Sam Winchester hunched over his computer. He scowled at the local news he was reading, glanced up to find Dean absorbed in a copy of Guns and Weapons - he appeared to be entranced by the centerfold - and ignoring his brother. Sam surreptitiously opened an email account. Kept the scowl plastered on his face even as he eagerly opened a new email.
To: Winnie the Boo AT yahoo dot com
From: Bloody Hand AT gmail dot com
Date: October 15, 2006
Re: $$$ Bustin' makes ya feel good
Hey boys. I hear you can use cash. I know a guy who can use that voodoo that we do, and me, I got something to do that's not where I am now. You interested?
Love
Charlie Brown
To: Bloody Hand AT gmail dot com
From: Winnie the Boo AT yahoo dot com
Date: October 16, 2006
Re: $$$ Bustin' makes ya feel good
First of all Charlie, you tell Dean about that email account and you are dead. Or at least you'll want to be. Remember The Prank Wars of 1995? Desert Worm? You do not want me on your tail. So, the account? Rifleman AT gmail dot com. Just between you and me. You send the next note to, got it?
Now . . . what's this job op? Better not be another pyramid marketing scheme for anti-werewolf charms.
Love Charlie? Are you feeling okay?
Sam
It was a different motel room and Sam had a cast on his right hand. He yawned, idly playing with his thumb until it made the broken bone in that hand ache. Clicked on his email, frowned at the spam, switched to a different account and grinned. "Hey Dean. Tell me what you think of this . . ."
To: Rifleman AT gmail dot com
From: Blood Hand AT gmail dot com
Date: October 16, 2006
Re: $$$ and no sales required.
Hey Boys,
I'm on a job and lookin' for a subcontractor. It's down here in New Orleans, and I figure it's right up your alley. Little bit of preventive maintenance, stand around, change a little a this, a little a that, and grab the money and run. Read the attached contract and lemme know . . . .
October 30, 2006
Dean Winchester lifted a hand to run it through his hair and grimaced as it stuck in the thick gunk liberally caked on his hair, clothes, neck, face . . . just about everywhere. He eyed his brother and the drying goo cracked as one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. "I'd tell you to remind me to never take another paying job, but it's your fault I look like an extra in a Ghostbusters gross ghost scene."
Sam was riffling through one fat envelope, even though he knew exactly how many crisp and not-so-crisp green twenties were in there. "You should be thanking me. In one week we just earned more than you could make in a month of those crappy pool games you play -"
"Which, may I point out, you tried to give BACK to the guy!"
"He overpaid us." Sam looked up with an expression of baffled good humor. "It'd be dishonest not to give it back."
Dean stared at him, green eyes blinking balefully in a tiny island of almost-clean skin. "You can't really be that clueless."
"He gave us a good job!"
"He hired us to shotgun every spook, spirit, slimer, and entity of unnamed nastiness that could fuck with building that house! TWO WEEKS OF BORING HOT STICKY hell, Sam! Not to mention that I don't think I've EVER been this filthy in my entire life! And that INCLUDES that dip I took in the sewer river with that woman in white who had the hots for you." He sniffed, then snickered. "She should see you now. She might go to hell just to avoid you like a chick on a bad date."
"Looked in a mirror lately?" Sam pointed at him and flinched as his clothing made an unpleasant, smacking-lips noise when he lifted his arm. "On second thought, the mirror might crack."
Dean sighed. "Little brother. Innocent child. Beloved sibling. You are full of crap. In the first place, our former employer did NOT lose count and include a few hundred by accident. That's called a TIP. You get it for saving them from being slimed like we were."
Sam opened his mouth but Dean steam-rollered over him. "In the second place, he did not give us a good job. He gave us a shitty, gawdawful, crappy job to keep casper off his back. We got stuck fragging the sucker, while he got the house built so he can make a lot of money and keep the buyer from suing his ass."
He ticked off another finger. "In the third place, unlike you, some of us are so handsome that no amount of spirit slime and ectoplasmic slobber can totally obliterate it. Can't blame the ghosts for wanting to touch this."
"Ahhh. I suppose that explains the levitated two by four," noted Sam, tapping his forehead in a spot mirroring the bruise Dean hard earned the day before in the middle of a banishing.
