fic: Nor Custom Stale (Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg)
Nor Custom Stale
Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg; 4,710 words
Sam thinks Dean's confusing reality with porn again. Dean is pretty sure he's not.
Written for seraphim_grace in the 2009 spn_summergen ficathon. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing, and to mousapelli and angelgazing for brainstorming and handholding.
~*~
Nor Custom Stale
Three a.m. Tuesday morning. The car rolls up Sixth Avenue, a sleek black shark amid a sea of yellow cabs. The lights are green from Forty-Second to Fifty-Ninth, as far as the eye can see. They change in sequence furthest away first, yellow, then red, like demons' eyes, and Dean eases up on the gas, rolls through without stopping, timing it right. Sam is half-asleep in the passenger seat, ectoplasm in his hair and dust and soot smudged on his jeans.
Dean's too tired to bother with trying to find parking on the street; he pulls into the lot down the block from the building they're staying in. The parking lot attendant stares at the car like he's never seen anything like it, and Dean feels a cold prickle of doubt before Sam grabs him and tries to lead him away.
"Let the guy park the car, Dean."
"So help me, if there's one scratch on it." He doesn't even have to try to make it sound like the threat it actually is.
"You'll rip out his intestines through his nostrils." Sam nods tiredly and the parking lot attendant gulps audibly before he slides behind the wheel. Dean glares at him for a long moment, watching as he drives the car down the ramp into the bowels of the garage. Then he lets Sam lead him back to the apartment building.
"17H," Sam says to the doorman, who checks with Michele and then buzzes them in.
"It's done?" she asks when she opens the door.
"It's done," Dean confirms. "Dave is expecting you."
She gives them each a hug. She smells like fruity shampoo and fabric softener. Dean's too tired to even try to cop a feel. "I've left you the spare key," she says, slinging a giant flowery tote bag over her shoulder, "and told the doorman that you're visiting. There's some leftover Chinese in the fridge and clean towels in the rack outside the bathroom."
"Thanks," Dean says, and means it.
She's already out the door, rushing to join her boyfriend in his newly poltergeist-free apartment.
Dean looks at Sam, who shrugs and raises his fist. Dean sighs and throws scissors. One day, he's going to throw paper and Sam will keel over from shock. Sadly, today is not that day, and he's going to have to settle for the second shower. He's pretty sure this swank apartment has a decent hot water tank, though, so he's not worried.
One wall of the living room is floor-to-ceiling windows. Dean doesn't envy the window-washers the job of keeping them clean. There are sheer white curtains that soften the lights of the city, and he stands there, staring out over the park for a few minutes. It all seems so far away, so much less real than the poltergeist that had tossed them around earlier, than the rattle of the subway and the hum of the traffic he can't hear all the way up here.
He shakes his head. He's more exhausted than he thought. He prowls through the apartment, picks the bedroom with pale blue walls and a king-sized bed, and drops his duffel to the floor. He gets his jacket and boots off and sprawls across the bed, the white comforter soft and smelling of fabric softener beneath him. He's asleep before Sam's done in the shower.
*
Dean wakes to sunlight streaming into the bedroom through the flimsy white curtains. He takes a long, hot shower and Sam is still asleep when he's done, so he spends a few minutes figuring out the ridiculously complicated coffeemaker before he heads out to grab some bagels.
It's warmer than he expected; he can hear Sam's voice reminding him that early September is still technically summer, even if the kids are all back in school. The sky is bluer than he expected, too, clear and bright in a way that makes him think of open fields and rolling plains, not skyscrapers and subways.
He chats for a few minutes with a homeless guy outside the building who claims to be the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln, and gives him a bagel and a cup of coffee on his way back to Michele's apartment. She's the daughter of a friend of Bobby's, and she's paying them for this job, so Dean feels like he can be generous.
The bagels are still warm from the oven, and he breathes in the scent of yeast and onions, his mouth watering and his stomach rumbling. The lobby is all marble and chrome and he can see his reflection in the shiny elevator doors, and he entertains himself for a few seconds by making faces, but when the doors open to reveal a hot redhead in a pink dress, he doesn't hide his interest. She crouches to put her little dog down, and he takes the opportunity to peek down her blouse at smooth, pale, freckled skin and the pink lace edges of her bra. The dog skitters ahead, trying to escape its leash. Dean thinks about getting tangled up in the leash to get the redhead's attention, but he's afraid he might step on the tiny dog if he does, so he just gives her a friendly leer that she ignores. He enjoys the sway of her hips as she walks away, heels clattering on the marble floor, and it's only after she's out the front door that he realizes why she looks familiar.
"You'll never guess who I just saw," he says to Sam, who is standing at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee that's almost big enough to fit in his hand, his laptop open and a newspaper spread out beside it. Dean doesn't wait for Sam to answer. "Amy Lovegood."
"Who?" Sam looks up, blinking.
"Amy Lovegood." Dean tosses a toasted sesame with scallion cream cheese at Sam, who catches it easily and smiles his thanks. He gets his Troy McClure on and says, "You might know her from such films as Spank Me: Volume 26 and Cheerleaders Are Easy."
"Okay, one, I wouldn't know her from those movies, because I've never seen them, and two, is this like the time you thought the janitor was Matt Damon?"
"That janitor was Matt Damon."
"No, Dean, he really wasn't." Sam takes a deep breath, but Dean doesn't want to argue about it right now. He knows what he saw.
"I know what I saw, and Amy Lovegood is out walking her little purse dog even as we speak. And I know you saw Slutty Sorority Sisters Three: Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves. Don't even pretend you didn't jerk off to that every night for a month when you were fifteen. She was the head sorority sister." He licks his lips and then takes a bite of his onion bagel, which is quite possibly the best bagel he's ever had.
Sam chokes and blushes, which Dean considers a victory. "Dean."
"We should totally check up on her. Make sure she's not being haunted by anything."
Sam sets his bagel down and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know I'm going to regret asking this, but how exactly are we supposed to do that?"
Dean's been thinking about this since he saw her. "We could ask Michele if she knows which apartment Amy Lovegood lives in."
"First of all, no. And second of all, her real name is not Amy Lovegood. Reality, Dean, remember?"
Dean wrinkles his nose in disgusted annoyance. He'd kind of forgotten that. "Point." He takes a sip of coffee and says, "We could go door to door with the EMF meter, pretend to be from the cable company."
"No."
