SPN FIC - Scratch and Win
Hey! Tomorrow's
patita_fea 's birthday! *blows party horn* *twirls*
Duckie, I offer you this lil' gift in thanks for your presence around these parts. Hope your day is full of Teh Awesome, because you deserve it!
Thompson Lake, 2016: Dean and 9-year-old Liz stop at a convenience store for milk -- and Liz asks her dad to buy her something that brings back some uncomfortable memories.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Lizzie
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1569 words
SCRATCH AND WIN
By Carol Davis
Toting the gallon of milk Morgan asked him to bring home, Dean goes up to the checkout counter to find Lizzie doing that familiar I want you to buy me something shuffle. Head tilted down so she's looking up through her lashes, hands clasped behind her back, the toe of one sneaker scuffing the floor. Some candy, he thinks, or a magazine - one of those teen things, maybe, although she's too young to think about boys and that's all those things are, pictures of boy singers and boy actors and boy who-the-hell-knows-what-they-are.
"What?" he says when he reaches the counter.
She grins at him - well, sort of at him, because she's looking past him, at a display of snack-sized potato chips.
"You want something?" he presses.
She shrugs. Lifts her shoulders way up and drops them.
"Dude. We're gonna be outta here in about ten seconds." He'd say Shit or get off the pot, like he would with Sam, like he's been saying for his whole life, for crying out loud, but Morgan overheard him say it once and he didn't hear the end of it for two freaking days. Morgan's not here, but some days he thinks she's got spies everywhere, so he goes for the G-rated option. "Fish or cut bait, will ya?"
One hand slides out from behind her back and comes to rest on the countertop, small, pink-polished index finger pointing.
"Dude," Dean says.
Scratch-off tickets. There's a whole colorful row of scratch-off tickets. That's what she wants.
Yeah, it's the kind of thing that would appeal to a kid, with all the different themes and the colors and the idea that you can win a whole truckload of money. To, you know, buy big piles of five-dollar magazines full of pictures of grinning, girly-looking boys. Or nail polish. Or little frilly clothes.
He has a sudden acid flashback of Dad telling Sammy NO, Sam in about eighty thousand different stores, and shudders. No generally turns on the quivering-chin, snuffling-nose routine. And then the waterworks.
This parenting thing can present some serious problems. He gets that now.
If there's anything he can give wild and fervent thanks for, it's that the guy behind the desk isn't some zit-faced teenager; he's an older guy, in his 40s maybe, and chances are he's got kids of his own. He's not saying word one to encourage the sale of those tickets. With a nod he hopes conveys a ridiculous amount of gratitude to the guy, Dean sets the gallon of milk on the counter and fishes for his wallet.
"Grandpa buys 'em," Lizzie says.
That would be the opening argument, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
"Uh-huh," Dean replies.
"One time, he won eight hundred dollars."
"He did, huh?"
"And one time, he bought me one, with the penguins, and I won twenty dollars."
"Awesome."
But here's the thing. The last time Dean bought scratch-off tickets, he and Sam won upwards of fifty grand, thanks to the influence of a magical rabbit's foot. Never got to collect a dime of it, because the tickets got stolen.
By…her.
Bela.
For seven years he's tried his level best never to think of Bela Talbot. Of what happened to her. Of why what happened to her, happened to her.
"Honey -" he says to Liz.
Bela was a kid, see, when she made that deal. Not much older than this kid right here. Yes, in her delightful later years she turned into a thieving, lying, smartassed bitch, and right up until Dean had that encounter with Rufus Turner where he found out who Bela Talbot really was, he would have cheerfully thrown her in front of a bus.
But she was…
And now she's…
He doesn't remember Hell, not much of it anyway, but he knows he was there and he definitely knows it was bad with a capital B-A-D. Not something you'd wish on anybody, not really, not in any way other than the way people usually do it.
He knows just enough to know he wouldn't wish Hell on his worst enemy.
He wouldn't.
Because he's…
"Dad?" Lizzie says with a funny catch in her voice. When he turns to look at her she's frowning, and so is the guy behind the counter. "Are you okay?" Liz says, and cocks her head.