"Love tap," replied Dean without breaking stride. He held up a fourth finger, "And finally, we are in Coullion. In case you hadn't noticed, EVERYBODY here looks like they've dug their way out of their graves. It's what happens when you're stupid enough to take an honest job doing shit work like tearing down moldy heaps of hurricane blight." Dean looked up at the sky and threw his hands out. "And to any spirits listening, I'm sorry that fuckin' hurricane stomped shit out of your city but go haunt George-fucking-BUSH cause I really need a beer right now!"
Sam watched the show, rocking back and forth from heel to toe and eyeing the passers-by, none of whom appeared to find Dean's histrionics worth noticing. "Are you done making a spectacle of yourself?"
Dean dropped his arms and cocked his head, looking back. "I think so. I'm too tired to be much more spectacular than I am just standing here."
The younger brother stared at him a moment, mentally cataloguing the tired slump of the shoulders, stubble visible only because it made a good surface for ectoplasm to stick to, hair in gluey spikes from the same stuff that was liberally coating both of them. Dean had wiped the stuff away from his eyes - actually, it was more like he'd smeared it thin over his eyes - and it looked like a weird mask against the dark greenish gloop covering his face, throat, chest . . . pretty much everywhere. The eyes peering out of that mask were bloodshot and tired-looking and nothing disguised that. Sam smiled ruefully. "I guess it was a pretty crappy job, wasn't it?"
"Yeah." Dean slumped a little more as he sighed out the breath. "Sam. I really, really want a beer."
"Guess we'd better get that shower then."
Dean looked around, then back to him with an expression of skeptical disbelief. Sam followed his gaze, taking in a beaten up street that might have been a nice, unpretentious neighborhood at one point. Today, a hot late October sun beat down on the remains of houses like rotten teeth jutting up at regular intervals. Moldy, stinking wood and chunks of plaster were strewn across the battered yards. Here and there a dead appliance still sprawled, giant X's of spraypaint warning that it wouldn't be wise to open them. The street itself was claustrophobic, a narrow channel running between curbs piled high with the remains of the gutted homes. A few lots had new, shiny homes rising up, perched on high foundations, but in a way those just made the wreckage look worse, like the brave attempts were doomed. Sam almost rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes but stopped, grimacing with distaste at the caked filth on his own hands. These had been old houses, and their remains were haunted by old, and angry, spirits. He looked back up to his brother. "No shower?"
Dean shrugged. "You've got to get your priorities straight, Sam. Beer first. Shower later."
"Priorities." Sam watched him grin, spin on the battered heel of his boot and walk off. He sighed and followed. It was a walk, several minutes that would be lovely on a cool, winter day, and were sticky and hot here, with his crusty clothes rubbing sore spots on his skin. But Dean had his priorities, all right, and one of them was the Impala. The car was parked safely distant from the dust and dent dangers of a streetful of construction crews and assorted, random strangers. Dean briefly polished a smudge on the trunk before opening it up and slinging in the duffel full of assorted holy water, salt, fetishes, religious symbols, lighter fluid and other tools of the trade that they usually just got out of the car . . . but if the car needed protection, then they carried it. Mules. Sam rolled his eyes. Priorities.
"Ahh, I AM brilliant." Dean had stripped off his light overshirt, tossing the handgun from the back of his waistband into the trunk. Sam wondered for a moment how he'd hidden it from the construction crew, then figured he probably hadn't. Down here anything seemed to go. Dean's t-shirt, sticky and stained with dark, unwholesome looking stuff, followed the other shirt, leaving him standing there in the sun showing off that weird mix of night-hunter pallor and farmer's tan or sunburn in this case. Sam smirked. Dean had already bitched plenty about his younger brother's ability to freckle, then tan, as opposed to his own sunburn-first complexion. The ghost muck must have made the sunburn itch because he was scratching it with a vengeance. Sam slapped his hand away as he reached in for a clean shirt of his own. "Stop that. It'll get infected."
"Nag, nag, nag." Dean jerked on a shirt, getting in a last scratch. "Good as new."
"If new means being slathered in . . ." Sam stopped, trying to think of a sufficiently disgusting word. Finally gave up. "Okay. NOW can we get your beer?"
"Pushy." Dean grinned, pulled open his door with that familiar metal creak, sliding in carefully. Sam wrinkled his nose. The Impala seats had garbage bags taped to them to keep the upholstery pristine. It made the car stink of Hefty bags and Dean would bitch if he pulled the tape loose and imperiled the leather. As he'd learned on a rainy, stinking night when they'd gotten one house's former residents to accept that their home and their bodies were both rotting husks that should be abandoned - after a liberal dose of salt, kerosene and fire, of course.
