Vaudeville Isn't Dead
The old theater was born in the heyday of vaudeville. Nearly a century has passed, and it's been through numerous incarnations. Although shabby now, its long-ago glory echoes in the pipe organ that sends tarnished brass pipes ceiling-ward to the left of the stage. The plasterwork on its walls has been painted flat sky blue, though baroque medallions are still visible at intervals. Far above, the vaulted ceiling is indigo, adorned with gilt stars that twinkle faintly in the gloom as tiers of faded blue velvet seats descend toward the orchestra pit.
The vast space is dark now, save for a spotlight slicing down from the balcony to illuminate the stage. The deep blue curtains are mostly open, the gold-fringed border tarnished and sagging in places. They frame an expanse of black flooring and props for a magic act--a large steamer trunk, a trolley with a coffin-like box on it and a saw atop that, and a stool squarely downstage center with a black silk top hat, a wand, and a pair of gloves.
Backstage, the door to the alley creaks. There's a shuffling of booted feet, then two figures appear on the boards, entering stage right. The first one to enter is a young man wearing a leather jacket and carrying a small device in his hand. He is followed closely by another young man, who looms over him by half a head. He leans over the shoulder of his companion to see what the hand-held contraption is doing. He mutters a discreet question, keeping his voice low, but the first man on stage is much bolder.
"It isn't doing anything, Sam," he says, loudly enough to be heard clearly in the balcony. "Those bozos at the cafe were probably trying to drum up more of an audience for their show. Just because this place is old, doesn't mean it's haunted. The EMF is quiet--see for yourself!"
He hands the device to the second man, whose brow knots with concentration as he looks at the display. Meanwhile, the first man is examining the props on the stool with interest. He picks up the top hat and says with gusto, "Hey, Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat!"
Sam sweeps the EMF close to the hat. "Nothing," he sighs. "Put it back, Dean, and let's go check that organ."
Ignoring him, Dean settles the hat on his head and picks up the wand. "Lighten up a little, will you?" He waves the black lacquered stick. "Presto change-o!"
There's a sudden bang, and a cloud of pearl-grey smoke envelopes the stage. Dean coughs. "Son of a bitch!" he exclaims. "My bad, Sammy...Sam? Sam!"
When the smoke clears, Dean stands alone on the stage. The hat and wand are back in their proper places on the stool. He calls again for his brother, and moves to the edge of the stage to look down into the deserted orchestra pit. He scans stage right, towards the ancient organ, then, as he turns back, the top hat moves. He stares at it as it wobbles a bit, then tumbles down from its perch.
Something white squirms free of its silken depths--it's the biggest rabbit Dean has ever seen. It's the size of a pug, maybe bigger. It's white, fluffy, and has bright green eyes.
"Sam?" Dean breathes.
The rabbit glances in his direction, makes a noise in its throat that sounds like it's scolding him, and begins hopping away, stage left.
"Sam, wait!"
A figure steps from behind the indigo folds of the curtain, intercepting the bunny. The magician is dressed in a parody of the traditional stage garb. Instead of a tuxedo, he's wearing black cargo pants and a tee shirt printed to look like a tux.
Deftly, he catches the bunny by the ears and scoops it up, his other hand going underneath the rabbit to support its hindquarters. "Hello, Bunny," he says, smiling at Dean as he cradles the rabbit. "Hello, Dean."
Dean's hands have become fists, but he doesn't move closer. "Trickster," he says flatly.
"Nice to see you again," the Trickster says, not perturbed by the hostile tone. "Nice to see you, too," he coos to the animal he's holding. "You look hungry, Bun."
Shifting the fluffy white bundle in his arms, he pulls a bouquet of brightly colored tulips from his left sleeve. The rabbit sniffs at them and sneezes.
"Not to your taste?" inquires the magician. From a screen-printed pocket, he produces a bunch of carrots.
One large white paw pushes the orange spears away, and the bunny turns its green eyes on the Trickster. "Okay, okay," he says, reaching into one of the cargo pockets and coming out with a china plate that holds a hefty slice of cake. Carrot cake, no doubt.
The bunny perks up and dives face-first into the treat.
"So, Dean, how's tricks?"
"You'd know," Dean says, sounding as grim as he looks.
