Chapter 4: Sam Cries For His Hairdryer and Dean Minds His Language
Madame Circe studied the two young men who had entered her poky little shop.
She kept it deliberately poky and cluttered with strange items that probably looked occult to the uninitiate – and in truth, she was extremely fond of Neville the stuffed raven, he was practically her mascot. The various small charms and spells she usually worked she could do with nothing much except her book, some chalk, and very ordinary and unexciting-looking herbs and trinkets, but people expected a certain ambiance when they came to consult a magissa.
She had heard her current customers before she'd seen them: the sound of a large, thumping engine parking outside was difficult to miss. Madame did not approve of large, thumping engines, or the large thumping cars they powered, and she certainly did not approve of many of the large, thumping men who drove them. In her experience, large, thumping men who drove large, thumping cars with large, thumping engines were Compensating For Something. She had eyed a small jar of extremely boring looking dried petunia petals, and wondered idly whether she should put a hex on the car on general principles – making the horn inexplicably play Mary Had A Little Lamb was always amusing – or just lay a charm on the driver to make him think his black monster had suddenly turned pink. (Actually turning the car pink would be easier than making one human just believe it was, but she had her pride).
And looking at the older man, she was tempted; he had 'womanizer' practically written across his face in large, leering neon letters…
"Come in, come in!" she greeted them warmly, "Come in, my darlings, and tell me what Madame can do for you today." The older one introduced himself as Dean, and his brother as Sam. His younger brother, who, despite his considerable height, managed to give the impression that he was peeking shyly up at her through his hair. Madame took his arm gently, and ushered them to seats at her table. "Tell me now, my darling, why such a handsome boy looks so sad."
Sam sat staring at his hands, fidgeting with a mangled tissue. "I don't know," he said in a small voice, "I don't know what happened. We were good, I thought he was happy… we were happy… and then, and then…" he broke off and sniffed.
Dean handed him a fresh tissue. "Madame Circe," he said, in a controlled voice with an undertone of venom, "I can tell you exactly what happened. My brother has been strung along, used, and dumped by the most callous, vicious, selfish asshole…" Sam started to sniffle again.
"Ndropi sou!" she burst out, "Language, young man, language!" Dean immediately looked so contrite, she had to laugh. "Humor a prudish old yaya, Dean," she admonished him gently, "There is no need for language! Although I can see, you are simply concerned for your brother's welfare."
"I am, Madame, I am," sighed Dean, his green eyes unhappy. "I just get so angry at the way that basta…"
"Dee! Potty mouth!" interrupted Sam in a wavering exasperated voice.
"…Sorry, that… horrible man treated my baby brother, who doesn't have a mean bone in his body." Sam honked into his tissue. Dean handed him another one.
"Sam," said Madame gently, "Can you tell me what has happened?"
Sam bit his lip and took a deep shuddering breath. "It was our second anniversary," he said shakily, "And Kenneth and I were planning a trip away. There was this antique fair he wanted to go to in Vermont, and, and, I thought it would be good for him, he'd been working so hard, staying back late, working weekends… at least that's what he told me he was doing…" his eyes brimmed, but he rallied magnificently. "I s-saved up to get him this adorable little George II reproduction wine table he'd admired, the fretwork was amazing, for a b-birthday present, s-so, I didn't tell him where I was going when I went to buy it, I wanted it to be a surprise… and, and, when I got back, he was home, and he was, he was…" the tears spilled over. "I-in our bed! They were in our bed! And I'd just vacuumed the rug and changed the sheets that morniiiiiiiiiing!" The last word turned into an anguished howl. Dean handed him another tissue.
Madame patted his hand (the one that wasn't clutching a handful of soggy tissues to his nose). "Oh, you poor boy," she murmured, "Your significant other, he broke your heart, nai?"
"Six months!" wailed Sam, "Six months he'd been going behind my back! With his PA! And his EO! And the pooooool booooooy…." His bottom lip wobbled in earnest, and Dean put a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. "H-he told me that I'd make somebody a w-wonderful housekeeper, but he really couldn't be serious with somebody who was as, as, as, vanilla as meeeee!" The sobbing restarted in earnest. Dean patted him on the back.
"You see?" he said in a deadly tone, "You see what that sonofabit…"
"Dee!"
"…Sorry, that… horrible man has done? He threw Sam out! He chewed him up, and spat him out!" He produced another tissue from the seemingly endless supply and handed it to Sam. "I'll kill him for what he's done," Dean growled, "I'll kill him! I'm gonna tear of his head, stuff it up his ass, and shit down his neck! I'm gonna rip his balls off and use them for ping-pong practice! I'm gonna…"
"Dean, language!" cried Madame.
