fic: Day of the Dead (SPN/HP; Dean and Remus; gen)
Day of the Dead
Supernatural/Harry Potter; Dean and Remus; 1,610 words
Dean gets the uneasy feeling he could be looking at himself in twenty years.
All vaznetti's fault.
~*~
Day of the Dead
The door is closed when Dean arrives, the shop locked up tight even though it's only three o'clock in the afternoon, and he knows for a fact it doesn't usually close until almost midnight. He can pick the locks easily enough--the street is crowded with pedestrians but nobody's paying any attention--but he's dealt with the proprietor often enough to know that there's probably something special waiting for anyone who does, and he has no wish to be on the receiving end of it. Some sorcerers are all show--smoke and mirrors and flashing lights to hide their sleight of hand--but this guy is the real deal, quiet and unassuming and powerful in ways Dean tries not to think about.
He cups his hands against the grimy glass to block out the light and looks in. He can make out someone moving around in the dimness, so he knocks on the glass, three sharp staccato raps. And then he waits.
The door opens a crack and the man behind it squints at him for a moment, and then sighs.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean grins. "Remus."
"I suppose you're going to come in regardless of what I say."
"You suppose right." Dean pushes his way in, and Remus doesn't do anything to stop him, just sighs again. "You knew it was me before you opened the door, so...."
"True."
He locks up again once they're inside, and yanks down the shade that covers the top part of the glass, which mellows the afternoon sunlight to an old gold. The color suits the place, and its owner. Makes the merchandise look rich and antique instead of old and junky. Makes Remus look younger and healthier, like his pale skin has some color.
Dean's still not sure what Lupin's deal is--with that name, he almost has to be some kind of werewolf, but Dean's never picked up any news of maulings in his vicinity, and, truth be told, he's kind of stopped looking. Because Lupin does some of the best spellwork Dean's ever seen--protection charms and warning sigils and gris gris bags that actually work. And he's always got some recent acquisition, some ancient book or scroll sitting in his backroom, waiting for Dean to read over it with interest, translating the stuff Dean can't.
That's where they head now, picking through the narrow aisle, careful not to touch anything or disturb the equilibrium of the tightly-packed tables and shelves, fake juju for tourists lined up cheek-by-jowl with the real deal.
"Did I interrupt something?" Dean asks as he walks through the fringed curtain to the tiny room--it's set up like a living room, with a loveseat and two easy chairs, all covered in worn red velour, with a banged up coffee table littered with books and papers between them, a bottle of whiskey--he doesn't recognize the brand--sitting open amid the mess.
Remus shoots him an amused glance. "Do you care?"
"Not really, no." He drops down into the easy chair that has no books in the seat, but decides against swinging his feet up onto the table. God only knows what he'd be damaging, and he might need one of those scrolls someday. "Just surprised to see you closed, is all. Day of the Dead is usually a busy shopping holiday in our business."
Remus runs a hand through his hair. "Yes."
Dean waits but Remus doesn't say anything else, just goes to the overstuffed bookcase along the back wall and takes down a glass.
"Whiskey?"
Dean leans back and nods. "Why not?"
Remus pours out two fingers and hands Dean the glass, then pours another for himself. They drink quietly for a couple of minutes. Remus looks younger when he's relaxed, but he also looks sadder, and considering the guy usually looks like he's lost his best friend and someone killed his dog all on the same day, that's saying something.
Remus stretches his legs out in front of him, and Dean can see the worn soles of his boots, the fraying cuffs of his jeans. They don't look so different from what he's wearing himself. People don't get rich in their business. That sucks almost as much as the lack of insurance and the high death rate.
"So what can I do for you, Dean?"
Dean shrugs. "Just in the area, thought I'd stop by." Technically, the ninety minute drive from New Paltz is in the neighborhood for him, given how (and how much) he drives, though he hates bringing the car into the city. But he was antsy after two days of watching Sam and Sarah make eyes at each other, and they can always use supplies. "Pick up some supplies. See if you had anything interesting you might be willing to share."