"Sam--"
"There are, like, two hundred apartments in this building." Sam takes a bite of his bagel, chews and swallows, as if that ends the conversation.
"I could hang out in the lobby and chat her up when she comes downstairs."
"You are not going to stalk this poor woman."
"I don't think anyone who lives in this building is poor, Sam."
"You know what I mean."
"I'm sure she likes to meet her fans."
"Even if she is Amy Lovegood, which I'm sure she's not, why on earth would she want to meet her fans? She was a porn star, Dean. Do you really think she wants to meet the mouth-breathers who've jerked off to her movies?"
Dean slumps down into a chair and finishes off his bagel, deflated. "Not even if they're as good looking as I am?"
Sam shakes his head, mouth twitching in amusement. "Not even then, Dean."
"Killjoy."
"Someone's got to be. And do you really want to get pinched when she calls the cops on you for sniffing her underwear?"
"Whatever." Dean grabs the newspaper and sorts through it until he finds the sports section. "See if I let you have any fun next time you want to."
"I'm a killjoy, remember?" Sam rolls his eyes. "I don't know how to have fun."
"True." Dean nods and then ducks when Sam throws the crumpled up foil from his bagel at his head.
*
Michele tells them they can stay in the apartment for a few days, and Dean's enjoying their visit to the lap of luxury. He hangs out in the lobby with Omar the doorman before his morning bagel run, and though he doesn't see Amy Lovegood again, Omar fills him in on all the juicy gossip in the building. Apparently, being a doorman has its own perks.
He and Sam go to the park--it's nice when all the kids are in school--and Sam takes a lot of pictures with the digital camera Dean got him (Sam doesn't ask where it came from and Dean doesn't tell). They take in the Yankees-Orioles game at the new stadium, and Dean enjoys bitching about how much everything costs, how they don't sell beer after the seventh inning, how completely unfair it is that the Yankees can spend their way into the playoffs, and how crowded the subway is on the way back to the apartment. Sam nods and grunts and pretends to pay attention, and walks around with his hands shoved into his pockets and his head tipped back to look up at the buildings rising like something out of a fairytale in the darkness.
Despite Omar's strenuous objections, each morning, Dean buys breakfast for homeless Abraham Lincoln and spends a few minutes shooting the shit with him. The guy is crazy and he smells terrible, but he's got more theories about the Lincoln assassination than anyone Dean's ever met. Dean likes to tell Sam about them over breakfast, mostly because he likes the way Sam laughs when he hears that John Wilkes Booth was a terminator sent back from the future to kill the president.
When the guy isn't in his usual spot on Friday morning, Dean misses him.
"What happened to Abe?" he asks Omar, who shrugs.
"Ms. Garrett took him to a shelter, I think. She's good like that. Does a lot of work with the homeless."
"Ms. Garrett?"
Omar gives him a sly smile and taps the side of his nose. "You know who I mean."
Dean grins, because he does.
*
There's a video store next to the bagel shop--Dean didn't realize people still rented videos, what with Hulu and torrents--and he easily finds copies of Amy Lovegood's movies on sale on DVD.
"Oh, man," the clerk, a slacker in his early twenties, says. "These were my first pornos."
"She lives in the neighborhood," Dean replies, grinning as he uses Charles Malick's credit card to pay for the movies.
"Really?"
"Dude, yeah. She--" He stops, remembering what Sam said about whether she'd want to meet her fans; he can kind of see Sam's point. He shrugs. "It's probably not her."
The clerk nods and bags his purchases. "I'll keep an eye out. We do get famous people in here sometimes."
Dean takes the bag. "You do that."
He doesn't expect to see the guy hassling her the next morning while she's walking her dog.
"Hey," Dean says, feeling responsible. The clerk gives him the thumbs up, but Dean shakes his head. "Leave the lady alone."
"Dude, it's Amy Lovegood."
"I'm afraid you're confusing me with someone else," she says, trying to get away, but dickhead movie rental clerk guy grabs onto her dog's leash and won't let her.
"I don't think so," he says, taking a step closer to her. "You look exactly the same as you did in Spank Me. That's some awesome plastic surgery."
"Dude," Dean says, more forcefully this time, pulling out one of his fake badges and flashing it at the guy. "I said, leave the lady alone."
The guy lets go, muttering, "For a fucking porn star, you're one stuck up bitch."
"She's still a person, fuckface," Dean says, congratulating himself for not giving into the urge to punch him out. "Now go the hell away."
The guy walks back to the video store, still muttering, and Dean turns to Amy Lovegood with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that."
She gives him a tight smile in return. "Thanks."
Dean figures this isn't the time to tell her how much he's enjoyed her movies over the years, but he does crouch down to pet her yappy little dog, which jumps around like it's on speed when he does. He's always been a dog person. He straightens up and says, "You take care now," trying to sound like a cop.
Her smile gets a little more genuine at that. "I will."
He watches her walk away, and while he still appreciates the swish of her hips, it's shot through with guilt now.
Of course, later that afternoon, when he's bored, he's not guilty enough not to pop Cheerleaders Are Easy into the DVD player.
Sam refuses to watch with him, though. He's always been picky about his privacy. "Also, you better not jack off on Michele's parents' couch."
Dean shifts, awkward. "Would I do that?" He hadn't planned to, but sometimes these things happen. Especially while he's watching porn.
Sam purses his lips in exasperation. "Yes."
"Yeah, okay, that does sound like something I would do." He settles back, making himself comfortable on the leather cushions. "But this couch probably costs more money than I'll see in my life. Unless I win the lottery, and what are the odds of that?"
Sam shakes his head and huffs a small laugh. "I'm going for a run."
"Be careful."
Sam nods and waves him off. Dean starts the movie, and Amy Lovegood appears on the 52" flat-screen TV in her cheerleader outfit.
Sam stops and turns around. "That's Amy Lovegood?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Dude."
"She looks just like Amelia Lovelace."
"Who?"
"Amelia Lovelace." He says it like Dean should know who that is. Dean raises his eyebrows and cocks his head, wordlessly reiterating his question. Sam shakes his head like he can't believe Dean doesn't know. "She was a B-movie star in the 1920s. I mean, she was no Theda Bara or Mary Pickford, but she starred in over twenty movies from 1923 to 1927, including The Widow and The Attic. Her career fizzled out with the shift from silent films to talkies."
"How do you even know that?" He doesn't know why he's surprised.
"Twentieth Century Cinema with Professor Boudreaux."
"Man, how come I never got to take classes about movies?"