"What are you boys doing here? Here I thought you'd be running around trying to break that deal of yours. What've you got left, two weeks?"
Dean takes a deep breath, aware that getting Sam returned to normal is only going to happen with the demi-god's help. "We stopped for lunch at that café up the block," he explains, struggling not to snarl at the other man. "There were a bunch of people in costumes at the next table, talking about the weird shit going on here. We thought we'd take a look. Here we are."
The rabbit raises its head from the remains of the cake and squirms, getting comfortable. Trickster tosses the plate in the air and snaps his fingers; it disappears. Meanwhile, the cake-stuffed bunny is nestled belly-up in the crook of his arm, whiskers messy with cake and frosting. It begins grooming itself, oblivious to the conversation.
"Just can't stop that do-good impulse, huh? I'd say it demonstrated an admirable work-ethic, if you hadn't tried stabbing me that time. Tsk-tsk." The bunny responds to the scolding tone with a chirr of its own, and Trickster chuckles and rubs its fluffy stomach.
"Don't do that!" Dean says. It's disturbing to see the rabbit--who's supposed to be his brother--writhing with pleasure in their enemy's arms.
"Why not? Look, I'm just here to take the Mickey out of the not-so-fabulous Flanagan. He thinks he's going to be the next Pavarotti, but he's strictly barbershop quartet and a schmuck to boot."
"Turn him back."
"Back? Back into what?" the magician teases.
"Back into my brother!"
The provokes a laugh. "Into your brother? What fun would that be? To be perfectly honest with you, I'm not that impressed with the great Sam Winchester. All this talk about how brainy he is, how he could lead the armies of darkness…I don't see it. On the other hand, I've known a lot of people who didn't have the wits of sheep and you'd be amazed at how many of them thrive on power: politicians, CEOs, the clergy…."
The giant hare is embarrassing Dean. Sam-the-bunny is lolling in the Trickster's embrace, cuddling against him…. "Sam, for god's sake, stop that!"
Trickster's smile broadens. "Your brother needs to have a good time more often," he remarks. "He takes things much too seriously. Like that business down in Broward--he was going bananas about his big brother dying.
"Of course, you haven't exactly set a good example--that deal of yours? Hello?! Eternal soul, torments of hell? What's up with you two that you don't understand the idea of 'Dead is dead.'? No do-overs. At least not…well, never mind that." He purses his lips, looking as if he's going to blow Dean a kiss.
"This little bunny, on the other hand, isn't stressed about anything." He strolls upstage to the big box on the trolley, the one with the saw on top. Somehow, he's gotten the wand again, and he flourishes it, shrinking the box to something more like a glorified shoebox with holes at either end.
The lid pops up, and Trickster plops the rabbit inside, stretching it so that its big snowshoe feet are peeping out at one end, while its head sticks out the other. The hare protests mildly as the lid closes in on it, ears wig-wagging, then its ears droop and its eyes close.
"See? A nice snack, and now it's time for a little nap. Let's be vewwy, vewwy quiet."
Trickster waves his wand at the saw, and even though this is one of the oldest magic tricks in the book, Dean saw that rabbit go into the box; there was no stunt bunny in there and he knows what this joker is capable of--he can't watch. "Don't do it," he begs, staring out to the empty rows of seats, because if he doesn't look, it won't really happen.
"Dean," the Trickster says firmly. "Look at me. You need to see this. No fooling around."
"Don't do it," he implores, turning around to face the demi-god. The saw is suspended over the box as if held by invisible wires. "Please, don't do it. Please."
"What's in it for me?" The magician's smile is flirtatious. "Your soul? Oops, I forgot, that's not an option." The hand holding the wand describes a lazy circle and the saw quivers. So does Dean. "Souls are an over-rated commodity anywho. I won one in a poker game last week, and I have no idea what to do with the damned thing, no pun intended. I know--how about your car?"
Dean fishes around in his jacket pocket, holds up the car keys. Now the saw rests in a groove that bisects the box, and he's light-headed with dread.
"You would, wouldn't you?"
"I'm eleven days away from not needing a car or anything else," Dean answers, one eye on the Trickster and the other on the gleaming metal of the saw blade. "You can have her, just don't hurt Sam, please."
