SPN FIC - When You Wish
When there's an enemy you can't defeat, an answer you can't find -- you turn over every rock. In this case, "every rock" includes a storage unit outside of Buffalo, New York.
Dad stashed a lot of random crap in this place. Maybe there's something.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1438 words
WHEN YOU WISH
By Carol Davis
"What the… You have got to be seriously shitting me."
They haven't been here in years - not since that whole thing with Bela and the rabbit's foot. After that was over, they re-set Dad's booby traps, locked the door, and gave the owner a credit card number that would ensure that this particular storage unit never went up for auction.
They forgot about it for a good long time. Would have gone on forgetting about it, except for the Leviathans. The monsters nothing can kill.
Except maybe… Well, Dad stashed a lot of random crap in this place.
Maybe there's something.
It was worth checking out.
"You find something?" Sam calls through the darkness, flicking his flashlight toward the place he last saw Dean, over behind a bank of shelves, half-hidden by rows of books and stacks of wooden crates. Fleetingly, he thinks of that TV show he's seen a couple of times, of that collection of fortune-hunters who buy units like this, hoping to hit the jackpot. They'd hit one here, that's for sure, but it wouldn't be the kind of fortune that comes free and clear.
He thinks of Bela Talbot, and that damned rabbit's foot, and sighs.
When Dean doesn't answer, Sam picks his way around boxes and tiers of shelves, into a corner that wasn't visible from where he was standing. Dean's staring at something, his expression hard to interpret.
"Dean?" Sam prompts.
Dean points.
It's an old machine, steel and wood and glass, thickly skinned with dust and cobwebs. Six feet tall, maybe three feet wide, three feet deep. Not a Coke machine; not anything like that. Frowning, Sam moves a little closer, takes up a position alongside his brother. What he can see from that vantage point makes his heart trip until he realizes that no, that's not a body inside the machine. It's a mannequin, a doll. Above its head, painted in fancy scrollwork across the front of the machine, are the words ZOLTAR SPEAKS.
"Can you believe this shit?" Dean demands.
"I - what is it?"
"You're kidding me, right? Dude. It's the friggin' fortune-telling machine from that movie."
They've seen a lot of movies over the years. Dean's seen a colossal number, sprawled in front of the TV while Sam was reading, studying, doing research for Dad, then for himself and Dean - and most of those were the type that's marked Turkey on all the movie-rating websites. This machine was probably featured in something like Zombie Biker Chicks from Hell.
No, from the Planet Zoltar.
"Big," Dean presses.
"Mm-hmm," Sam says with a smirk.
"Oh, for - the movie Big, idiot. With Tom Hanks. Tell me you don't remember."
Sam doesn't.
Then he does. He watched Big a couple of times with Dean, once (maybe twice) with Jess. He can't match Dean's near-encyclopedic memory for obscure details - can't even imagine why he'd want to - but the more he stares at the machine, at the eerie features of the mannequin (they're truly creepy, here in the dark), the more he understands that yes, Dean's right: this is the machine from the movie. The machine that granted a small boy's wish to be big.
Why Dad would have the damn thing is beyond him.
Has to be, because surely…
"It's real?" Sam blurts, his voice breaking shrill in a way it hasn't for a good fifteen years. "That's not - it can't -"
"Why else would it be here?"
There is no other reason. The only objects in this little warren of dusty, sour-smelling rooms that aren't supernaturally juiced are keepsakes from years ago: Sam's soccer trophy, Dean's first sawed-off. This thing isn't a keepsake. Dad didn't buy it because he knew his kids enjoyed the movie in which it was a centerpiece; he had no plans to build a man-cave full of arcade games, a foosball table, a fridge packed full of snacks.
It's hard to breathe for a minute. Then Sam murmurs, "They used a real wish-granting machine for a movie."
"Couldn't have. There would've been gossip."
Of course. And if there'd been gossip, Dean would have heard it. Read about it.
Replica, then.
With a deeply pensive look Dean moves into a squat and pokes around the base of the machine. Comes up with a power cord in his hand, and it's badly frayed, just like in the movie.
"We can't," Sam says, even though there's no electric outlet nearby. No way to get the machine running. "It's not - we didn't come here for this."