"You never went to college. At Berkeley, there's even a course called Cinema and the Sex Act."
"There are classes where you watch porn? Dude, sign me up."
Sam laughs and grabs the laptop. He does some quick typing and then turns it so Dean can see the screen. The pirate wench in the poster for High Seas Adventure is a dead ringer for the cheerleader currently getting fucked doggy-style in the movie.
"I told you something hinky was going on," Dean says.
Sam opens his mouth and then shuts it again, shaking his head.
*
A quick look at Wikipedia shows them that silent film star Amelia Lovelace was born Amy Garrett in 1902 in Akron, Ohio, and adult film star Amy Lovegood was born Emily Lovelace in Reseda, California in 1976.
"There are probably a few other aliases over the years we don't know about," Sam says.
"You think so, huh?"
Sam rolls his eyes, like Dean's sarcasm isn't even worth a verbal response.
"So what've we got? Shapeshifter?"
Sam shakes his head. "They don't usually keep the same form for more than a week or two. She's had this one for at least a hundred years." They're both quiet for a few minutes, thinking. "Elizabeth Bathory bathed in the blood of virgins to stay young looking," Sam offers doubtfully.
"Wasn't she a vampire, though?"
"Yeah."
"I'm pretty sure the chick I met this morning wasn't a vampire. And what the hell is up with the virgins, anyway? Why does everybody want to kill them?"
"Seriously? This is what you're focusing on right now?"
Dean waves a hand. "It was a rhetorical question. Forget it." He gets up and starts pacing, absently chewing on his thumbnail. "Witch?"
Sam nods. "Witch."
Dean sighs. "I hate witches."
"I know."
*
"You know, we don't really have any proof she's done anything wrong," Sam says as they exit the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor.
"I think looking exactly the same in 2009 as you did in 1923 is proof enough. That's some pretty heavy mojo."
"She could be a great-granddaughter. Okay," Sam concedes as Dean gives him his best are you shitting me? look, "she's pretty exact, more like a clone than a great-granddaughter. But still. It is possible."
"And what else is capable of that kind of thing? I mean, I'm not gonna hold a little plastic surgery and some hair dye against someone who maybe wants to pass for thirty instead of forty, but this is a little extreme."
Sam hums in a way that Dean takes as agreement.
Amy Garrett lives in 29B, and Dean keeps lookout while Sam crouches down to pick the lock.
The door swings open and neither of them is ready for the tiny purse dog to come lunging out like a scary demonic thing. Dean's finger is on the trigger before he realizes it's just the dog, yapping and jumping around his ankles.
"Hey, Pookie, get back here," homeless Abe Lincoln guy says, coming out to see what all the fuss is about. He scoops up the dog and gives them a smile, and Dean's relieved that he's not the one the guy's calling Pookie. "Did Ms. Garrett invite you up for dinner too?" He's cleaned up, and younger than Dean thought he was, probably in his forties. His stringy hair turns out to be light brown and he doesn't reek of body odor and sewage anymore; he's wearing a new shirt that still has the folding creases in it and a neat pair of khakis that are cuffed so he doesn't trip over them.
"Not exactly, Abe."
Sam glances from Abe to Dean and says, "Abe?"
Dean nods. "Sorry. Sam, this guy is the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln. Abe, this is my brother, Sam." Sam gives him a look like he's the one with the crazy delusions, but he shakes Abe's hand and pastes on a smile that would fool anyone but Dean.
"Nice to meet you," Abe says. "Come on in." He leads them into the apartment, which is similar to the one they've been staying in, except that there are vertical blinds instead of curtains covering the windows, and there are huge skylights where the ceiling should be. "Ms. Garrett, you have some gentleman callers," he says before they can shush him.
Amy Garrett comes out of the bedroom, and even though she's fully dressed in a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, Dean can't help but remember what she looks like naked. He shakes his head to clear away the images.
Sam doesn't seem to have the same problem. "We're great fans of your work, Ms. Garrett," he says.
"That's very nice, but," she starts but Sam doesn't let her finish.
"I thought you were particularly good in High Seas Adventure," he says. "I did a paper in college comparing it favorably with The Black Pirate."
"I...see."
"Do you?" Dean asks.
She sighs and sinks down onto the white sofa, one hand pulling her hair out of her ponytail so she can twist a wavy lock around her fingers. "I've gotten used to being recognized from the movies I made in the nineties," she gives Dean a sharp look and he nods, "but it's been a long time since I ran into someone who's seen High Seas Adventure."
"Sammy always did have a thing for pirate wenches."
"Shut up, Dean."
"You're not really a cop, are you?"
Dean grimaces. "Not exactly."
"Well, I suppose I had a good run," she says. "Longer than I expected, really. It's harder than you think to live for as long as I have."
Dean glances over at Sam, who doesn't seem to be buying what she's selling either. He does a circuit of the living room and dining room, keeping within Dean's line of sight at all times, and tips his head towards the other rooms. Dean doesn't like it, but he nods tightly, then turns his attention back to Amy Garrett.
"So it's not a curse."
She laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "Not technically, though it hasn't been all beer and skittles, either. I was young and stupid and I made a poor choice. I've been paying for it ever since."
Dean looks around the swank apartment with its great view of the city. "Yeah, you're suffering all right."
"What's going on, guys?" Abe asks, putting Pookie down and joining them.
"Nothing, Abe. We've just got a few questions for Ms. Garrett." Dean shares a concerned look with Sam, who's slipped back into the room holding something behind his back. "Why don't you take Pookie for a walk? We'll be done in a few minutes."
Abe looks at Amy for permission and she nods. "Her leash is hanging behind the door. Oh, and Abe," she takes his hand and squeezes it gently, "take care of yourself."
When he's gone, Sam says, "He was going to be a sacrifice, wasn't he?"
She rubs a hand over her face, diamond ring on her right hand flashing in the sunlight. "Yes. Every year at the harvest moon."
Sam nods, his jaw set in a grim line. "There's an altar set up in the closet in the bedroom," he says. "And this." He produces a framed movie poster, the same one they'd looked at online, of Amelia Lovelace as the Pirate Queen in High Seas Adventure, except that her face is sour and wrinkled beyond recognition, her hair is sparse and white, and her body is withered and sagging.
"Huh." Dean reaches into his pocket for his Zippo. "I think we can take care of this pretty easily." He points his chin at the kitchen. "The sink should work." He turns back to Amy. "You gonna give us any trouble, Ms. Garrett?"
