GOODWILL HUNTING
By: Karen B.
Summary: Sam and Dean find themselves in a 'Wham-O' of a situation at a thrift store on Christmas Eve. Time set: Early season one. Quirky humor with a side order of hurt, drunk, and soupy/sappy crap. Some swear words. Story complete, posting all at once in four chapters.
Disclaimer: Not the owner
Rated: Quirky with a side order of hurt, drunk, and sappy. There be swear words. This was originally a two-shot, but I expanded it into chapters for easier reading - posting all at once.
Quote: "This caused the 1977 New York blackout. A practical joke by the Great Attractor. He thought it was funny as hell."
— Agent K – from the movie Men In Black.
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Snow fell like glittering pixie dust under the soft glow of the old-fashion street lamps that were decorated with wreaths, red velvet bows, and Christmas garland. It was six pm and dark outside, the lampposts the only light that lit their way as they drove down the center of the small historical village of Bedford Falls.
Dean slowed the Impala as they went past the town square and rolled his window down.
Tiny specks of snowflakes blew into the Impala melting as soon as they came into contact with the warm air flowing from the car's heater vents.
Outside, every tree and statue and park bench was wrapped with strings of light - red, green, white, and blue – all blinking in time to the piped in Christmas music.
"Rockin' around the Christmas tree have a happy Holiday," Dean sung along, shooting a cheesy grin over at his brother who was slouched down in the passenger seat.
Sam sighed heavily, and closed his eyes. "Dean, what are you doing?"
"Taking time out to enjoy the season, Grumpy Grinch," Dean laughed, slowing the Impala down further.
Sam never enjoyed the season. Growing up all Christmas meant to him was dark motel rooms, cold cereal, and stolen presents. That was if they got presents at all.
The only time Christmas meant anything to Sam were the ever-so-few Christmas's when he was a kid and got left behind at Bobby's house, while Dean and dad went on a hunt. But the best times, the most normal of times, were the last few Christmas's he'd spent with Jess. And now that was over too, because he couldn't protect her.
An image of Jessica padding barefoot across their candle-lit apartment to stand in front of their tree holding a silver star in her hand, and a warm smile on her face, vividly entered his mind.
"Merry Christmas, I love you, baby," she whispered to him.
"I love you, too," Sam whispered back, leaning down to kiss her fully on the lips. "Come on." He took her by the hand, and together they placed the Silver Star atop the tree they'd picked out together.
"Perfect," she giggled and started nipping playfully along his neck.
Sam's pulse quickened and a flush of heat along with a deep-into-his soul desire crashed down all around him.
"I want you, baby," she said her breath tickling his neck.
For Sam, she was like sunlight breaking through the darkest of storms. "I want you more," he said, his body trembling with anticipation as he took Jessica into his arms and stepped backward until he fell onto the bed, taking her with him.
"I want you, I want you, I want you," she nibbled on his earlobe, holding his face inbetween her delicate hands.
"So, what do you want for Christmas this year, Sam? " Dean's happy outburst unexpectedly cut through the serenity of the daydream.
"What?" Sam clumsily sat up straight in his seat, Jessica's voice in his ear and her grip on his face fading. It all seemed so real.
"Sam, where you even listening to me?"
"Yeah, sure, that sounds good, Dean," Sam slurred, woozily. "Whatever you say." He dropped his hands to his lap self-consciously, the intensity of the dream manifesting itself in a very real way.
He nervously ran his eyes around the Impala. The subdued lighting and shadows dancing across the dashboard disoriented him further, and he raised a hand to his mouth swearing he could still feel the warmth of her lips under his fingertips. These dreams of his were getting stronger and out of his control.
"Hey." Dean reached over and gave Sam's shoulder a rough punch.
"Ouch," Sam bit out loudly, wincing and rubbing at his aching shoulder, still feeling very disconnected. "You're probably right, okay, Dean," he said in a gravelly voice, wiggling uncomfortably in his seat and looking out the passenger window trying to ignore the burn of his brother's stare. "We should pull over somewhere for the night."
"Of course I'm right. I'm always right…I'm awesome," Dean said, pursing his lips. "But it is not okay…because that is not what I asked you, Sam," he grumbled.
Sam's jaw muscles twitched, head coming around to stare at Dean with brows raised. What then?
"I asked you what you wanted for Christmas," Dean huffed in irritation, pulling a large bag of peanut M &M's out of his jacket pocket.
"I don't know." Sam let out a pained moan giving Dean an is-that-all eye roll. "How about we give each other a hug and call it even," he growled expressionlessly.
"How about I punch you in the other arm, smartass," Dean threatened, shoving a handful of candy into his mouth. "Harder," he added chomping messily.
Sam shrugged. Have at.
Dean didn't like the exhaustion in his brother's tone or actions. He knew Sam had been flipping through his mental card-index of Jessica memories. He'd been doing that more and more, zoning out during waking hours. Not to mention the severe night terrors he kept having, how he'd wake trembling, drenched in cold sweat, and screaming out her name.
