, it does.
“What on earth are you doing with my grandson?!”
It's cut-glass Brit and it snaps right through him, brings his head up so fast his neck creaks loudly this time, and his vision sparks with static for a moment.
“Gramma!”
His heart sinks at the word, shrieked into his ear and he lets Leo launch himself at the figure towering over them.
“I's not what it looks like,” he blurts out, thinking that it couldn't really look much worse - he's just given a young boy a suggestive teddy bear, after all, and scrambles to his feet. “He was lost, I - ”
The tall, white-haired lady is already calling for security so he cuts his losses, grabs his bags and bolts for the door, skin between his shoulders crawling with the feeling of a hundred hostile stares following him. He doesn't relax until he charges into the parking lot underneath the mall, weaving between the parked cars and throwing himself into the Impala. He lets himself take a minute, waiting for his breathing to slow, for the pounding ache in his leg to ease before he heaves a sigh and turns the engine over, reaching for the sunglasses folded on the bench seat beside him. It's a bright enough day that he won't stand out in them and they might just be enough of a disguise. He peels out with a squeal of rubber on the too-smooth asphalt, makes himself cruise past the entrance to the mall even though his heart thuds hard against his ribs when he sees 'Gramma' standing in the doorway, a scowling and concerned security guard next to her.
They don't see him, don't recognize him anyway but tucked behind them both, Leo gives him a wide grin and a quick wave. He can't help but laugh when he sees the bear, clutched tight in the boy's hand and he chuckles all the way to the interstate as he heads for home.
cliky here for pt. 2 (Someone told me once how to put my own text on the link, but I can't for the life of me remember how it went... sry!)
caluk.livejournal.com/23324.html