"What chance does little old me have against such big strong men?" she asks, mocking. She produces a cigarette from a box sitting on the end table and says, "Give a girl a light?" Dean reaches down and flicks the lighter. She wraps her fingers around his wrist and holds him there until her cigarette burns orange at the tip. "Don't you even want to know why?" Her eyes are wide and blue, and she doesn't flinch away from his gaze.
Dean has a pretty good idea, even without being told. "Not really."
"I was quite talented, you know. Right up until I decided to bind my soul up in that poster so I could be young and beautiful forever. After that, I couldn't even fake an orgasm worth a damn."
"Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart," Dean says, pulling away. "You've made a lot of sixteen-year-old boys very happy."
"A grand legacy indeed."
Dean keeps waiting for her to put up some kind of fight, but she just sits on the couch and smokes her last cigarette, staring out at the late afternoon sunshine reflecting off the buildings. Her eyes are bright, or maybe that's also a reflection. She doesn't cry.
Sam pops the poster out of its frame and lays it across the sink. He pours a circle of salt around it, and Dean tries to ignore the way the woman on the poster seems to be cowering. He lights the corners and he and Sam watch as the flames blacken and consume the brittle old paper.
When there's nothing left but ash, Sam washes it down the drain.
Amy Garrett, looking all of her hundred and seven years, is slumped over on the couch, ashy cigarette dangling from her limp hand. Dean takes it and stubs it out in the crystal ashtray, and then arranges her gently on the couch, her body like a bundle of old sticks. He yelps when her eyes open, and her gnarled and liver-spotted hand comes up to cup his cheek.
"Thank you," she wheezes, and her breath smells like decay and smoke. "I never would have done it myself." Her eyes flutter closed, and he can feel the life seep out of her as she sinks down into the cushions.
"Huh," he says again, thumb brushing over his lower lip pensively.
"Yeah," Sam says, taking his elbow and leading him out of the apartment.
*
Michele's parents are due back from St. Barts in the morning, so Dean gets his stuff all packed up, surprised at how easily they spread out in the apartment after only being there for four days. He leaves the pile of Amy Lovegood movies next to the DVD player.
"I could get used to this," he says, looking around the apartment one last time as they're leaving.
"Nah," Sam says with a small smile and brief squeeze of Dean's shoulder as he brushes past him out the door. "It's not you."
Abe is back in his spot outside the building, arguing with Omar the doorman about Pookie the purse dog.
"She told me to walk him," Abe is saying. "I couldn't let the lady down."
"Take good care of him, Abe," Dean says. "Though you might want to think about giving him a new name."
"It was an honor and a privilege, gentlemen," Abe says, giving them a salute. "You've served your country well."
"Thanks, Abe. That means a lot, coming from you." Sam nudges him in the ribs, but the thing is, Dean actually means it. Sure, the guy's bugfuck nuts, but he doesn't have a mean bone in his body, and Dean appreciates that more than he'd ever admit. He returns Abe's salute, gives Pookie one last pat on the head, and shakes Omar's hand before he walks away.
They're in the car--there's not a scratch on her (Dean did a thorough inspection before he paid the attendant), and damn, Dean is glad to be back behind the wheel--crawling north on the FDR, when Sam turns on the radio.
"Silent screen star Amelia Lovelace was found dead in her West Side apartment this evening. After a brief run of success in the 1920s, Lovelace faded into obscurity, but she lived to the ripe old age of--"
Dean pushes Live at Leeds into the tape deck and "Substitute" blares out. In the rearview mirror, the receding city gleams in the deepening twilight.
When the song is over, Sam says, "So, is Johnny Depp next?"
Dean glances over at him and grins. "Bite your tongue, Sammy! Johnny Depp would never resort to black magic to keep his manly good looks."
"Uh huh."
"Keanu Reeves, on the other hand..." Sam gives him a surprised look. "What? Even Speed and The Matrix can't make up for Johnny Mnemonic. Not to mention those two sequels."
"I told you, Dean, the sequels don't exist."
"Maybe we should salt and burn those."
Sam laughs, loud and bright over the rumble of the engine. "Maybe we should."
end
~*~
Note: Title and cut text from Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, scene ii, line 271-272; the prompt I used was The picture of dorian gray.
~*~
Feedback is adored. Thanks to the people who've commented already. ♥
~*~
I picked up this pinch hit because I already had this idea for a Picture of Dorian Gray story, and it seemed like a good way to get it written. There was another prompt on her list, about cities at night, and I thought, hey, I can add that in, make it take place in Manhattan, and write about the city, too. Which is why the story starts the way it does.
I was going for a noir ambiance; I wanted to make it kind of melancholy and elliptical and, well, noirish, and that worked right up until Dean opened his mouth. Okay, no, it worked a little longer than that - the first scene in the garage is brief enough not to disrupt the atmosphere, but as soon has he went all Troy McClure, I was like, Oh, Dean, you are hopeless. And I played around with rewriting it, because I really wanted to hold onto that ambiance - the show certainly has a lot of noir tendencies - but Dean was just determined to be dorktastic. Which, I admit, I find amusing, and when I write, amusing myself is the key - if I am amused, I will keep writing. When I'm bored or irritated, I find a million reasons to not write. And since it was a pinch hit that needed to be done quickly, I kept going. I also liked the idea that it was Dean's ridiculous and kind of embarrassing (to Sam, at least) knowledge of porn that led to them stumbling over the case. I figured the title and cut-text were a sure tip-off as to what was going on. And I really thought the whole thing was obviously me - set in NYC, a case they stumble on while taking a break, with a MOTW that was vaguely sympathetic and who didn't really fight back.
I wish I'd been able to flesh out the original characters a little more - homeless Abe Lincoln and Omar the doorman were very clear in my head, but I don't know how well they actually translated to the page. Amy Garrett was played by Amy Adams in my head, all soft and pretty on the outside, but with a backbone of pure steel. I knew I didn't really want her to fight them once they showed up, but of course she had to get some mocking commentary in.
I think the thematic elements speak for themselves, both the commentary on what young women will put themselves through in order to remain beautiful, and also the parallel with Sam and Dean, and how selling your soul always has unforeseen - and generally unwelcome - consequences.
I didn't hear from the recipient, so I don't know what she thought, but I really like how it turned out.
~*~
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Supernatural; Sam and Dean; pg; 4,710 words
Sam thinks Dean's confusing reality with porn again. Dean is pretty sure he's not.