"Nooooo, Dee, you can't!" said Sam desperately, "You'll go to jail!"
"I don't care, Sammy, it would be worth it! Look at you! You've been a wreck for six weeks now!"
"Dee-Dee, no!" Sam wailed, "What will I do if you go to jail?" He clutched at his big brother. Dean turned miserable eyes to Madame.
"I just want him to be happy," he said, raising his voice slightly to make himself heard over Sam's sobs, "He deserves to be happy. It's always been so hard for Sam, being… different. Even growing up, the kids were so mean. At kindergarten, they hid his hairbrushes in the sandpit…"
"They hid my hairbrushes!" snuffled Sam.
At Elementary School, they stole his Barbies…"
"They stole my Barbies!" moaned Sam miserably.
"… And they pulled Malibu Barbie's head off in front of him!"
"They pulled her head right off!" squeaked Sam.
"… And as for what they did to Ken, well, if he was anatomically incorrect before they started…"
"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" went Sam.
"…At summer camp, they threw his hair dryer into the lake…"
"While I was still using it!" howled Sam.
"In Junior High, well, I won't tell you what they did with his My Little Ponies…"
"Poor Dobbiiiiiiin!" keened Sam, clutching his tissue. His brother handed him another.
"And in Senior High, they took his Judy Garland albums – he had some of them on vinyl, for God's sake, they were irreplaceable! – and they smashed – them – all!"
Sam suddenly went still, with a strange look on his face, and made a strangled gurgling sound. Madame Circe stared in horror: the poor boy was clearly experiencing some terrible flashback to the indescribable trauma of his school years.
Dean had his brotherly outrage under control, but his voice was angry, she-bear-sees-somebody-between-herself-and-her-cub angry.
"That… horrible man doesn't deserve to live, after what he's done," he said quietly, ominously. I won't get caught, Sammy, I'll hide the body where they'll never find it…"
"Nooooooooo!" howled Sam, twisting his tissues. Dean handed him a fresh one. "I don't want him dead, Dee-Dee, I just want… I just…"
"What do you want, my darling?" asked Madame quietly. Sam looked at her with a kicked puppy expression, and spoke in a soft, broken voice.
"I just… I just want him to understand what he's done. I want him to understand that he's been a complete, complete, a complete… WEASEL! He's a lying, cheating, no-good weasel! Kenneth, you are an absolute WEASEEEEEEEEEEEEEEL!" The hazel eyes brimmed over again, and he sobbed into his brother's shoulder.
"Ah, my poor boy," said Madame gently, taking Sam's hand – the one without the tissues, again – in both of hers, "Your brother doesn't understand, does he? You just want him to know. Would you feel better if this Kenneth could be made to understand what a weasel he has been?"
Sam nodded, hiccuping into silence.
"Whatever it costs, whatever it takes," muttered Dean, "Can you help him, Madame?"
Madame smiled, patting Sam's hand. "This, I can help you with. You come back tonight, young Sam, and bring something that belonged to Kenneth the weasel, can you do that?" Sam nodded again. "Good, good, you do that, and I will work a teeny little spell, and I will not take payment until I see a smile on that handsome face." Sam sniffed, gave her a brave little wobbly smile. "Nai, that's better, I want to see dimples before midnight, my darling!" He smiled again, almost producing the required facial features.
"Thank you so much, Madame," said Dean sincerely, shaking her hand and giving her a killer smile that made her wonder if he might end up on the receiving end of one of her workings one day, "This has been so hard on Sam. We're truly grateful for any help you can offer." Even Sam seemed to have perked up a little, thanking her politely and arranging to return in the evening. They left her shop, Sam leaving a sad trail of used tissues in his wake.
When they had left, she sighed, and glared at the tissues until they got off the floor and jumped into the small wastebasket to escape her affronted gaze. Poky and cluttered was one thing, but plain untidy was completely unacceptable.
She headed to the back room, and began to set up her altar – this would take more power than her day-to-day spells and charms, but it was a familiar ritual, and she liked to be prepared well in advance. She glanced thoughtfully at the jar of petunia petals again. Maybe she could do something subtle about Dean's potty mouth while she was at it. She was pretty sure Sam would appreciate that.
TBC - is there actually any spell at all in the Supernatural verse that is powerful enough to do anything about Dean's potty mouth?