"Yeah," he replies. "I'm good."
"You don't look like you're good."
Righteous floats through his mind, and he's not sure why.
The guy behind the counter looks like he's got no clue what's going on here, but he's sure he doesn't want it going on in his store. Figures it'll result in some kind of mess he'll need to clean up, probably. To move things along, the guy announces the price of the milk and offers Dean a big, phony, Thanks for your patronage kind of apeshitty grin.
Dean hasn't bought a scratchoff ticket since Bela stole that winning batch. Because the rate of return is beyond lousy, he tells himself. Because he's not a gambler - not that kind of gambling, anyway. It's just a waste of money. No way he's ever gonna win fifty grand again, not without the help of some dark magic, and he wouldn't be able to collect it even if he did. He's kinda got no legal identity any more, and winnings like that need to be reported to the IRS.
There's a row of little teddy bears in front of the plastic lottery ticket display, cute little guys with white t-shirts that say ADIRONDACKS, NY in red letters. They're $4.95, which is a damn ripoff, but Dean gestures at them and raises a brow for Liz's benefit.
"No," she says. "That's okay."
She stands silent as the guy behind the counter takes Dean's money and counts out his change. "Come again," he says. "Enjoy your day."
The milk's heavy, and cold.
Liz beats Dean to the double doors, pushes one open and holds it aside so he can leave the store. She's still quiet, in that way kids get when grownups are arguing. When they don't understand something but they're pretty sure they don't want to know the answer. She trots ahead, again, and stands waiting for him alongside the car, smiling brightly, her uncertainty wiped away or at least tucked out of sight - his own little ray of sunshine.
"I love you, Dad," she offers.
That stops him in his tracks, midway between the double doors and the Impala, and he stands there holding his gallon of milk, his gaze not really focused on anything, half a dozen different thoughts bumping up against each other inside his head.
Gonna rain, he thinks. Gonna…
She might have stolen his lottery tickets, might have collected that fifty grand all for herself, and was probably as smug as all-get-out when she did it. But her luck had changed by then; they'd burned the rabbit's foot, so maybe something went south and she didn't get the money after all. Maybe he and Sam never would've gotten it, either.
But, you know? Either way? He won.
She stole his damn tickets, but he won. He's here, holding a big cold plastic jug of milk, looking across a Stewart's parking lot at his kid. His kid who said she loves him. He's got no frigging idea whether he's righteous or not, or whether he deserved in even the smallest way what he ended up getting - but in the big, ticket-less cosmic lottery?
He WON.
Trying his best to smile in a way that doesn't make him look like an escaped lunatic, he walks the rest of the way to the car, sets the jug of milk on the hood, and gathers his kid into his arms. Holds her as close as he can without squooshing her - okay, he'll do a little bit of squooshing, just a little - and strokes her soft, wavy hair with the palm of one hand.
"Love you too," he says, and bends down to press a kiss to her warm cheek. After a moment, he asks, "You want one of those things? Those tickets?"
Liz tips her head back and peers up at him.
She smiles, and God, it's like looking into the sun.
"No," she says. "That's okay." Then she adds, "We oughta go home. The milk's gonna get all warm."
So they take their accustomed seats in the Impala, Liz looking hilariously tiny riding shotgun.
"Last chance," Dean offers.
She takes a long, long look at him.
"No," she says. "I'm good."
He frigging WON. He won this lottery, after all those years of thinking the universe just wanted to shit on him.
For a long moment, as he slides the key into the ignition and fires up the engine, his heart breaks for that other little girl - the one who grew up to roll around naked in money.
She never won a damn thing, he thinks.
Maybe she knew that.
Either way, all he can do for her now is try to be worthy of what he's got. He suspects that's a long, uphill battle - but he's got help.
Sitting there, riding shotgun, looking crazy small in the indentation molded into that seat by Sam's gigantic butt, but very capable. Looking strong and assured and capable for all that she's nine years old.
"Home?" he says, grateful when his voice doesn't catch.
"Yeah," his daughter beams. "Let's go home."