Written for seraphim_grace in the 2009 spn_summergen ficathon. Thanks to luzdeestrellas for betaing, and to mousapelli and angelgazing for brainstorming and handholding.
~*~
Nor Custom Stale
Three a.m. Tuesday morning. The car rolls up Sixth Avenue, a sleek black shark amid a sea of yellow cabs. The lights are green from Forty-Second to Fifty-Ninth, as far as the eye can see. They change in sequence furthest away first, yellow, then red, like demons' eyes, and Dean eases up on the gas, rolls through without stopping, timing it right. Sam is half-asleep in the passenger seat, ectoplasm in his hair and dust and soot smudged on his jeans.
Dean's too tired to bother with trying to find parking on the street; he pulls into the lot down the block from the building they're staying in. The parking lot attendant stares at the car like he's never seen anything like it, and Dean feels a cold prickle of doubt before Sam grabs him and tries to lead him away.
"Let the guy park the car, Dean."
"So help me, if there's one scratch on it." He doesn't even have to try to make it sound like the threat it actually is.
"You'll rip out his intestines through his nostrils." Sam nods tiredly and the parking lot attendant gulps audibly before he slides behind the wheel. Dean glares at him for a long moment, watching as he drives the car down the ramp into the bowels of the garage. Then he lets Sam lead him back to the apartment building.
"17H," Sam says to the doorman, who checks with Michele and then buzzes them in.
"It's done?" she asks when she opens the door.
"It's done," Dean confirms. "Dave is expecting you."
She gives them each a hug. She smells like fruity shampoo and fabric softener. Dean's too tired to even try to cop a feel. "I've left you the spare key," she says, slinging a giant flowery tote bag over her shoulder, "and told the doorman that you're visiting. There's some leftover Chinese in the fridge and clean towels in the rack outside the bathroom."
"Thanks," Dean says, and means it.
She's already out the door, rushing to join her boyfriend in his newly poltergeist-free apartment.
Dean looks at Sam, who shrugs and raises his fist. Dean sighs and throws scissors. One day, he's going to throw paper and Sam will keel over from shock. Sadly, today is not that day, and he's going to have to settle for the second shower. He's pretty sure this swank apartment has a decent hot water tank, though, so he's not worried.
One wall of the living room is floor-to-ceiling windows. Dean doesn't envy the window-washers the job of keeping them clean. There are sheer white curtains that soften the lights of the city, and he stands there, staring out over the park for a few minutes. It all seems so far away, so much less real than the poltergeist that had tossed them around earlier, than the rattle of the subway and the hum of the traffic he can't hear all the way up here.
He shakes his head. He's more exhausted than he thought. He prowls through the apartment, picks the bedroom with pale blue walls and a king-sized bed, and drops his duffel to the floor. He gets his jacket and boots off and sprawls across the bed, the white comforter soft and smelling of fabric softener beneath him. He's asleep before Sam's done in the shower.
*
Dean wakes to sunlight streaming into the bedroom through the flimsy white curtains. He takes a long, hot shower and Sam is still asleep when he's done, so he spends a few minutes figuring out the ridiculously complicated coffeemaker before he heads out to grab some bagels.
It's warmer than he expected; he can hear Sam's voice reminding him that early September is still technically summer, even if the kids are all back in school. The sky is bluer than he expected, too, clear and bright in a way that makes him think of open fields and rolling plains, not skyscrapers and subways.
He chats for a few minutes with a homeless guy outside the building who claims to be the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln, and gives him a bagel and a cup of coffee on his way back to Michele's apartment. She's the daughter of a friend of Bobby's, and she's paying them for this job, so Dean feels like he can be generous.
The bagels are still warm from the oven, and he breathes in the scent of yeast and onions, his mouth watering and his stomach rumbling. The lobby is all marble and chrome and he can see his reflection in the shiny elevator doors, and he entertains himself for a few seconds by making faces, but when the doors open to reveal a hot redhead in a pink dress, he doesn't hide his interest. She crouches to put her little dog down, and he takes the opportunity to peek down her blouse at smooth, pale, freckled skin and the pink lace edges of her bra. The dog skitters ahead, trying to escape its leash. Dean thinks about getting tangled up in the leash to get the redhead's attention, but he's afraid he might step on the tiny dog if he does, so he just gives her a friendly leer that she ignores. He enjoys the sway of her hips as she walks away, heels clattering on the marble floor, and it's only after she's out the front door that he realizes why she looks familiar.
"You'll never guess who I just saw," he says to Sam, who is standing at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee that's almost big enough to fit in his hand, his laptop open and a newspaper spread out beside it. Dean doesn't wait for Sam to answer. "Amy Lovegood."
"Who?" Sam looks up, blinking.
"Amy Lovegood." Dean tosses a toasted sesame with scallion cream cheese at Sam, who catches it easily and smiles his thanks. He gets his Troy McClure on and says, "You might know her from such films as Spank Me: Volume 26 and Cheerleaders Are Easy."
"Okay, one, I wouldn't know her from those movies, because I've never seen them, and two, is this like the time you thought the janitor was Matt Damon?"
"That janitor was Matt Damon."
"No, Dean, he really wasn't." Sam takes a deep breath, but Dean doesn't want to argue about it right now. He knows what he saw.
"I know what I saw, and Amy Lovegood is out walking her little purse dog even as we speak. And I know you saw Slutty Sorority Sisters Three: Sisters Are Doing It For Themselves. Don't even pretend you didn't jerk off to that every night for a month when you were fifteen. She was the head sorority sister." He licks his lips and then takes a bite of his onion bagel, which is quite possibly the best bagel he's ever had.
Sam chokes and blushes, which Dean considers a victory. "Dean."
"We should totally check up on her. Make sure she's not being haunted by anything."
Sam sets his bagel down and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I know I'm going to regret asking this, but how exactly are we supposed to do that?"
Dean's been thinking about this since he saw her. "We could ask Michele if she knows which apartment Amy Lovegood lives in."
"First of all, no. And second of all, her real name is not Amy Lovegood. Reality, Dean, remember?"
Dean wrinkles his nose in disgusted annoyance. He'd kind of forgotten that. "Point." He takes a sip of coffee and says, "We could go door to door with the EMF meter, pretend to be from the cable company."
"No."
"Sam--"
"There are, like, two hundred apartments in this building." Sam takes a bite of his bagel, chews and swallows, as if that ends the conversation.