The car rumbled, vibrating with the engine's growl so the late day sunlight bouncing off the hood flickered into Sam's eyes and made him squint. He shifted, eased the seam of his jeans where it dug into his skin and sighed. Then snorted at the smells of garbage bags and the faint odor of old death that ghosts left behind. "Sure I can't talk you into the hotel?"
"It's the wrong direction." Dean's hands flexed on the wheel as he glanced back and pulled out, carefully piloting his car over the cleanest asphalt path he could find down the street. SUV drivers and Jeep jockeys shouted and a few of the guys on their crew hooted and whistled. Dean gunned the engine just a hint and grinned, happily brandishing a middle finger salute out the window. "Assholes."
Sam relaxed back, finally finding a grin. "Gotta agree with you on that one, bro. So. Obviously you're a man with a plan."
"Damn straight. Beer, my imperial whifflesnoot, beer!"
"Crap!" Sam choked, then hooted. "I can't believe you! Archy and Mehitabel? Dean, did you really just quote Archy and Mehitabel?"
"Of course. It's about beer and pussy."
"Pussy CATS Dean." Sam leaned forward as Dean pulled the car cautiously up to a corner that might once have had a light, but was now a free for all. Peered around the rusted domestic cars and battered SUVs parked in front of trailers hunkered on trash-strewn lots. "Did they make you read it in school?"
"Hell no." Dean gunned the engine, racing through the intersection. "I memorized it the year that old bat tried to get us to do Emily Dickenson. Spouted the stuff any time she asked for recitals. For a bit there I thought she was about to snap and go for my throat." He sighed and shook his head regretfully. "But then she just changed from chick lit to war poetry. I actually got A's on that shit. Ruined a perfect C record."
"I remember that. Dad looked like he'd swallowed a live frog."
"Yeah, I screwed up big with that one." Dean pulled them onto a busier road, crowded with hastily repaired or built hotels and battered restaurants with full parking lots. "Once they figured out I could get A's and wasn't just slow, they kept hassling me to study."
"Why didn't you?" Sam cracked his knuckles and eased the muscles at his neck. "I never got that. It would have been easy for you."
Dean shot him a disdainful look. "Kind of the point dude. Any fool can get an A if he does the work. It takes real SKILL to keep a completely perfect C average, no failures and no A's, for three straight years. You have no idea how hard I worked at that."
"Not to mention no one's going to bug you to work a little harder or apply to college." Sam kept his voice carefully neutral.
Not that the effort was needed. Dean shot him a gleaming, tooth-bared grin that made the dirt on his face crack just a little. "Bingo, Sammy. I knew you were the bright one in the family."
"Right." Sam snorted down his nose. Then sat up. "Bubba's Po-Boys"
Dean's face lit in a genuine smile of relief and anticipation. "Yeahhhh. I can feel the beer vibes from here. And food . . ."
"Ah." Sam raised his eyebrows, scratched at a flaky, itchy patch of peeling sunburn (or something he didn't want to think about) and tried to imagine what quantity of food would put that tone of respectful lust in Dean's voice. He fished, "Hope it survives us. I don't know about you but I'm starving."
"Patience, grasshopper." Dean drummed on the wheel and his grin turned sharkish. "Don't worry. They won't eat all the shrimp before we get there."
Dean might have been starving but he was taking his own sweet time finding a parking spot. Admittedly, the lot was full, but he pulled past a few spots that would have taken the Impala - albeit with not much clearance on either side. Sam narrowed his eyes. "How about that one?"
"You see the dents on the yahoo parked on the driver's side? If he comes out first I won't have a door left."
"Why are you doing this? You aren't this careful when you're hunting."
"Werewolves have the good sense not to leave door dings on my baby."
Sam snorted. "Reasons for hunting. Avenge a death, seek glory, blood lust, car . . . Oh yeah."
"One of these days you'll grow up and get a REAL car and you'll learn to appreciate this," noted Dean in a serious, older-brother's-wisdom voice.
"You're being a jerk," sniped Sam as he watched another single spot go by.
"Then I'm a jerk in a classic car," purred Dean as he suddenly whipped the Impala diagonally across two parking spots.
"It's so rude."
"Thank you."
"Jeeze, Dean. It's embarrassing to be in a car with you." Sam peered around, relieved to find no one looking as he scooted out of the car as much as a 6'4" man could scoot, and stepped away far enough to claim plausible deniability in regards to Dean's parking. His brother, by contrast, made a languid exit involving much stretching and arching of his back, before slamming his door and locking it. There was a last lean-down-and-look to make sure Sam's door was also locked, then Dean sauntered towards the battered shack that was Bubba's Po-boys.