"I know what," Dean chimed in going for a –It's A Wonderful Life – tone. "How about a new hairdo, maybe the master edition of the Jeopardy game, or maybe," he said in a low lusty tone cocking a brow toward Sam's lap. "A…you know…" he giggled, taking one more handful of M &M's before stuffing the bag back into his jacket pocket. "…a kilt to hide your manhood." He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Wow, "Sam barked in irritation. "Really, Dean?"
"Really, Sammy," Dean clicked his tongue at Sam's lap; going back to watching the road.
Sam had no witty comeback. Cheeks flushed with embarrassment, he rubbed the back of his neck, trying to get his still rapidly breathing heart –and other things –under control.
"I take it that'd be a 'no' on the Kilt?" Dean said sounding a little put out.
"That'd be a 'no' on anything," Sam grumbled. He couldn't tell Dean about his dreams. How they were like watching himself …watching his life. How they sometimes came true. Like that night.
"You okay over there, kiddo?"
Sam fidgeted.
"Well? Are you?" Dean pressured.
"Ahem," Sam cleared his throat. "Yeah… seriously, I'm fine, Dean," he muttered turning and touching his forehead to the cool window.
Outside, a rush of wind sent snow swirling around an eight-foot lit-up snowman, and Santa's sleigh, jingling the bells hanging around Rudolph's neck.
Dean cast a look over at Sam just in time to see him curl in on himself and shiver. He knew it wasn't just from the cold wind, but quickly rolled his window up anyway, knowing his little brother was anything but fine. He felt the urge to hug the kid, but no amount of hugs would make this go away. No amount of explaining to Sam over-and-over that it wasn't his fault. Dean could explain his ass off; explain until the next ice age came. Sam would never let go of that guilt. The boy was hurting big-time and had barely slept in weeks, the nightmares becoming more frequent. Sam was unwilling to talk about anything, so Dean would have to try another form of cleverly disguised, Winchester therapy. Cleverly disguised in the form of drugs or booze or maybe just plain old pissing Sam off by being as annoying and frustrating as he could be, maybe toss in a prank or two, or maybe he could –
"Economize," Dean blurted his thoughts out loud. Flicking his wrist he took a hard left, sending the Impala fishtailing into a snowplowed parking lot.
"What the…" Sam slid across the bench seat bumping up against Dean.
"Get off me." Dean shrugged his shoulder roughly.
Sam sat up, flashing Dean a bitchy look.
"What is it, dude?"
"You're driving, dude," Sam snapped.
"I know," Dean grinned. "I'm all that and then some."
Sam pressed his lips thin.
"Don't get your kilt in a bunch, Samantha. Next time try wearing your seatbelt," Dean suggested bluntly.
"No kilt, Dean." Sam gave his brother an oblique look, scooting back over to the passenger seat. He peered out the front windshield at the large brick building in front of them. "Goodwill?" He frowned.
Dean waved a hand toward the building. "It's what the sign reads, college boy."
"You know I prefer The Salvation Army," Sam drawled.
"Whatever, Fifth Avenue, it'll be fun….you do remember fun don't you, Princess stick up her skirt?"
Sam huffed out a long breath and pressed stubbornly back against the seat. "You go in. I don't need anything."
"Bro! It's Christmas Eve."
"So."
"So we go in and buy up the store. No bargains this go round, we buy only items with the tags still on," Dean said excitedly. "Dad's rules don't apply tonight, Sammy. No penny pinching, dollar stretching, or tightening of ones belt," Dean ordered sternly. "Unless." He frowned. "That's how you keep your pants up of course," he laughed heartily.
"Ha-ha," Sam fake-laughed.
A round, short lady wearing a long, brown coat and large furry hat – ear flaps down and tied under her chin – hurried past the Impala through the swirling snow.
"See that." Dean waved a hand out the window at the lady as she quickly pulled the door open and entered the store. "Even fancy beaver-hat lady shops the Goodwill."
"Ushanka," Sam growled.
"Whoa, hey, buddy." Dean worriedly gripped Sam's shoulder. "You going to be sick?"
"Ushanka, Dean." Sam annoyingly shrugged Dean's hand away. "It's a traditional Russian winter hat…the word Ushanka translates from the Russian language as 'with ears'."
Dean stared at Sam completely dumbfounded. "Is hitting the books all you ever did at that fancy university, geek? Didn't you go to any…you know…?" Dean waggled his brows sexually. "Frat parties?"
"Once," Sam admitted in all seriousness. "It was awful. Bunch of drunken girls wearing skimpy bunny costumes in four-inch heels dancing on tabletops," Sam rattled off trying to hide his smile and keep his voice neutral, all the while watching Dean squirm in his seat. "It was really kind-of awkward and ridiculous," Sam shuddered as he continued. " They were all squeezably soft, bumping and grinding, grinding and bumping, while a bunch of drunken guys stood around stuffing dollar bills in their…" Sam cocked his head, and waggled his brows. "You know."
"Yeah, Sammy, I know." Dean took several hard swallows, his breaths coming in short pants, his mind wandering.