"I could hang out in the lobby and chat her up when she comes downstairs."
"You are not going to stalk this poor woman."
"I don't think anyone who lives in this building is poor, Sam."
"You know what I mean."
"I'm sure she likes to meet her fans."
"Even if she is Amy Lovegood, which I'm sure she's not, why on earth would she want to meet her fans? She was a porn star, Dean. Do you really think she wants to meet the mouth-breathers who've jerked off to her movies?"
Dean slumps down into a chair and finishes off his bagel, deflated. "Not even if they're as good looking as I am?"
Sam shakes his head, mouth twitching in amusement. "Not even then, Dean."
"Killjoy."
"Someone's got to be. And do you really want to get pinched when she calls the cops on you for sniffing her underwear?"
"Whatever." Dean grabs the newspaper and sorts through it until he finds the sports section. "See if I let you have any fun next time you want to."
"I'm a killjoy, remember?" Sam rolls his eyes. "I don't know how to have fun."
"True." Dean nods and then ducks when Sam throws the crumpled up foil from his bagel at his head.
*
Michele tells them they can stay in the apartment for a few days, and Dean's enjoying their visit to the lap of luxury. He hangs out in the lobby with Omar the doorman before his morning bagel run, and though he doesn't see Amy Lovegood again, Omar fills him in on all the juicy gossip in the building. Apparently, being a doorman has its own perks.
He and Sam go to the park--it's nice when all the kids are in school--and Sam takes a lot of pictures with the digital camera Dean got him (Sam doesn't ask where it came from and Dean doesn't tell). They take in the Yankees-Orioles game at the new stadium, and Dean enjoys bitching about how much everything costs, how they don't sell beer after the seventh inning, how completely unfair it is that the Yankees can spend their way into the playoffs, and how crowded the subway is on the way back to the apartment. Sam nods and grunts and pretends to pay attention, and walks around with his hands shoved into his pockets and his head tipped back to look up at the buildings rising like something out of a fairytale in the darkness.
Despite Omar's strenuous objections, each morning, Dean buys breakfast for homeless Abraham Lincoln and spends a few minutes shooting the shit with him. The guy is crazy and he smells terrible, but he's got more theories about the Lincoln assassination than anyone Dean's ever met. Dean likes to tell Sam about them over breakfast, mostly because he likes the way Sam laughs when he hears that John Wilkes Booth was a terminator sent back from the future to kill the president.
When the guy isn't in his usual spot on Friday morning, Dean misses him.
"What happened to Abe?" he asks Omar, who shrugs.
"Ms. Garrett took him to a shelter, I think. She's good like that. Does a lot of work with the homeless."
"Ms. Garrett?"
Omar gives him a sly smile and taps the side of his nose. "You know who I mean."
Dean grins, because he does.
*
There's a video store next to the bagel shop--Dean didn't realize people still rented videos, what with Hulu and torrents--and he easily finds copies of Amy Lovegood's movies on sale on DVD.
"Oh, man," the clerk, a slacker in his early twenties, says. "These were my first pornos."
"She lives in the neighborhood," Dean replies, grinning as he uses Charles Malick's credit card to pay for the movies.
"Really?"
"Dude, yeah. She--" He stops, remembering what Sam said about whether she'd want to meet her fans; he can kind of see Sam's point. He shrugs. "It's probably not her."
The clerk nods and bags his purchases. "I'll keep an eye out. We do get famous people in here sometimes."
Dean takes the bag. "You do that."
He doesn't expect to see the guy hassling her the next morning while she's walking her dog.
"Hey," Dean says, feeling responsible. The clerk gives him the thumbs up, but Dean shakes his head. "Leave the lady alone."
"Dude, it's Amy Lovegood."
"I'm afraid you're confusing me with someone else," she says, trying to get away, but dickhead movie rental clerk guy grabs onto her dog's leash and won't let her.
"I don't think so," he says, taking a step closer to her. "You look exactly the same as you did in Spank Me. That's some awesome plastic surgery."
"Dude," Dean says, more forcefully this time, pulling out one of his fake badges and flashing it at the guy. "I said, leave the lady alone."
The guy lets go, muttering, "For a fucking porn star, you're one stuck up bitch."
"She's still a person, fuckface," Dean says, congratulating himself for not giving into the urge to punch him out. "Now go the hell away."
The guy walks back to the video store, still muttering, and Dean turns to Amy Lovegood with an apologetic smile. "Sorry about that."
She gives him a tight smile in return. "Thanks."
Dean figures this isn't the time to tell her how much he's enjoyed her movies over the years, but he does crouch down to pet her yappy little dog, which jumps around like it's on speed when he does. He's always been a dog person. He straightens up and says, "You take care now," trying to sound like a cop.
Her smile gets a little more genuine at that. "I will."
He watches her walk away, and while he still appreciates the swish of her hips, it's shot through with guilt now.
Of course, later that afternoon, when he's bored, he's not guilty enough not to pop Cheerleaders Are Easy into the DVD player.
Sam refuses to watch with him, though. He's always been picky about his privacy. "Also, you better not jack off on Michele's parents' couch."
Dean shifts, awkward. "Would I do that?" He hadn't planned to, but sometimes these things happen. Especially while he's watching porn.
Sam purses his lips in exasperation. "Yes."
"Yeah, okay, that does sound like something I would do." He settles back, making himself comfortable on the leather cushions. "But this couch probably costs more money than I'll see in my life. Unless I win the lottery, and what are the odds of that?"
Sam shakes his head and huffs a small laugh. "I'm going for a run."
"Be careful."
Sam nods and waves him off. Dean starts the movie, and Amy Lovegood appears on the 52" flat-screen TV in her cheerleader outfit.
Sam stops and turns around. "That's Amy Lovegood?"
"Yeah."
"Are you sure?"
"Dude."
"She looks just like Amelia Lovelace."
"Who?"
"Amelia Lovelace." He says it like Dean should know who that is. Dean raises his eyebrows and cocks his head, wordlessly reiterating his question. Sam shakes his head like he can't believe Dean doesn't know. "She was a B-movie star in the 1920s. I mean, she was no Theda Bara or Mary Pickford, but she starred in over twenty movies from 1923 to 1927, including The Widow and The Attic. Her career fizzled out with the shift from silent films to talkies."
"How do you even know that?" He doesn't know why he's surprised.
"Twentieth Century Cinema with Professor Boudreaux."
"Man, how come I never got to take classes about movies?"