Sam jogged to catch up. They'd parked far enough away to justify a jog. He shook his head again, then eyed Bubba's warily. "Dean, they'll probably survive us, but will we survive them?"
"Do you see any ambulances parked around?" A wave took in the parking lot. "We'll be fine."
"Ptomaine palace," muttered Sam.
"Beats hell out of those wheat grass and tofu bars you like, Sammy." Dean pulled open a screen door that had been repaired with duct tape over the tears.
It was dark. Very dark. Sam blinked, feeling the shift in the muscles of his eyes as they gave up on the cut glass brilliance of the sun outside, and got used to the dim, crowded place where he found himself. Ceiling fans looped lazily overhead, and on the far wall, away from the screen door, a couple of ancient window air conditioners rattled and groaned and fought the temperature down just enough to seem cool after the heat of the day.
"Hey Darlin'!" Even in the gloom Sam could see the gleam of his brother's smile as a woman who looked as well-used as the building waved and pointed them to a table. Peanut shells crunched underfoot. The table's wood was finished, but well-scuffed. Dean took the seat that let him see who was walking through the door, of course - he always took the gunfighter's seat. Sam resigned himself to settling into his own chair and leaning back against the wall. The air stank of sweat and peanuts and cigarette smoke and, under it all, something delicious that make his stomach growl loud enough to be heard over the racket.
The sound got a smile from the frowsy blonde who'd made her way over to them. She pulled a ballpoint pen from behind her ear and pointed it at Sam. "Better do somethin' about that before it gets away from ya, sugar. Thing like that could be dangerous."
"Uh . . .yeah . . ." Sam gave her a slightly dazed smile and then let his habitual frown fall into place, wondering where their menus were. Dean leaned his elbows on the table and shot another of those dazzling, articial-as-diet-coke-and-twice-as-tasty smiles at the woman. "Hey Marie. Are the Turbo Dogs still cold and flat?"
"As my grandma's chest. Been frozen.. Makes it a deal by the case." She shifted from one foot to the other and raised a brow. "You still want the usual?"
He looked like he was giving it some thought. "Nah, it's been a tough day. I want the works."
Both her eyebrows went up. "Platter AND a po'boy'"
"Yeah. Big beef still live up to its name?"
She grinned, showing teeth that had been capped more than once. "I guess you'll be finding out."
Her eyes briefly scanned them both and her grin widened. "Times two'"
Dean blinked, considered. "You guys still got that towing rig out back?"
Her laugh was husky and low and as dark as the room. "'case you can't get up after you done? Yeah. And if your engine burns out we can take care a that too."
Dean threw his head back and laughed. "Then definitely make it two! And two Turbo Dogs to start us off."
She nodded, put the pen back behind her ear without having ever written a word and sashayed off, ample hips in counterpoint to ample tits, bright hair shining in the dark room.
"Turbo dogs?"
"Hair of the Dog. Best thing on a hot day."
"Riiight." Sam drummed on the table, looking around carefully. "You've been here before."
His older brother nodded.
"When?"
Dean tipped his head to the side and shot Sam a sly look. "Before."
Sam narrowed his eyes, then gave it up. Interrogating Dean was pointless. He'd stood up to their dad and it'd take more than Sam's hairy eyeball to get him to crack. Then again, as Marie dropped a couple beers in front of each of them, he might just have to bide his time. He grabbed one sweating, chilly bottle and raised it in salute. "To an honest day's work."
"May I never see one again!"
Sam shook his head. "Come on, it wasn't that bad. And it wasn't that honest."
Dean paused, bottle at his lips. "There was no breaking and entering and I didn't have to pick any handcuff locks."
"It was cash, in unmarked envelopes, under the table."
"I got paid. For work. That people knew I was doing and weren't calling the cops for. That's honest."
"What?" Sam shook his head. "You're demented, you do know that, don't you?"
"After a day like this, I completely know it!" Dean took a long pull and sagged back in his chair with a happy sigh. "Remind me never to take an honest job again. Oh, wait, that's right, YOU got me into this!"