Remus closes his eyes, takes another sip of whiskey, and jerks his chin towards the table. "I've got a copy of an eighteenth century guide to ridding a house of evil spirits." Dean leans forward and starts shuffling through the stuff on the table. "It's in Arabic, though. Very concerned with ifrits. As they would have been, of course. I was cross-referencing it with a recent text on the subject of fire imps I received from," he hesitates for a moment, "an old friend back home. Seems to be the real thing."
"I never learned Arabic," Dean says, though they've used the Qu'ran as a reference on occasion.
Remus grins at him. "Sometimes I'm amazed you learned English. Or what passes for it here."
"Everyone's a comedian." Dean runs his fingers over fine parchment, recognizing the alchemical symbols even if the curls and swoops of the language are nothing but gibberish to him. "Why do you live here, if you hate it so much?"
"Who said I hated it?" There's amusement in his tone again, edged with bitterness. "I love living in New York. Nobody knows who I am, nobody notices me; I'm just another middle-aged bloke with a funny accent who owns a junk shop."
It's probably the most Remus has ever said to him about where he comes from, who he is, and Dean wonders how long he's been sitting there, drinking by himself, and why. He doesn't ask, just tips more whiskey into his glass, and then into Remus's.
"How's your brother?" Remus asks abruptly.
"He's good. He's up in New Paltz, visiting his girl."
"Good, good. Start over, that's the ticket. The more often you do it, the easier it becomes." He laughs, then, though it's not funny. "That's a lie, you know. It never gets easier."
Dean gets the feeling Remus is a guy who's started over more times than anyone should ever have to, coupled with the uneasy feeling he could be looking at himself in twenty years. If he lives that long. If he loses that much.
"I know." He puts his glass down and stands, irritated with Remus, with himself. "If you don't have anything special for me, I'm just gonna restock my spice rack and get out of your hair." He leaves the and I'm never coming back unsaid, and not only because he figures Remus can hear it in his voice. He always tells himself that, because the guy is a downer, a sad sack worse than Sam, which Dean hadn't thought was even possible, but it's always a lie. He always comes back. He needs the reminder.
Remus stands slowly, and Dean can hear his joints cracking as he moves. He picks a book up off the table and holds it out, a peace offering of sorts. "Your brother might find this useful."
Dean takes it warily. Focusing Your Inner Eye: Tips and Techniques to Hone Your Divination Skills by Delphi Chadwick. "How do you--"
"People talk, Dean. Hunters more than most, when they've got someone to talk to. Like old ladies gossiping over tea, the lot of them." His smile now is rueful, tired.
It's true, and it's probably why Dad spent as little time with them as possible. "I know," he says again. "They don't talk about you, though." It's a threat, though he's not sure he means it.
Remus just shakes his head. "That's because there's nothing to talk about." He rubs his forehead, then reaches down for his glass of whiskey and drains it. "I've done nothing wrong. And I can disappear more completely than even you, if I should need to."
Dean believes him. "All that starting over, huh?"
"Yes."
The silence stretches awkwardly for a minute, and then Dean says, "Okay, then." He pulls out his shopping list and hands it over. "This is what I need."
Remus doesn't take much time putting the order together, carefully measuring herbs and spices into little plastic bottles. Dean stands at the counter with his hands shoved in his pockets, itching to leave now.
As Dean gives him the money, Remus says, "I was celebrating."
"What?"
"The shop is closed because I was celebrating the Day of the Dead."
"Didn't look like much of a celebration."
"No." Remus laughs wryly. "The dead aren't really much for partying." He gives Dean the bag of supplies and offers his hand. "Take care of yourself. Stay safe."
Dean shakes his hand. "You, too."
He pushes his way out of the shop into the rapidly falling twilight. He pulls his phone out, dials Sam.
"Yeah," he says, when Sam answers. "I got the stuff. I'm gonna stop for dinner, wait for rush hour to be over, and then I'll drive back."
It might be the Day of the Dead, he thinks, but he's going to spend it with the living.
end
*
11/1/06
~*~
Feedback is most appreciated.