* * * * *
patita_fea 's birthday! *blows party horn* *twirls*
Duckie, I offer you this lil' gift in thanks for your presence around these parts. Hope your day is full of Teh Awesome, because you deserve it!
Thompson Lake, 2016: Dean and 9-year-old Liz stop at a convenience store for milk -- and Liz asks her dad to buy her something that brings back some uncomfortable memories.
CHARACTERS: Dean and Lizzie
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1569 words
SCRATCH AND WIN
By Carol Davis
Toting the gallon of milk Morgan asked him to bring home, Dean goes up to the checkout counter to find Lizzie doing that familiar I want you to buy me something shuffle. Head tilted down so she's looking up through her lashes, hands clasped behind her back, the toe of one sneaker scuffing the floor. Some candy, he thinks, or a magazine - one of those teen things, maybe, although she's too young to think about boys and that's all those things are, pictures of boy singers and boy actors and boy who-the-hell-knows-what-they-are.
"What?" he says when he reaches the counter.
She grins at him - well, sort of at him, because she's looking past him, at a display of snack-sized potato chips.
"You want something?" he presses.
She shrugs. Lifts her shoulders way up and drops them.
"Dude. We're gonna be outta here in about ten seconds." He'd say Shit or get off the pot, like he would with Sam, like he's been saying for his whole life, for crying out loud, but Morgan overheard him say it once and he didn't hear the end of it for two freaking days. Morgan's not here, but some days he thinks she's got spies everywhere, so he goes for the G-rated option. "Fish or cut bait, will ya?"
One hand slides out from behind her back and comes to rest on the countertop, small, pink-polished index finger pointing.
"Dude," Dean says.
Scratch-off tickets. There's a whole colorful row of scratch-off tickets. That's what she wants.
Yeah, it's the kind of thing that would appeal to a kid, with all the different themes and the colors and the idea that you can win a whole truckload of money. To, you know, buy big piles of five-dollar magazines full of pictures of grinning, girly-looking boys. Or nail polish. Or little frilly clothes.
He has a sudden acid flashback of Dad telling Sammy NO, Sam in about eighty thousand different stores, and shudders. No generally turns on the quivering-chin, snuffling-nose routine. And then the waterworks.
This parenting thing can present some serious problems. He gets that now.
If there's anything he can give wild and fervent thanks for, it's that the guy behind the desk isn't some zit-faced teenager; he's an older guy, in his 40s maybe, and chances are he's got kids of his own. He's not saying word one to encourage the sale of those tickets. With a nod he hopes conveys a ridiculous amount of gratitude to the guy, Dean sets the gallon of milk on the counter and fishes for his wallet.
"Grandpa buys 'em," Lizzie says.
That would be the opening argument, ladies and gentlemen of the jury.
"Uh-huh," Dean replies.
"One time, he won eight hundred dollars."
"He did, huh?"
"And one time, he bought me one, with the penguins, and I won twenty dollars."
"Awesome."
But here's the thing. The last time Dean bought scratch-off tickets, he and Sam won upwards of fifty grand, thanks to the influence of a magical rabbit's foot. Never got to collect a dime of it, because the tickets got stolen.
By…her.
Bela.
For seven years he's tried his level best never to think of Bela Talbot. Of what happened to her. Of why what happened to her, happened to her.
"Honey -" he says to Liz.
Bela was a kid, see, when she made that deal. Not much older than this kid right here. Yes, in her delightful later years she turned into a thieving, lying, smartassed bitch, and right up until Dean had that encounter with Rufus Turner where he found out who Bela Talbot really was, he would have cheerfully thrown her in front of a bus.
But she was…
And now she's…
He doesn't remember Hell, not much of it anyway, but he knows he was there and he definitely knows it was bad with a capital B-A-D. Not something you'd wish on anybody, not really, not in any way other than the way people usually do it.
He knows just enough to know he wouldn't wish Hell on his worst enemy.
He wouldn't.
Because he's…
"Dad?" Lizzie says with a funny catch in her voice. When he turns to look at her she's frowning, and so is the guy behind the counter. "Are you okay?" Liz says, and cocks her head.