Sam was looking around now, eyes better adjusted. And seeing the glances from the corners of several others pairs of eyes. And the clothes, unusually concealing in heat like this. Slight bulges of knives at ankles, and hips. And sometimes wrists. Hands that instinctively reached out and fondled salt shakers, but left the pepper alone unless it was shaken onto a meal. Dirt under fingernails and skin crusted in something more than just dirt. He leaned in closer to Dean, keeping his voice low. "Is it just me, or is this place full of hunters?"
Dean made a circle in the air with the neck of his beer bottle, not bothering to look around. "There's at least eight of us in here, Sammy. Not counting you and me. It's the storm. This kind of uproar's like wars for mercenaries - lots of good jobs if you don't mind getting dirty." He took a sip. "Which, for the record, I do! At least on the normal job I get to decide when and where I need to hit the dirt."
Sam snorted. "You're so full of it. You'd have done this for free."
"I'd have made the schedule if I did it for free!"
"Bitch moan."
"Damn straight." Dean took another long pull. "Place stinks like ectoplasm."
The atmosphere was making Sam wish he'd taken the seat with his back to the wall with all those men, and a few women, scanning the competition. "Have you ever seen anything like this before?"
Dean shrugged. "A little. But . . . not really like this."
Sam dropped his voice just a little lower. "Did you ever check out the World Trade Center?"
Dean finished his first bottle. "I've been there. But it's not like this."
"All those sudden deaths?" Sam paused, hoping Dean would let himself be drawn out.
He was in luck. Dean shrugged. "Lots of dead, yeah, and real sudden and scary, but that was just one big thing. This place . . ." He trailed off.
Sam frowned. "What about it? Voodoo?"
Dean snorted. "You need to cut out the Anne Rice. You're supposed to be the smart one, Sam! This place has been stomped flat before. The hurricanes roll in and knock it all down on their heads and the dead lie there and wait, and finally and people come back and set it up again and Casper fucks with them a while and then it all quiets down until the next hurricane smacks'em in the face, digs up what should've stayed buried."
Sam stared. "This happened before?"
"What? You thought Katrina was the first one? Hell, Katrina wasn't even the LAST one! Rita and Wilma left a few spooks looking for a blue tarp too." Dean shook his head. "I can tell YOU don't read the newsletter."
Sam made a face. "Like you'd read a newsletter even if we had one."
"I totally would and we totally do," Dean intoned solemnly. "If you don't get the 'Stake and Bake' how do you find jobs? I'd be lost without the help wanted ads."
Sam stared at him. Blinked. Then shook his head and wrinkled his nose. "You are full of it! There is no such thing and if there was you couldn't get it because you don't have an address!"
"PO Box," Dean said with a totally straight face but a wicked gleam in his eye.
"Bullshit."
"Absolutely." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards. "But I had you going. Admit it."
Sam groaned. "I should know better than to believe anything you say."
"Yes, you really should." Dean grinned and finished his second beer in one long gulp. "But who am I to disillusion an innocent young mind."
Sam opened his mouth, realized the best he could do would be to put his foot in it, and wrapped his lips around the mouth of his beer bottle instead. Dean made a quick lunge for his second bottle but Sam pulled that one to safety.
"Get your own," He growled, licking foam from his lips.
"I finished mine," whined Dean.
"So ask Marie. She's. . . ."
"Right here," purred the big woman, leaning over past Sam's shoulder to plunk a huge platter of fried shrimp down in front of him. Sam felt his eyes widen and his mouth water. Marie put a second platter in front of Dean and delivered two more bottles of beer and a wink.
"Oh god," Sam crunched through a fried shrimp in delight, closing his eyes, safe in the knowledge that Dean had his own beer and food to keep him busy.
For several long minutes the only sounds were the crunch of shrimp and the rattle and clatter and chatter of Bubba's. When Sam looked up from his food he found both Dean and he had cleared quite a bit of their plates and his stomach wasn't growling anymore. Wasn't full by a long shot, but at least it wasn't threatening outright revolt. He took more time now, to look around. There were plenty of men and women who looked like they lived and worked in the daylight world. Then there were the others.
Some just sat back, salt shaker in their hands, unconsciously shaking a bit out, rubbing it between their fingers, then brushing off their hands. One guy back in the corner was flipping his butter knife over and over, tip, hilt, tip, hilt, like a throwing knife. There were pockets in his canvas vest. Long, narrow pockets. Two women sat at a table in the center, flirting with a man wearing a jacket that was too long and bulky for the Louisiana coast on a warm fall evening.
The toe of a boot tapped his kneecap. Sam jumped and glared at Dean. "What?"
"You're staring."