~*~
Supernatural/Harry Potter; Dean and Remus; 1,610 words
Dean gets the uneasy feeling he could be looking at himself in twenty years.
All vaznetti's fault.
~*~
Day of the Dead
The door is closed when Dean arrives, the shop locked up tight even though it's only three o'clock in the afternoon, and he knows for a fact it doesn't usually close until almost midnight. He can pick the locks easily enough--the street is crowded with pedestrians but nobody's paying any attention--but he's dealt with the proprietor often enough to know that there's probably something special waiting for anyone who does, and he has no wish to be on the receiving end of it. Some sorcerers are all show--smoke and mirrors and flashing lights to hide their sleight of hand--but this guy is the real deal, quiet and unassuming and powerful in ways Dean tries not to think about.
He cups his hands against the grimy glass to block out the light and looks in. He can make out someone moving around in the dimness, so he knocks on the glass, three sharp staccato raps. And then he waits.
The door opens a crack and the man behind it squints at him for a moment, and then sighs.
"Hello, Dean."
Dean grins. "Remus."
"I suppose you're going to come in regardless of what I say."
"You suppose right." Dean pushes his way in, and Remus doesn't do anything to stop him, just sighs again. "You knew it was me before you opened the door, so...."
"True."
He locks up again once they're inside, and yanks down the shade that covers the top part of the glass, which mellows the afternoon sunlight to an old gold. The color suits the place, and its owner. Makes the merchandise look rich and antique instead of old and junky. Makes Remus look younger and healthier, like his pale skin has some color.
Dean's still not sure what Lupin's deal is--with that name, he almost has to be some kind of werewolf, but Dean's never picked up any news of maulings in his vicinity, and, truth be told, he's kind of stopped looking. Because Lupin does some of the best spellwork Dean's ever seen--protection charms and warning sigils and gris gris bags that actually work. And he's always got some recent acquisition, some ancient book or scroll sitting in his backroom, waiting for Dean to read over it with interest, translating the stuff Dean can't.
That's where they head now, picking through the narrow aisle, careful not to touch anything or disturb the equilibrium of the tightly-packed tables and shelves, fake juju for tourists lined up cheek-by-jowl with the real deal.
"Did I interrupt something?" Dean asks as he walks through the fringed curtain to the tiny room--it's set up like a living room, with a loveseat and two easy chairs, all covered in worn red velour, with a banged up coffee table littered with books and papers between them, a bottle of whiskey--he doesn't recognize the brand--sitting open amid the mess.
Remus shoots him an amused glance. "Do you care?"
"Not really, no." He drops down into the easy chair that has no books in the seat, but decides against swinging his feet up onto the table. God only knows what he'd be damaging, and he might need one of those scrolls someday. "Just surprised to see you closed, is all. Day of the Dead is usually a busy shopping holiday in our business."
Remus runs a hand through his hair. "Yes."
Dean waits but Remus doesn't say anything else, just goes to the overstuffed bookcase along the back wall and takes down a glass.
"Whiskey?"
Dean leans back and nods. "Why not?"
Remus pours out two fingers and hands Dean the glass, then pours another for himself. They drink quietly for a couple of minutes. Remus looks younger when he's relaxed, but he also looks sadder, and considering the guy usually looks like he's lost his best friend and someone killed his dog all on the same day, that's saying something.
Remus stretches his legs out in front of him, and Dean can see the worn soles of his boots, the fraying cuffs of his jeans. They don't look so different from what he's wearing himself. People don't get rich in their business. That sucks almost as much as the lack of insurance and the high death rate.
"So what can I do for you, Dean?"
Dean shrugs. "Just in the area, thought I'd stop by." Technically, the ninety minute drive from New Paltz is in the neighborhood for him, given how (and how much) he drives, though he hates bringing the car into the city. But he was antsy after two days of watching Sam and Sarah make eyes at each other, and they can always use supplies. "Pick up some supplies. See if you had anything interesting you might be willing to share."