"You never went to college. At Berkeley, there's even a course called Cinema and the Sex Act."
"There are classes where you watch porn? Dude, sign me up."
Sam laughs and grabs the laptop. He does some quick typing and then turns it so Dean can see the screen. The pirate wench in the poster for High Seas Adventure is a dead ringer for the cheerleader currently getting fucked doggy-style in the movie.
"I told you something hinky was going on," Dean says.
Sam opens his mouth and then shuts it again, shaking his head.
*
A quick look at Wikipedia shows them that silent film star Amelia Lovelace was born Amy Garrett in 1902 in Akron, Ohio, and adult film star Amy Lovegood was born Emily Lovelace in Reseda, California in 1976.
"There are probably a few other aliases over the years we don't know about," Sam says.
"You think so, huh?"
Sam rolls his eyes, like Dean's sarcasm isn't even worth a verbal response.
"So what've we got? Shapeshifter?"
Sam shakes his head. "They don't usually keep the same form for more than a week or two. She's had this one for at least a hundred years." They're both quiet for a few minutes, thinking. "Elizabeth Bathory bathed in the blood of virgins to stay young looking," Sam offers doubtfully.
"Wasn't she a vampire, though?"
"Yeah."
"I'm pretty sure the chick I met this morning wasn't a vampire. And what the hell is up with the virgins, anyway? Why does everybody want to kill them?"
"Seriously? This is what you're focusing on right now?"
Dean waves a hand. "It was a rhetorical question. Forget it." He gets up and starts pacing, absently chewing on his thumbnail. "Witch?"
Sam nods. "Witch."
Dean sighs. "I hate witches."
"I know."
*
"You know, we don't really have any proof she's done anything wrong," Sam says as they exit the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor.
"I think looking exactly the same in 2009 as you did in 1923 is proof enough. That's some pretty heavy mojo."
"She could be a great-granddaughter. Okay," Sam concedes as Dean gives him his best are you shitting me? look, "she's pretty exact, more like a clone than a great-granddaughter. But still. It is possible."
"And what else is capable of that kind of thing? I mean, I'm not gonna hold a little plastic surgery and some hair dye against someone who maybe wants to pass for thirty instead of forty, but this is a little extreme."
Sam hums in a way that Dean takes as agreement.
Amy Garrett lives in 29B, and Dean keeps lookout while Sam crouches down to pick the lock.
The door swings open and neither of them is ready for the tiny purse dog to come lunging out like a scary demonic thing. Dean's finger is on the trigger before he realizes it's just the dog, yapping and jumping around his ankles.
"Hey, Pookie, get back here," homeless Abe Lincoln guy says, coming out to see what all the fuss is about. He scoops up the dog and gives them a smile, and Dean's relieved that he's not the one the guy's calling Pookie. "Did Ms. Garrett invite you up for dinner too?" He's cleaned up, and younger than Dean thought he was, probably in his forties. His stringy hair turns out to be light brown and he doesn't reek of body odor and sewage anymore; he's wearing a new shirt that still has the folding creases in it and a neat pair of khakis that are cuffed so he doesn't trip over them.
"Not exactly, Abe."
Sam glances from Abe to Dean and says, "Abe?"
Dean nods. "Sorry. Sam, this guy is the reincarnation of Abraham Lincoln. Abe, this is my brother, Sam." Sam gives him a look like he's the one with the crazy delusions, but he shakes Abe's hand and pastes on a smile that would fool anyone but Dean.
"Nice to meet you," Abe says. "Come on in." He leads them into the apartment, which is similar to the one they've been staying in, except that there are vertical blinds instead of curtains covering the windows, and there are huge skylights where the ceiling should be. "Ms. Garrett, you have some gentleman callers," he says before they can shush him.
Amy Garrett comes out of the bedroom, and even though she's fully dressed in a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans, Dean can't help but remember what she looks like naked. He shakes his head to clear away the images.
Sam doesn't seem to have the same problem. "We're great fans of your work, Ms. Garrett," he says.
"That's very nice, but," she starts but Sam doesn't let her finish.
"I thought you were particularly good in High Seas Adventure," he says. "I did a paper in college comparing it favorably with The Black Pirate."
"I...see."
"Do you?" Dean asks.
She sighs and sinks down onto the white sofa, one hand pulling her hair out of her ponytail so she can twist a wavy lock around her fingers. "I've gotten used to being recognized from the movies I made in the nineties," she gives Dean a sharp look and he nods, "but it's been a long time since I ran into someone who's seen High Seas Adventure."
"Sammy always did have a thing for pirate wenches."
"Shut up, Dean."
"You're not really a cop, are you?"
Dean grimaces. "Not exactly."
"Well, I suppose I had a good run," she says. "Longer than I expected, really. It's harder than you think to live for as long as I have."
Dean glances over at Sam, who doesn't seem to be buying what she's selling either. He does a circuit of the living room and dining room, keeping within Dean's line of sight at all times, and tips his head towards the other rooms. Dean doesn't like it, but he nods tightly, then turns his attention back to Amy Garrett.
"So it's not a curse."
She laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "Not technically, though it hasn't been all beer and skittles, either. I was young and stupid and I made a poor choice. I've been paying for it ever since."
Dean looks around the swank apartment with its great view of the city. "Yeah, you're suffering all right."
"What's going on, guys?" Abe asks, putting Pookie down and joining them.
"Nothing, Abe. We've just got a few questions for Ms. Garrett." Dean shares a concerned look with Sam, who's slipped back into the room holding something behind his back. "Why don't you take Pookie for a walk? We'll be done in a few minutes."
Abe looks at Amy for permission and she nods. "Her leash is hanging behind the door. Oh, and Abe," she takes his hand and squeezes it gently, "take care of yourself."
When he's gone, Sam says, "He was going to be a sacrifice, wasn't he?"
She rubs a hand over her face, diamond ring on her right hand flashing in the sunlight. "Yes. Every year at the harvest moon."
Sam nods, his jaw set in a grim line. "There's an altar set up in the closet in the bedroom," he says. "And this." He produces a framed movie poster, the same one they'd looked at online, of Amelia Lovelace as the Pirate Queen in High Seas Adventure, except that her face is sour and wrinkled beyond recognition, her hair is sparse and white, and her body is withered and sagging.
"Huh." Dean reaches into his pocket for his Zippo. "I think we can take care of this pretty easily." He points his chin at the kitchen. "The sink should work." He turns back to Amy. "You gonna give us any trouble, Ms. Garrett?"