"That . . ." He gestured in the direction of the man in the coat. "And the . . ." Picking up a salt shaker and waggling it. "And . . ."
"Yeah," Dean cut him off, grinning. "And the chick by the back door scratching at the hair on her palms" Sam glanced over, spotted her sipping a festive margarita before Dean hissed, "Way to be subtle, Einstein. You look like one of those cartoons where the eyeballs pop out."
"I do not!"
"Do to."
"Do not!"
"Hey!" The feminine voice was accompanied by a knuckle rapping the top of his skull. Marie plunked a big, pretty, glass edged with sparkly salt in front of Sam. "Lady says this is for the cute guy flirting with her. Do I need to tell you about the birds and the bees and the wolves and the trees'"
Sam blushed bright red and Dean howled with laughter. Marie bumped Sam's shoulder with her hip. "You gonna give the eyeball to my regulars, I can introduce you to a few. . . " She waggled a penciled-in eyebrow suggestively.
He squirmed, took his drink and shyly nodded thank you then downed a good swallow, licking salt off his lips. Dean snickered. "Hey, long as she doesn't bite ya . . ."
"Will you shut up."
Marie moved around the table, delivering another beer and a light slap to the back of Dean's head. "Finish yer appetizers, boys. You ain't thinking right."
Sam watched her sashay back off with wide eyes. Turned the look on Dean. "She knows."
His brother shrugged. "I never asked. But I know Wash over there" He pointed to a tall man in a t-shirt with a billowing Hawaiian shirt over it, "carries kerosene and matches in his car and doesn't smoke. He also has fifty pound bags of salt. He says it's for the icy sidewalks."
"In Louisiana?"
"And Florida and Mississippi. He drives delivery for a little company in Jacksonville. Wife's got him on a short leash."
Sam turned to look at Wash, who winked at him and juggled a pair of butter knives. Sam turned back. "You know anybody else here?"
"Nah. I only know Wash cause he helped me out. He's the one who told me about this place."
"Ah." Sam rubbed the back of his neck and looked around again, more carefully this time. Blinked, considering the range of people here. "This place is a lot nicer than the roadhouse."
"Foods better, I'll tell you that," chortled Dean as he wolfed down the last of his shrimp. "Ahhh, that took the edge off. Now it's just me and the Might Big Beef."
"You and your beef . . . I'm leaving that one alone." Sam slouched back, nibbling at the last few shrimp on his own plate, sipping the margarita and watching a large man at the bar flirt with the bartender. "But it is nice here. Friendly."
"Southern hospitality. Everyone but the zombies is real glad to see ya."
Sam snorted. "You are an asshole."
"Takes one to know one."
"Oh, what's next? 'I know I am, but what are you?'"
Dean shot him a shiny smile. "I thought about it, but that's the nuclear weapon of sibling arguments. Gotta save that one for those mutally assured dig contests."
"Do you even know what you're talking about?"
"Does it matter?" Dean was looking a little flushed, relaxed and happy.
Sam smiled, slow and wide and turned his chair to lean back against the wall beside him. "No, I guess not."
There were Halloween jack-o-lantern lights and chili pepper lights hung over the bar and along the ceiling, and they glowed rich colors in the gloom of the bar. Pepper red and pumpkin orange shone on the white hair of the big man at the bar as he first peeled the meat ouf the tail of what looked like a little dwarf lobster and then sucked at the guts that were left before throwing the dessicated remains into a bucket. Dean must have been following his gaze because he chuckled. "Crawfish. Mudbugs. Maybe next time, little brother."
"I know what they are," muttered Sam, glaring at him for fun and then relaxing back. "I just forgot. Not real big in California."
"You so lie," sneered Dean in a friendly way. "We never ate'em. Dad hated them. Said it was like eating spiders."
"Oh yeah. 'A hunter lives on meatloaf and revenge.' Remember that?"
"Except it was mac and cheese and revenge in your case. And maybe homework."
"Beats your M&M's." Sam smiled wider as Marie backed out of the kitchen with a tray and two plates piled high with what looked like the mother of all submarine sandwiches. "Let me guess. Po'boys?"
Dean dropped all four of his chair's feet to the floor with an eager look and licked his lips like a cat eyeing a bird. "Show some respect. That's the Mighty Big Beef you're looking at."
Sam grinned wide. "You're drooling."
"You just don't know how to show proper respect."