Remus closes his eyes, takes another sip of whiskey, and jerks his chin towards the table. "I've got a copy of an eighteenth century guide to ridding a house of evil spirits." Dean leans forward and starts shuffling through the stuff on the table. "It's in Arabic, though. Very concerned with ifrits. As they would have been, of course. I was cross-referencing it with a recent text on the subject of fire imps I received from," he hesitates for a moment, "an old friend back home. Seems to be the real thing."
"I never learned Arabic," Dean says, though they've used the Qu'ran as a reference on occasion.
Remus grins at him. "Sometimes I'm amazed you learned English. Or what passes for it here."
"Everyone's a comedian." Dean runs his fingers over fine parchment, recognizing the alchemical symbols even if the curls and swoops of the language are nothing but gibberish to him. "Why do you live here, if you hate it so much?"
"Who said I hated it?" There's amusement in his tone again, edged with bitterness. "I love living in New York. Nobody knows who I am, nobody notices me; I'm just another middle-aged bloke with a funny accent who owns a junk shop."
It's probably the most Remus has ever said to him about where he comes from, who he is, and Dean wonders how long he's been sitting there, drinking by himself, and why. He doesn't ask, just tips more whiskey into his glass, and then into Remus's.
"How's your brother?" Remus asks abruptly.
"He's good. He's up in New Paltz, visiting his girl."
"Good, good. Start over, that's the ticket. The more often you do it, the easier it becomes." He laughs, then, though it's not funny. "That's a lie, you know. It never gets easier."
Dean gets the feeling Remus is a guy who's started over more times than anyone should ever have to, coupled with the uneasy feeling he could be looking at himself in twenty years. If he lives that long. If he loses that much.
"I know." He puts his glass down and stands, irritated with Remus, with himself. "If you don't have anything special for me, I'm just gonna restock my spice rack and get out of your hair." He leaves the and I'm never coming back unsaid, and not only because he figures Remus can hear it in his voice. He always tells himself that, because the guy is a downer, a sad sack worse than Sam, which Dean hadn't thought was even possible, but it's always a lie. He always comes back. He needs the reminder.
Remus stands slowly, and Dean can hear his joints cracking as he moves. He picks a book up off the table and holds it out, a peace offering of sorts. "Your brother might find this useful."
Dean takes it warily. Focusing Your Inner Eye: Tips and Techniques to Hone Your Divination Skills by Delphi Chadwick. "How do you--"
"People talk, Dean. Hunters more than most, when they've got someone to talk to. Like old ladies gossiping over tea, the lot of them." His smile now is rueful, tired.
It's true, and it's probably why Dad spent as little time with them as possible. "I know," he says again. "They don't talk about you, though." It's a threat, though he's not sure he means it.
Remus just shakes his head. "That's because there's nothing to talk about." He rubs his forehead, then reaches down for his glass of whiskey and drains it. "I've done nothing wrong. And I can disappear more completely than even you, if I should need to."
Dean believes him. "All that starting over, huh?"
"Yes."
The silence stretches awkwardly for a minute, and then Dean says, "Okay, then." He pulls out his shopping list and hands it over. "This is what I need."
Remus doesn't take much time putting the order together, carefully measuring herbs and spices into little plastic bottles. Dean stands at the counter with his hands shoved in his pockets, itching to leave now.
As Dean gives him the money, Remus says, "I was celebrating."
"What?"
"The shop is closed because I was celebrating the Day of the Dead."
"Didn't look like much of a celebration."
"No." Remus laughs wryly. "The dead aren't really much for partying." He gives Dean the bag of supplies and offers his hand. "Take care of yourself. Stay safe."
Dean shakes his hand. "You, too."
He pushes his way out of the shop into the rapidly falling twilight. He pulls his phone out, dials Sam.
"Yeah," he says, when Sam answers. "I got the stuff. I'm gonna stop for dinner, wait for rush hour to be over, and then I'll drive back."
It might be the Day of the Dead, he thinks, but he's going to spend it with the living.
end
*
11/1/06
~*~
Feedback is most appreciated.
~*~