"Yeah," he replies. "I'm good."
"You don't look like you're good."
Righteous floats through his mind, and he's not sure why.
The guy behind the counter looks like he's got no clue what's going on here, but he's sure he doesn't want it going on in his store. Figures it'll result in some kind of mess he'll need to clean up, probably. To move things along, the guy announces the price of the milk and offers Dean a big, phony, Thanks for your patronage kind of apeshitty grin.
Dean hasn't bought a scratchoff ticket since Bela stole that winning batch. Because the rate of return is beyond lousy, he tells himself. Because he's not a gambler - not that kind of gambling, anyway. It's just a waste of money. No way he's ever gonna win fifty grand again, not without the help of some dark magic, and he wouldn't be able to collect it even if he did. He's kinda got no legal identity any more, and winnings like that need to be reported to the IRS.
There's a row of little teddy bears in front of the plastic lottery ticket display, cute little guys with white t-shirts that say ADIRONDACKS, NY in red letters. They're $4.95, which is a damn ripoff, but Dean gestures at them and raises a brow for Liz's benefit.
"No," she says. "That's okay."
She stands silent as the guy behind the counter takes Dean's money and counts out his change. "Come again," he says. "Enjoy your day."
The milk's heavy, and cold.
Liz beats Dean to the double doors, pushes one open and holds it aside so he can leave the store. She's still quiet, in that way kids get when grownups are arguing. When they don't understand something but they're pretty sure they don't want to know the answer. She trots ahead, again, and stands waiting for him alongside the car, smiling brightly, her uncertainty wiped away or at least tucked out of sight - his own little ray of sunshine.
"I love you, Dad," she offers.
That stops him in his tracks, midway between the double doors and the Impala, and he stands there holding his gallon of milk, his gaze not really focused on anything, half a dozen different thoughts bumping up against each other inside his head.
Gonna rain, he thinks. Gonna…
She might have stolen his lottery tickets, might have collected that fifty grand all for herself, and was probably as smug as all-get-out when she did it. But her luck had changed by then; they'd burned the rabbit's foot, so maybe something went south and she didn't get the money after all. Maybe he and Sam never would've gotten it, either.
But, you know? Either way? He won.
She stole his damn tickets, but he won. He's here, holding a big cold plastic jug of milk, looking across a Stewart's parking lot at his kid. His kid who said she loves him. He's got no frigging idea whether he's righteous or not, or whether he deserved in even the smallest way what he ended up getting - but in the big, ticket-less cosmic lottery?
He WON.
Trying his best to smile in a way that doesn't make him look like an escaped lunatic, he walks the rest of the way to the car, sets the jug of milk on the hood, and gathers his kid into his arms. Holds her as close as he can without squooshing her - okay, he'll do a little bit of squooshing, just a little - and strokes her soft, wavy hair with the palm of one hand.
"Love you too," he says, and bends down to press a kiss to her warm cheek. After a moment, he asks, "You want one of those things? Those tickets?"
Liz tips her head back and peers up at him.
She smiles, and God, it's like looking into the sun.
"No," she says. "That's okay." Then she adds, "We oughta go home. The milk's gonna get all warm."
So they take their accustomed seats in the Impala, Liz looking hilariously tiny riding shotgun.
"Last chance," Dean offers.
She takes a long, long look at him.
"No," she says. "I'm good."
He frigging WON. He won this lottery, after all those years of thinking the universe just wanted to shit on him.
For a long moment, as he slides the key into the ignition and fires up the engine, his heart breaks for that other little girl - the one who grew up to roll around naked in money.
She never won a damn thing, he thinks.
Maybe she knew that.
Either way, all he can do for her now is try to be worthy of what he's got. He suspects that's a long, uphill battle - but he's got help.
Sitting there, riding shotgun, looking crazy small in the indentation molded into that seat by Sam's gigantic butt, but very capable. Looking strong and assured and capable for all that she's nine years old.
"Home?" he says, grateful when his voice doesn't catch.
"Yeah," his daughter beams. "Let's go home."
* * * * *