Sam gave Dean's chest a backhanded slap.
Dean startled shaking his head. "Huh? What?"
"Shopping, Dean, remember?" Sam snipped, exiting the car, and then turning to bend down and stare in at his brother. "You might want to buy yourself a apron," he clucked his tongue, eyeing his brother's lap, and then slammed the car door shut.
"Smartass," Dean muttered, shutting off the engine and also exiting the car.
Sam stood tall next to the Impala staring off into the night. The falling snow was already settling on the car – quiet and cold and sparkling. It reminded him of the starry night he and Jessica had gone out to buy their tree. How they crunched around the tree farm sipping hot cocoa and eating warm chestnuts out of a paper bag searching for the perfect spruce.
Dean watched Sam carefully, his face looking just about as white. "Problem, bro?"
"No," Sam said smoothly, but still didn't budge.
Ever since that horrible night of the fire Dean had kept vigil. Knowing his kid brother was probably only a heartbeat away from a meltdown. He didn't know how he was going to make this okay for Sam. For now all he could do was push the focus elsewhere.
Sam still hadn't moved.
Dean's attention went to the store. "We're in luck, buddy. Fifty percent off, "he read the sign hanging in the window. "What are we waiting for? Christmas?" he joked, bending down to snatch up a bit of snow and balling it up to toss lightly at Sam.
Sam snapped out of whatever zone he'd been in, brushing the snow off his jacket as he shot Dean a ba-humbug-look that could kill.
"Right, you hate Christmas," Dean squawked. "So just think of this as the regular yearly Winchester shopping spree," he said.
"Yeah, 'cause that's always fun," Sam deadpanned.
"Told you, Sam, dad's rules don't apply, but mine do."
Sam blew a piece of hair out of his eyes. "And what are your rules, pray tell?"
"No praying about it, Samantha…one," Dean ticked off. "We don't leave empty handed. And two… no purchasing used boxers."
"Ewww." Sam squirmed uncomfortably.
"And three… you, my dear brother," Dean pointed a stern finger at Sam. "No more ugly dog-shirts."
"You bought that shirt for me, Dean."
"Oh, yeah. I take the ugly part back then." Dean scowled, then brightened, "Remember the 'Save Ferris' shirt I bought? Man, what a find that was."
"Sorry to inform, big brother, but I bought that shirt for your thirteenth birthday," Sam pushed off the Impala and trudged through the sprinkling of white flurries toward the store, hands jammed into his pockets.
"That shirt was so cool." Dean trailed closely behind.
"I know," Sam said with a smile. "Unlike you…I always buy things with panache. "
"I buy…you…I know…pan…ass," Dean's tongue tripped all over itself searching for a snazzy comeback and coming up way short.
"After you," Sam said gripping the frost-coated doorknob and tugging the door open waving Dean in first with a flourish.
Dean glared at Sam as he barged into the shop, the door blowing shut behind them.
Blinking away the snowflakes that had clung to their eyelashes, they stood side-by- side taking a moment to glance around.
The walls were drab-grey matching the tiled flooring, and the place was warehouse-huge. Rows and rows of clothing, shelves overstocked with housewares, knickknacks, lamps, board games, stuffed animals, used furniture, and boxes chock-full of books and records and all sorts of cool things.
"Jackpot," Dean sung out. "Would you look at this place? We might even find the crown jewels in here, Jimmy Hoffa, maybe even Buffet's lost shaker of salt. Ha!" Dean laughed. He was so damn awesomely amusing. "What say you, Sam?"
"I say Batman action figures and lunchboxes." Sam gestured toward those very items set on a shelf.
"Like I said before." Dean grinned hugely, "Jackpot."
Sam sniffed the air. "Smells like mothballs."
"Nah." Dean took a whiff. "More like butterscotch rum."
There came a bang and a clatter.
Sam and Dean stiffened instinctively going for their guns – guns they'd left in the car.
"Well isn't that the shit!" A plump, short man using a baseball bat as a walking stick, and wearing a chalky-grey suit, and a novelty light-up Christmas bow tie woozily weaved around a stack of boxes. "Ralphie," he shouted loudly. "I told you to lock the front door so we could close early tonight," he shot over his shoulder.
A door on the opposite side of the room swung open and a thin, gangly teenage boy about as tall as Sam and wearing a green shirt and ripped jeans struggled up the last few steps carrying an armload of Christmas lights.
"Basements leaking again, dad," the kid squawked.
"Shit's always got to hit the fan around here," the shop owner hissed. "But never mind that now, just get those shitty lights untangled," the man bellowed, raising the tip of the bat to point at Sam and Dean. "Cash only, we are supposed to be closed….you've got twenty-three minutes, and you better buy something," he grouched.
"Twenty-three?" Sam frowned at Dean. "Run or shop?"
Dean gave the man a curt 'yes sir' nod. "We shop," he said taking Sam by the bicep and steering him deeper into the store.
"And remember," Holly-jolly-guy slurred from behind. "A man's success depends on the clothes he wears…I shit you not"
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