They say you can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats a dog, or any animal really. Like, oh say, an Irish Wolfhound. A dog doesn't care how Dentine straight and white your smile is or how handsome your features are arranged. No animal cares about one's adherence to current fashion or even one's grasp of personal hygiene. All the hypothetical Irish Wolfhound would care about was if the man possessed a kind heart.
And bacon. That he was willing to share.
Atticus O'Sullivan, two thousand year old druid, had to stop on the way out of the post office to take in the show- ahem- he meant, get a good judgment of a stranger's character.
The man, a well-built six footer with short cropped light hair, stood on the street corner next to a bench. Atticus had "tied" Oberon's leash to it before heading inside. (It was a trick knot but it was enough to satisfy city ordinances without unduly endangering the dog's ability to run if trouble came looking.) His right and thumbed through his smart phone while the left held a cardboard To-Go cup filled with strips of crispy bacon recently purchased from the food cart down the block and still warm.
Oberon had stationed himself at the man's side to stare at the bacon cup with large, doleful eyes.
{{Come on. One piece. Just one piece. You have an entire cup full, you can spare one piece for the poor, starving Wolfhounds of the world.}} Oberon begged mentally, despite the fact that the man couldn't hear any of it.
The man refused to look directly at the dog, even while talking to him. "I see you staring at me. Stare all you want, Cujo, this is my bacon and I am not sharing."
Oberon shifted sideways a few inches closer to the Holder of the Almighty Bacon. {{Feed the dog. Feed the dog. Feed the dog!}} he chanted.
"No. Stop it." The man glanced down before forcing his attention away from the beggar and back to his phone. "Its not going to work. My kid brother has the same kicked-puppy look and after thirty years of having him beg for the last bowl of Lucky Charms or the last cup of coffee I am now immune to that look."
{{Maybe you are and maybe you aren't, but does your kid brother do this?}} Oberon whined his most pathetic sound and nudged the man's leg with his muzzle. When he looked down at the dog, Oberon whimpered before twitching his tail in a hopeful wag.
The man groaned in defeat. Several pieces of bacon fell, only to be snapped out of the air before they could hit the ground. He pointed a finger in the face of the happy, doggy grin. "Do not tell Sam!" he commanded harshly.
{{Rodger! Ten-four! Not telling Sam, whoever Sam is. In fact, I will refuse to speak to any Sam for the rest of the day!}} The dog would have saluted if he'd had the appropriate biology. Did you see that, Atticus? Didja? I totally played this guy out of half his bacon!
{{Aye, you did a fine job of the con, Oberon.}} Atticus agreed. {{Frank Abagnale would be proud of your acting skills.}} The famed conman had been the most recent bath time biography to keep the dog still while deep in the suds.
{{Don't come out yet, Atticus, I'm gonna work the mark until I have ALL of the bacon!}} Oberon declared. After swallowing his last bite, he reverted back to his pathetic pose and stare.
The man snorted in amusement and pointedly shoved an entire strip of bacon in his mouth. He chewed loudly in front of the dog with a few "yum yums" thrown in for good measure.
Oberon chuffed a doggy laugh. {{I think he's on to me.}}
{{Aye, I think he is,}} Atticus agreed with a chuckle. {{Can I come out now?}}
{{Oh, alright.}} the dog grudgingly gave up the con. {{Its best to know when to walk away, anyhow. That's how all us greats get caught eventually: we get greedy.}}
With his hound's kind permission, Atticus came out to 'untie' the leash.
The bacon-man glanced over long enough to comment, "Nice dog."
"Thank you, I think so." The druid nodded at the smart phone with a digital map of the city glowing on the screen. "Did you get a little turned around in our fair city, friend?"
{{Charge him the bacon for directions!}} Oberon cried.
"I'm supposed to meet my brother at some place called 'Third Eye Books and Herbs.' I thought the address said it was on this street, but clearly I got some wires crossed somewhere," the man explained.
Atticus' eyebrows rose in surprise. What were the odds the guy would randomly run into the owner of the shop he was looking for? But all he said was, "Aye, its on this street, but you're on the north side. You want to be on the south side. I actually work there and need to be getting back. You would be welcome to walk with us on this fine day."
"I might take you up on that. As long as you promise to keep the furry con artist away from my breakfast." The guy smirked down at the dog.
{{Uh-oh! Busted!}}
.o0o.
Atticus loved his bookstore; he loved the tea counter on one side and a small apothecary in the corner. It would be a sad day when he could no longer maintain his cover in Tempe and would have to move. But such is the nature of modern American life on an immortal: reinventing yourself every decade or so. He was used to it, that didn't mean he wouldn't miss what he had here, but he was used to it. Here and now, though? Life was good.