"What chance does little old me have against such big strong men?" she asks, mocking. She produces a cigarette from a box sitting on the end table and says, "Give a girl a light?" Dean reaches down and flicks the lighter. She wraps her fingers around his wrist and holds him there until her cigarette burns orange at the tip. "Don't you even want to know why?" Her eyes are wide and blue, and she doesn't flinch away from his gaze.
Dean has a pretty good idea, even without being told. "Not really."
"I was quite talented, you know. Right up until I decided to bind my soul up in that poster so I could be young and beautiful forever. After that, I couldn't even fake an orgasm worth a damn."
"Don't sell yourself short, sweetheart," Dean says, pulling away. "You've made a lot of sixteen-year-old boys very happy."
"A grand legacy indeed."
Dean keeps waiting for her to put up some kind of fight, but she just sits on the couch and smokes her last cigarette, staring out at the late afternoon sunshine reflecting off the buildings. Her eyes are bright, or maybe that's also a reflection. She doesn't cry.
Sam pops the poster out of its frame and lays it across the sink. He pours a circle of salt around it, and Dean tries to ignore the way the woman on the poster seems to be cowering. He lights the corners and he and Sam watch as the flames blacken and consume the brittle old paper.
When there's nothing left but ash, Sam washes it down the drain.
Amy Garrett, looking all of her hundred and seven years, is slumped over on the couch, ashy cigarette dangling from her limp hand. Dean takes it and stubs it out in the crystal ashtray, and then arranges her gently on the couch, her body like a bundle of old sticks. He yelps when her eyes open, and her gnarled and liver-spotted hand comes up to cup his cheek.
"Thank you," she wheezes, and her breath smells like decay and smoke. "I never would have done it myself." Her eyes flutter closed, and he can feel the life seep out of her as she sinks down into the cushions.
"Huh," he says again, thumb brushing over his lower lip pensively.
"Yeah," Sam says, taking his elbow and leading him out of the apartment.
*
Michele's parents are due back from St. Barts in the morning, so Dean gets his stuff all packed up, surprised at how easily they spread out in the apartment after only being there for four days. He leaves the pile of Amy Lovegood movies next to the DVD player.
"I could get used to this," he says, looking around the apartment one last time as they're leaving.
"Nah," Sam says with a small smile and brief squeeze of Dean's shoulder as he brushes past him out the door. "It's not you."
Abe is back in his spot outside the building, arguing with Omar the doorman about Pookie the purse dog.
"She told me to walk him," Abe is saying. "I couldn't let the lady down."
"Take good care of him, Abe," Dean says. "Though you might want to think about giving him a new name."
"It was an honor and a privilege, gentlemen," Abe says, giving them a salute. "You've served your country well."
"Thanks, Abe. That means a lot, coming from you." Sam nudges him in the ribs, but the thing is, Dean actually means it. Sure, the guy's bugfuck nuts, but he doesn't have a mean bone in his body, and Dean appreciates that more than he'd ever admit. He returns Abe's salute, gives Pookie one last pat on the head, and shakes Omar's hand before he walks away.
They're in the car--there's not a scratch on her (Dean did a thorough inspection before he paid the attendant), and damn, Dean is glad to be back behind the wheel--crawling north on the FDR, when Sam turns on the radio.
"Silent screen star Amelia Lovelace was found dead in her West Side apartment this evening. After a brief run of success in the 1920s, Lovelace faded into obscurity, but she lived to the ripe old age of--"
Dean pushes Live at Leeds into the tape deck and "Substitute" blares out. In the rearview mirror, the receding city gleams in the deepening twilight.
When the song is over, Sam says, "So, is Johnny Depp next?"
Dean glances over at him and grins. "Bite your tongue, Sammy! Johnny Depp would never resort to black magic to keep his manly good looks."
"Uh huh."
"Keanu Reeves, on the other hand..." Sam gives him a surprised look. "What? Even Speed and The Matrix can't make up for Johnny Mnemonic. Not to mention those two sequels."
"I told you, Dean, the sequels don't exist."
"Maybe we should salt and burn those."
Sam laughs, loud and bright over the rumble of the engine. "Maybe we should."
end
~*~
Note: Title and cut text from Shakespeare's Antony and Cleopatra, Act II, scene ii, line 271-272; the prompt I used was The picture of dorian gray.
~*~
Feedback is adored. Thanks to the people who've commented already. ♥
~*~
I picked up this pinch hit because I already had this idea for a Picture of Dorian Gray story, and it seemed like a good way to get it written. There was another prompt on her list, about cities at night, and I thought, hey, I can add that in, make it take place in Manhattan, and write about the city, too. Which is why the story starts the way it does.
I was going for a noir ambiance; I wanted to make it kind of melancholy and elliptical and, well, noirish, and that worked right up until Dean opened his mouth. Okay, no, it worked a little longer than that - the first scene in the garage is brief enough not to disrupt the atmosphere, but as soon has he went all Troy McClure, I was like, Oh, Dean, you are hopeless. And I played around with rewriting it, because I really wanted to hold onto that ambiance - the show certainly has a lot of noir tendencies - but Dean was just determined to be dorktastic. Which, I admit, I find amusing, and when I write, amusing myself is the key - if I am amused, I will keep writing. When I'm bored or irritated, I find a million reasons to not write. And since it was a pinch hit that needed to be done quickly, I kept going. I also liked the idea that it was Dean's ridiculous and kind of embarrassing (to Sam, at least) knowledge of porn that led to them stumbling over the case. I figured the title and cut-text were a sure tip-off as to what was going on. And I really thought the whole thing was obviously me - set in NYC, a case they stumble on while taking a break, with a MOTW that was vaguely sympathetic and who didn't really fight back.
I wish I'd been able to flesh out the original characters a little more - homeless Abe Lincoln and Omar the doorman were very clear in my head, but I don't know how well they actually translated to the page. Amy Garrett was played by Amy Adams in my head, all soft and pretty on the outside, but with a backbone of pure steel. I knew I didn't really want her to fight them once they showed up, but of course she had to get some mocking commentary in.
I think the thematic elements speak for themselves, both the commentary on what young women will put themselves through in order to remain beautiful, and also the parallel with Sam and Dean, and how selling your soul always has unforeseen - and generally unwelcome - consequences.
I didn't hear from the recipient, so I don't know what she thought, but I really like how it turned out.
~*~
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