"I'm sure I'll learn." The big man at the bar had turned to watch Marie go past. He must have said something to her because she suddenly laughed, the sound pealing out through the hubbub in the restaurant, and pointed towards them. The barrel-chested man glanced over his shoulder towards them, a smile crinkling his eyes and putting dimples in his round cheeks.
"Shit!" Across the table Dean had sat up and was rubbing his arms. "They must have turned the air conditioner up!"
Sam drew in a breath of chilled air and it didn't smell of fried food and hot people and a sticky fall evening. It smelled crisp and clean, with a hint of pine and balsam and woodsmoke. Dean suddenly looked up towards the roof. Sam couldn't be bothered to look towards the odd tapping clatter and rattle because the man at the bar had turned around all the way, looking where Marie pointed, and Sam suddenly sat up straight, startled. "Dean?"
Dean was still watching the ceiling. "Damn! What is that?"
"Hey Dean!" Sam leaned over and batted at Dean, long arm easily reaching him. "Take a look!"
"Whaaaat?" Dean drew the word out in an annoyed drawl that made it sound like 'what' had half a dozen syllables. He glared at Sam, raising an eyebrow.
Sam grabbed his chin and turned his face towards the bar. "Tell me who you see?"
Sam could feel Dean's tongue run over his teeth before a patient, hard hand removed his grip - finger by finger - from his brother's chin. "I see tacky lights and people getting drunk and eating and I see dinner."
"No. NO! The man at the bar!"
"Sam, you got something you want to tell me?"
That cold, sweet, crisp breeze ruffled through Sam's hair again and the big man with the white hair turned around and bit down on another crawfish. Sam looked past him to the bar mirror that reflected the room and found himself meeting sparkling eyes. Somehow, even in the darkened bar, he knew they were blue. He swallowed and breathed, "It's Santa."
Dean still had a hand wrapped around Sam's wrist. The fingertips were suddenly resting on his pulse and Dean's other hand was on his forehead. "How many beers did you have?"
"What?"
"Did that margarita taste funny? How long were you out in the sun, anyway?"
"Dean, it's Santa Claus!"
Dean stared at him, then moved a finger back and forth. "Follow my finger."
"Thank you, no. I know better."
"How many fingers am I holding up?"
"One and if you don't stop giving me the middle finger salute I'll break it for you."
"Do you see lizards crawling up the walls?"
Sam glanced over and spotted a little . . .gecko or something scampering. "Yes."
Dean's eyes tracked it too. "Wait, bad example. How about pink unicorns?"
"No. And I am NOT seeing things. Santa is sitting at the bar."
"Biting the tails and sucking the heads," Dean glanced over and then back, a look of pure disbelief plastered on his face.
"White hair, big smile, jolly old elf and all that crap. Exactly the way he's described."
Dean looked over, blinked, looked back. "I have never in my life heard that Santa wears a wifebeater."
"It's HOT!"
"Kind of my POINT."
"I swear, Dean, that is Santa Claus."
Dean shut his eyes, lips moving in silent invocation, then gave Sam a patient, caring, reasonable smile. "Sam. You don't believe in Santa Claus."
"Why not?"
The smile slipped. "What?"
"I believe in werewolves." Sam crossed his arms and lifted his chin, looking down his nose the way only a taller little brother could. "And sirens and selkies and ghosts and even vampires. I don't see why Santa's such a stretch."
"Because he's a fairytale," said Dean in a patient, slow, gentle voice.
"Since when does that stop anything being real?"
"SINCE I SAY SO!"
"And what do you say, honey-bear?" Marie was suddenly there, standing over them both and smiling wide and bright. "What you boys been up to?"
"Being naughty," growled Dean.
She swapped his empty plate for one piled with the biggest sandwich Sam had ever seen. "That's nice."
"It is not."
"Marie?" Sam waited until she turned curious eyes on him and hit her with that slightly shy, apologetic, hopeful smile that had always gotten him extra servings of Salisbury steak and no fees on overdue books. "Marie, I have a question."
"Shoot, sugar," she smiled kindly at him.
"Do you believe in Santa Claus?"
She chuckled. "The way I get my stocking stuffed? You bet I do."
Dean made a rude noise. She never looked away from Sam as her hand smacked out and creased the side of Dean's head. "Behave."
"Damn, woman!" He ducked and growled.
"Whoops. Musta slipped. Be quiet while I talk to the paying customer."
"I'm the one who gets the bill."
"I remember you, Dean Winchester." She shot him a sideways glare. "That smile of yours did NOT make up for the altercation you started."
