SPN FIC - Let There Be Pink
I believe the Muse is attempting to cool us both off by insisting that I think about Christmas 6 months early. And since her intentions are good, have some Hope Verse, December 2013.
"Seems like you've always been really good at telling me no."
"Are you a seven-year-old girl?" Dean snaps.
"According to you on a number of occasions, yes."
Characters: Dean and Sam
Genre: Gen
Rating: PG, for language
Spoilers: none
Length: 1255 words
LET THERE BE PINK
By Carol Davis
"It's pink," Sam says.
Dean's left eyebrow does an odd little wiggle. "Yeah," he says, drawing the word out so that it's about six syllables long.
"I mean…seriously. Dude."
"Yeah," Dean says, with even less patience than was present the first time.
"And this is what she wants."
Both of Dean's eyebrows do a slow climb up his face.
Arms folded across his chest, Sam circles the tree a couple of times. It isn't until he's on his third loop that he realizes he must look like a dog getting ready to lie down. Or pee on something. Neither one of those is an option, given that they're in the middle of the Holiday Home section of Sears, his being human and not canine notwithstanding.
"That," Sam announces finally, "has got to be one of the ten most hideous things I've ever seen."
Dean simply grunts in response. The tree has his full attention.
It's very, very pink. With white flocking. Five feet tall, wired with white twinkle lights. The base is a big, solid-looking block of white plastic that seems to indicate there's machinery inside. Maybe it makes the tree revolve.
Maybe it plays Christmas carols.
"Do they have a smaller one?" Sam asks.
"No."
"You could -" Sam leans in for a closer look. "Cut it down? You know, like, trim the branches? Or would that screw up the wiring?"
"You're not helping!" Dean barks. He clamps his arms over his chest in a pose that mimics Sam's, and begins to beat time against the tile floor with his right boot. He's faced down demons with more hospitable expressions than he's giving that tree. Reminding Dean that he told Liz she can have whatever she wants for Christmas, provided it retails for less than a hundred bucks, doesn't seem like a good plan - at least, not if Sam intends to leave Sears with his balls intact - so Sam settles for making another loop around the thing.
"Where is she?" he ventures after a minute.
"With Lily, getting her ears pierced."
"Dude," Sam says. "She's seven. Isn't she a little young for -"
If Dean were Mt. Hood, up in Oregon, the U.S. Geological Survey people would be asking for an evacuation of half the Pacific Northwest. He stalks down to the end of the aisle, causing a couple of their fellow shoppers to scuttle out of his way to avoid being mowed down, turns the corner, and disappears. Sam can hear him breathing over in the next aisle, a series of grunts that would be suitable if he were bench-pressing a school bus.
For no particular reason, bits of a song drift through Sam's mind. It takes him a minute to place them: the spring musical at one of the high schools he can't remember all that well any more. Oklahoma!
He's just tweaking Dean; he knows that.
But it's Christmas.
Grinning, he leans in the direction of the aisle Dean's taken refuge in and sings softly, not even attempting to hit the right key, "I'm just a girl who cain't say no/I'm in a terrible fix…"
"You figure on walking back to the Lodge?" Dean asks in a very reasonable tone. "It's thirty-seven miles."
"Tell her she can't -"
"I'm not telling her jack shit."
Yeah, that's appropriate for the Holiday Home department.
"Do you want me to tell her?"
The clomping of boots against tile signals Dean's return. "You're not telling her. And I'm not telling her. Nobody's telling her."
"Seems like you've always been really good at telling me no."
"Are you a seven-year-old girl?" Dean snaps.
"According to you on a number of occasions, yes."
Dean's jaws clamp so tightly together, Sam can almost hear his teeth grinding. Dean glares at the tree for a moment, then mutters, "It ain't that bad."
"Yeah, it kind of is."
"Morgan's gonna kick my ass."
"Maybe she'll like it."
Up go the eyebrows again. "Jesus!" Dean shrills. "Would you pick a side?"
"You're gonna get us tossed out of the store if you don't calm down." Sam gestures with one hand, a Down, boy sort of thing that he knows won't accomplish much even as he does it. "Look - it's not that big. If it doesn't fit in her room, we'll find a place for it somewhere. It's not that bad. It's sort of…kitschy, I guess."
"It's what?"
"Never mind. Are you supposed to get the ornaments, too?"
"I think her Uncle Sam should buy her the ornaments."
Dean thinks he's got Sam with that one, but Sam shakes his head and displays the white plastic bag that's stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. "My shopping's done, man. I'll help you pick out the ornaments, but that's as far as I go. This is your project." Before Dean can object - although he's certainly trying to come up with something pithy to say - Sam does an about-face and begins to examine the display of ornaments.
"You suck," Dean mutters behind him.
Apparently, Christmas shopping for children causes age regression.
The ornaments are no more attractive than the tree. But Liz is seven, and a girl. A couple dozen glittery things should do the trick. Sam's smiling as he makes his selections and hands them off to Dean. "Tell me something," he says. "What's all the complaining about, anyway? If she asked you for a pink Humvee you'd find a way to get it for her. And nobody's gonna kick your ass. Jake spoils her rotten. And Lily took her to get holes punched in her head."
Dean grimaces, but whether it's over the ear-piercing or something else isn't clear. He struggles to hold onto the growing collection of ornaments, drops one, and lets it lie there on the floor close to his boot.
Head down, he mumbles, "I just wanna do this right."
"You're doing it right."
"What did you get her?"
Sam sets down a couple of ornaments, pulls the white bag from his pocket, and opens the small box that's inside. Lying on a nest of cottony stuff is a small gold locket with the initial E and a tiny glittering chip on the front.
"That a real diamond?" Dean frowns.
"Dude. She's seven. It's a faux…something."
"I should've got her something like that. Not a freakin' tree."
"Nobody's gonna kick your ass, Dean."
Dean considers his ornaments, then slowly, carefully, bends down to retrieve the one he dropped.
"I wanna do it right, Sam," he says as he straightens up, not quite meeting Sam's eyes.
Sam looks at his brother, red-faced and sweaty, standing in the middle of the Holiday Home department of Sears in a heavy coat and boots, his arms full of My Little Pony ornaments. He looks ridiculous. And tired. And fearful, in a way he never is when he goes charging after the things they hunt.
"I know you do," Sam replies.
He offers Dean a smile, then bends down to pick up one of the boxed pink trees from the row underneath the display model. Shifting it so he can carry it easily, he tells his brother, "Let's pay for this stuff and get it out to the car before she comes back."
Dean seems to think there's a trick involved in all that, because he hesitates, keeping his distance from Sam. He hunches his shoulders a little, fighting to hold on to the ornaments, then takes a determined step forward, toward the cashier's desk.
"You comin'?" he asks.
"Right behind you," Sam replies.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~