The best part of the shop was all the people watching he could do. All kinds of people wander into an occult bookstore called Third Eye Books and Herbs: college kids looking to shock their Protestant parents, lovey-dovey Wiccans who didn't know a real spell from bad poetry, and handful of men and women making an end-run around the doctor's office through herbal remedies. Occasionally they'd get a real practitioner or supernatural being in need of something arcane, but that only happened every month or so.
He'd freely admit that the large gentleman willing to share his bacon with a random Wolfhound defied the usual categories. Too old for rebel college student (late thirties by all appearances). Too hard-bitten for lovey-dovey Wiccans (Handsome man, admittedly, but clearly possessing muscles meant for fighting.) Too healthy to be making an end run. Yet none of the shops wards alerted him that he was anything but vanilla human. Admittedly, a human who was heavily armed (if the hang of his jacket was any indication) but certainly not so dangerous as the faerie or gods that have been making Atticus' life so complicated for so long.
Intrigued, he triggered the spell for his faerie specs.
A paranoid druid is a long-lived druid. He would make no apologies. Twenty-one centuries of life are not attained by trusting in the good nature of strangers.
His aura registered as human. But that's where the normalcy ended. Both men had auras swirling with a kaleidoscope of colors: righteous anger in its fiery red, deep love in its emerald green, tender mercy in its soft blue, heartfelt compassion in its deep sapphire, and a few different purples of a well-rounded magic practitioner (small-time practitioners, but still magic users). Each man a thread of black running through them as well, though it was a strange shade of black that Atticus couldn't quite identify. Strong men, with strong wills, but no one particular emotion ruled them right now. In fact, they were both remarkably even keeled.
Then there was the almost blinding white light leaking from something in his pocket. Items of that color and brilliance where almost always related to the Judeo-Christian God. Atticus may not worship Him, but as far as he knew he were in good standing. Sadly, having a beer with Jesus Christ didn't mean the Catholic Church hadn't declared war on the last druid before he could finish training the next. Whatever it was, the item was certainly powerful to make it shine like that. Which was odd, as magic and Christianity didn't usually mix well, rather like fire and gasoline.
Then the bacon-man's slightly taller brother strolled around the bookshelf corner with the same small practitioner flare and bright white light. Whatever they were, they were in it together.
It wasn't until he flipped the faery specs back off that Atticus noticed the stack of books in the taller man's arms. Long familiarity with his inventory told him all of the books boasted realistic credentials; they weren't for the gullible tourist. They weren't How-To manuals for the budding evil megalomaniac, either. Rather, they were the sort of thing a supernatural researcher might seek out as an interesting and possibly helpful resource for his collection.
"Getting your geek on, Sammy?" his new companion smirked.
{{That's Sam? Okay, per our bacon contract, I refuse to speak to him.}} Oberon flopped himself down in his dog bed and pointedly refused to even look at the man called Sam.
"Shut up, Dean," the tall man retorted good-naturedly. "You say that like you don't spend a good chunk of time reading your way through the library, too."
"Pffft," Dean scoffed. "Who me? You're the nerd in the family."
"Yeah, right," Sam shook his head. "You're not going to get away with that anymore. Quote, 'Chinese mind control technique. Hard to do when you're unconscious. Turns out this ape did read a book or two.' Ring any bells?"
Dean scowled. "Shaddup. When did you have time to go browse anyway? Weren't you supposed to be stocking up the herb cabinet?"
Sam shrugged. "Yes, but they only carry the basics in stock. The clerk said I'd have to wait until the owner got back if we wanted to put in a special order."
"Aye, that you would," Atticus broke in to the conversation. "And that would be me. Atticus O'Sullivan, owner of the Third Eye. What specialty items would you gentlemen be looking for?"
Sam shifted his books to a nearby counter to fish out the grocery list. "Dream Root, West Bank witch hazel, skull of Egyptian calf, and tail of Yunnan Lake Newt."
"I-" Atticus stuttered for a moment. Each of those items were all capable of some serious magical mojo individually. "What in Gaia's name could you possibly be doing with those?"
His tone seemed to alarm Granuaile, as she gently eased herself closer to the weaponry under the counter. Oberon quietly hauled himself to his feet. He didn't do anything overt, or even growl, but if Granuaile wanted to be ready for a fight, the dog wanted to be ready, too.
{{Is he evil, Atticus? Did I eat evil bacon?!}}
{{Easy, Oberon. I'll let you know as soon as I know who they are.}}
The brother's looked to each other, clearly talking about how much they wanted to say to a stranger.
Dean shrugged and must have decided to just try the truth. "The Dreamroot, because we're out and its been handy to have around. The hazel, skull, and newt are the tricky bits for a demon killing bomb."
"Can you get anything on the list?" Sam asked.
Before Atticus could begin to formulate a response, a great wind blew the front door open. A giant crow cawed angrily at the brothers. Both men dropped the books and drew guns. Thankfully, the waited to start shooting until they knew what was happening.