"Alter-" Sam stopped himself and doggedly stayed on track. "That gentleman you were just speaking with . . .?"
"What, Chris?" She reflexively glanced back, then to Sam as she swapped out his plate too. "Now THAT man knows how to tip."
"Does he live around here?" Sam blinked innocently. Dean slumped back in his chair and took a long draw of beer, grumbling something to himself under his breath.
Marie eyed him. Looked over her shoulder then back at Sam. "He's a regular. Don't you OR your brother," sparing a scowl for Dean, "go messing with my regulars. He eats his shrimp, pays his bills, and drinks his beer just like everybody else. You hear me, you Winchester you!"
Sam sat back, blinking and wide-eyed. "Yes Ma'am I do."
"Good. Eat your food and drink your beer."
She walked away, dirty plates stacked on her tray. Sam watched her lean down, whisper something to Chris, and then walk off as he chuckled so loudly that the people around him started to laugh too, several of them glancing back towards the brothers by the wall. Dean sighed and tapped his bottle against the one Sam hadn't picked up yet in a rueful salute. "She sure did tell us."
"I think I'm scared of her."
"I always said you were smart."
"But Dean, seriously, do you think Chris . . ?"
"Ah!"
"But - "
"Sam. Older brother here, and older brother says shut up and eat."
"But!"
"No." Dean picked up a bottle and pushed it into Sam's hand. "You have food. You have beer. You do not need answers."
Sam stuck out his tongue.
"And I can tell you right now that if that IS Santa Claus, you are going to get COAL in your stocking for disrespecting your older brother like that."
Sam snorted down his long nose and picked up his po'boy. "Bullshit."
"Such LANGUAGE!"
"Like you don't know how to say 'fuck off' in three ancient languages and four modern."
"FOUR ancient languages, thank you very much. And I can say 'eat shit and die' too."
"Regular scholar. You should have been a linguist."
Dean chuckled and grabbed a double-handful of sandwich. "I can tell you now that I would have been one CUNNING linguist."
"God." Sam took a bite of his sandwich and found, to his delight, that it wasn't just a good way to avoid talking to Dean. Better still, it was a good way to keep Dean from talking to him because apparently the Almighty Big Beef had the power to strike even his brother mute. His own roast beef po'boy was a glorious thing, big and delicious and filling. It was more than a match for him and he finally had to put it down, only a little more than half finished. Dean had long since slowed down and was nibbling gradually like he couldn't quite bring himself to NOT eat just a little bit more, but he left more on his plate than Sam did. Heh.
They finally both gave up, leaning back, to-be-leftovers on their plates. And looked up as someone came to stand by their table.
It wasn't Marie this time. It was a big, barrel-chested, sunburned man who smiled at them with the cheery good nature that only a good meal after a good day's work could give. "I hear you boys did good work today!"
"Who told you that?" growled Dean, eyes narrowing with sudden, if slightly sleepy, suspicion.
"Dean. Be polite."
Chris threw back his head and laughed that big laugh. A few people looked around at them and smiled. A tiny, chilly, piney breeze ruffled Sam's hair. The pale blue eyes twinkled. "You two do move around a lot."
Dean glared at Sam, then stared coldly at Chris. "I think you've got the wrong people."
"Not this time." Chris smiled kindly at Dean and then clapped both hands, palm down, on the table. "I think these are yours."
"Huh?" Dean started to go for the weapon at his back as Chris took his hands away and walked off. Sam looked down at the table and started to laugh out loud. Dean paused, looked to Sam, who reached out and grabbed a lump of coal off the table and dashed after Chris.
He caught the big man at the door. Chris turned, smiled at Sam and said "You already know what I couldn't fit in the stocking, Sam."
Sam hesitated, tilted his head, then glanced back over his shoulder. And felt that breeze again, even as his heart was suddenly warm and a smile grew on his face.
Behind him he heard, "Oh, and I picked up the tab for the whole bar, you two included."
Sam spun back, ready to protest he couldn't possibly accept, only to find himself alone, screen door opening out to where moths and mosquitoes fluttered in the light by the parking lot and the warm, sticky air hung heavy and still. He smiled and slapped a mosquito that landed on his arm, turning back to the crowded, happy place smelling of good food and beer and people. Whispered, "And to all a good night."
And to all you reading out there, a good year end and New Year's.
Goo
PS: any poetry lovers out there, Archy and Mehitabel by Don Marquis is wonderful. Treat yourself to laughter and pick up a copy.