"Nah, I can't take your car. It's not my style, for one thing. I've got a Lamborghini Alfredo. You know what that is?"
"Something over-priced and Italian," Dean replies without enthusiasm.
"It's a red sports car with cheese sauce!" giggles the Trickster. "Vintage muscle cars aren't nearly as much fun. And besides, I've always wanted to do this!"
He gestures with the wand again, and there's a burst of basso profundo organ music. Dean starts, casting a wild glance at the instrument--there's no one there, of course--and the music sounds vaguely familiar, like cartoon music. Something he associates with Elmer Fudd….
"Kill the wabbit!" warbles the Trickster. Before Dean can move, the saw descends in a sweeping arc and the bunny screams falsetto.
Scarlet spray slashes Dean's face and he smells copper.
Trickster spins both halves of the trolley independently, blood dripping from each half of the small carcass.
Dean stares at the carnage in disbelief. It was all for nothing. The Deal, this whole year of anxiety--Sam is dead, really most sincerely dead. Dean's failed in the one thing he's dedicated his life to. He might as well present himself at the crossroads tonight; he's already in Hell.
The magician stands, waiting. "Well? Going to come after me? Kill me again? What?"
"What good would that do?" His voice is barely audible, barely carrying to the footlights, much less the balcony. "He's gone, right? No do-overs. You win."
"No, you win. Finally, one of you gets it."
There's another clap of thunder, accompanied by another fogbank of smoke. As it dissipates, there's a chalky aroma, as if hundred erasers were all beaten together at once, but there's no dust in its wake--no Trickster, either. The trolley once again holds an adult-sized box with a saw on top of it.
There's no blood, and no dead rabbit.
He hears banging, and the sides of the steamer trunk fall away. Sam sprawls onto the stage, gasping. "Where did he go? I'm gonna kill him, Dean!"
"Like hell!" Dean is almost sick with relief at the sight of his brother alive, without fur, in one piece. "Come on, Sam, let's get our asses out of here."
"That little twerp--"
"Sam, move! I'll knock you on your ass and drag you out of here if I have to. I don't want to hear it!" The Trickster has redefined the saying "Live and let live" for Dean, and he's not about to let Sammy embroil them in another round of a fight they won't win.
The younger Winchester holds up the EMF. "What about--?"
"I don't care if the ghost of Gypsy Rose Lee is doing a matinee show--in white satin pasties. We're outta here." He herds Sam off the stage and back the way they came.
"What was going on while I was in that trunk?" Sam wants to know as they exit the backstage door and stride down the alley to the street. "I could hear your voices, but they were muffled. Then I swear I heard that pipe organ playing 'The Ride of the Valkyries'. It was weird."
"You think that was weird? I thought you were--" Dean stops. They've reached the Impala, and there, sitting on the driver's seat, is a bunch of tulips. In the other seat is a small pile of carrots. "If I never see that guy again, it'll be too soon."
From an oblique vantage point near the theater's ticket booth, the magician watches their departure with interest. "Well, that was an amusing diversion," he says with satisfaction.
"Is he the one you were telling me about?" Cuddled by his side is a petite young woman with platinum blonde hair. The white leotard she's wearing with tights has a smattering of crumbs on the bodice, and her curvy figure attests that lettuce is not the mainstay of her diet.
"That's him," nods the demi-god as the glossy black car eases into traffic. "Boy, is he in for a surprise! Heh heh, I knew that demon was bluffing."
The magician's assistant giggles. "You're good at surprises," she says, her green eyes twinkling.
"Yeah, I am. I can see it now…" His voice takes on the cadence of a carnival barker. "It's midnight at the crossroads. He's waiting, tense, anxious, alone--in the distance, he hears the baying of the hellhounds, coming closer, closer, coming for him. Their glowing red eyes, sharp fangs, they're racing toward him, slavering for blood, ready to tear him apart, leaping--" He pauses.
"Then what?" the girl asks eagerly.
Trickster chuckles. "A little presto change-o in mid-air, and Dean Winchester goes down in a dog-pile of bunnies."
"But they're not really going to tear him apart, are they?"
"I wouldn't do that, Bunny." He bends over to kiss a smear of frosting from her cheek. "I like Dean--even when he's having a bad hare day."