(A small part of Atticus' mind found it interesting that their first instinct was a firearm and filed that information away for a later date.)
The crow transformed into a beautiful dark-haired woman. A goddess, actually. Her eyes glowed with their own internal red light. For once, she was fully dressed. Strangely though, her clothing wasn't her usual black gown. This time she came in armor, which might be befitting a goddess of war, but as Atticus came to think of it, was quite worrisome.
"NO!" the Morrigan screeched angrily. "Siodhachan O Suileabhain, no, I absolutely forbid it! I have sworn I would never choose you to be slain in battle, but there will be very little I can do to keep you alive if you decide to fraternize with Sam and Dean Winchester!"
Atticus choked on the name. "Winchester? These are the 'Freaking' Winchesters?" He knew that name, new though they were to the supernatural playing field. Gaia had woken to cry out in concern when the demons', angels' and archangels' power colliding for the apocalypse had caused the earth herself to shudder. The druid had answered as best he could, but it was the Winchesters who had let Gaia go back to her rest.
"Aye, Siodhachan, the Winchesters!" the Morrigan exclaimed.
Without lowering his weapon, Dean Winchester raised a finger in the air. "Question."
The Morrigan whirled on him. "I will not have you bring the enemies that follow in your wake to this door! Begone!"
"Okay, let's all calm down," Sam advised. He lowered the aim of his weapon to show that he was willing to deescalate first. "What's going on?"
"Seriously, we just came to buy some hoodoo ingredients, not pick a fight with..." Dean gestured to the Morrigan with her glowing eyes, "...whoever or whatever this is."
The druid stepped forward. "Morrigan, they are guests. I welcomed them to my shop after Dean's kindness to Oberon." Which meant Atticus was honor-bound to defend them until they left, and would have to try to interfere if the Morrigan took issue with their presence with violence. The goddess let her eyes fade back to her normal human-black, though she did not loose the unhappy scowl.
{{Never underestimate the power of sharing your bacon. One day it may save your life!}} Oberon intoned.
"Gentlemen, this the Morrigan, a goddess of Ireland," Atticus continued. "She has agreed to help protect me as a druid, so that I can protect the Earth in turn. She is not a threat unless you make her one. Please put your weapons away."
Slowly, both men tucked their guns back into their jeans. Though they both stayed on the balls of their feet and wary.
"What's her problem with us?" Sam asked. His eyes seemed to grow larger and more liquid as he spoke. His whole face softened like he couldn't believe anyone would ever find him threatening.
This must be the infamous 'kicked-puppy' look Dean had mentioned earlier. Atticus had to admit, it was compelling.
"Death and destruction follow you wherever you go!" the Morrigan growled.
"No, we follow death and destruction wherever it leads us," Dean corrected with an irritated look. "You're get getting your cause and effect backwards, lady."
The glowing red eyes came back.
Dean didn't back down.
Naturally the Winchesters wouldn't be scared of a goddess, Atticus realized. They'd already killed a few. And probably could again, if they put their mind to take out the one standing right in front of them. They certainly didn't seem inclined to show her any deference.
"Morrigan, they aren't gathering a Fellowship for a march on Mount Doom. They are shopping," Atticus told her. "And I for one support the killing of demons. In fact, if they really do have a bomb capable of destroying them, I want a copy of the recipe. Such a thing would be nice to have the next time Gaia wakes and requires me to purge their unnatural evil from this world."
"Dude, you get us those ingredients and we will be happy to trade you for the recipe," Dean broke in. "Hell, man. If you wanna kill some demons, I'll hook you up with an angel blade as a bonus."
"An angel-?" Atticus startled. The weapon of a Judeo-Christian angel would explain the bright white light in their pockets that he'd seen through the faery specs. "You'd part with your weapon of heaven?"
Dean shrugged, like a celestial weapon was no big deal. "Sure. We've got like, five in the trunk."
"Morrigan..." Atticus began.
"Fine," the goddess snapped. "In the future, they need to do their business by correspondence. I do not want Crowley or any of those obnoxious angels flitting around you, Siodhachan."
"I don't blame you there," Dean commiserated. "Angels and demons are both seriously annoying. We'd be happy to show you how to ward against both before we leave."
"After that, we can start ordering spellwork ingredients online and Atticus can mail it to one of our drop boxes," Sam suggested. "If that makes the uh- death goddess- happy."
The Morrigan eyed Sam hesitantly. "You are being very reasonable. None of the stories about the Winchesters suggest that either of you can be reasonable."
Dean shrugged. "Those stories are probably about the ass-clowns that managed to piss us off."
"Aye, that's true," the Morrigan conceded.
"Deal straight with us," Dean suggested, "and you got nothing to worry about."
{{Atticus! Make him throw in a package of bacon with every purchase!}} Oberon demanded. {{We have all learned a very important lesson today: the power of bacon!}}