"We came to find a way to beat those bloodthirsty sons of bitches."
"By making a wish?"
"Worth a try."
But the rabbit's foot didn't work out well. Neither did that ancient coin they ran across a few years back. There's always a price to pay, Sam thinks. Nothing comes for free. Particularly nothing on the scale of ridding the world of a menace that pre-dates Time. There's always a curse. A downside. Something that will spin around and bite you in the ass.
Sometimes, the price is nothing more than a bone-deep disappointment. But there's a price.
"I used to try," Dean says.
"What?"
"Mom used to tell me you could wish on a star. Or throwing a penny in the fountain at the mall."
There's a picture in Sam's head: his brother sitting on the edge of a mall fountain, casually dipping a hand into the water and coming out with a couple of bucks' worth of tarnished coins. Enough for some candy, or a pair of sodas.
"I used to wish on every friggin' thing I could think of," Dean says, his gaze not quite meeting Sam's.
"I know, man."
"No you don't."
"I do. Because I used to do it too."
Now Dean looks. Meets Sam's gaze full on.
"Turkey wishbones," Sam says, and he knows Dean remembers. Any diner meal that involved turkey sliced off the bird - they'd ask the waitress if she could bring them the wishbone. He can't even guess at the number of times they scored one.
"Thought you always asked for stupid stuff. Toys and shit."
"Is that what you asked for?"
Dean's shoulders come up a little, as if he's cold, or he intends to punch something. "No," he says finally, and it's barely loud enough to make out, barely more than a simple exhale. He's still got the power cord in his hand, and for a minute he stares at it, as if he's forgotten what its purpose is. "It was never for anything dumb."
Through all of it, Zoltar watches them in inscrutable silence.
"We've got no idea what it does," Sam offers. "It might not grant wishes. Who the hell knows."
"Plug it in, we could burn the place down."
It's in Dean's eyes: Maybe we ought to.
"We could call Tom Hanks and ask," Sam says with a shrug.
"Yeah, like he'd know jack about anything."
The head of the power cord hits the cement floor with a smack. Dean strides away from the machine as if he's closed the door on it, and makes himself busy going through a row of books, sneezing at the dust that billows off the old leather bindings.
There's a hundred-foot extension cord in the trunk of the car. They could plug the machine in. See what it does. Maybe it would grant a wish. If not ridding the world of Leviathans, then something else. Something smaller, easier to accomplish.
Maybe the price would be worth paying.
"I gave up on wishes a long time ago," Dean says without turning his head. "Whole thing's just a bunch of crap."
Slowly, Sam sinks into a crouch and picks up the business end of the power cord.
Thinks of his brother, fishing in a fountain at the mall for enough coins to buy them a treat. Of Bela Talbot, and of their father, both long dead. Of a prairie sky full of stars, and the bones of dead birds with bits of flesh still clinging to them.
I wish I may, I wish I might…
The machine that looms over him does nothing. Says nothing. Produces no scrap of cardboard that says Your wish is granted.
It's silent in this little warren of rooms, save for the rustle of pages and another sneeze. When Sam looks toward his brother, he can see nothing but the slump of Dean's shoulders, the slight shift in position as Dean examines books that more than likely will tell him nothing.
I gave up on wishes a long time ago.
No you didn't, Sam thinks, and he shifts back up to his feet.
* * * * *
Dad stashed a lot of random crap in this place. Maybe there's something.
CHARACTERS: Sam and Dean
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 1438 words
WHEN YOU WISH
By Carol Davis
"What the… You have got to be seriously shitting me."
They haven't been here in years - not since that whole thing with Bela and the rabbit's foot. After that was over, they re-set Dad's booby traps, locked the door, and gave the owner a credit card number that would ensure that this particular storage unit never went up for auction.
They forgot about it for a good long time. Would have gone on forgetting about it, except for the Leviathans. The monsters nothing can kill.
Except maybe… Well, Dad stashed a lot of random crap in this place.
Maybe there's something.
It was worth checking out.
"You find something?" Sam calls through the darkness, flicking his flashlight toward the place he last saw Dean, over behind a bank of shelves, half-hidden by rows of books and stacks of wooden crates. Fleetingly, he thinks of that TV show he's seen a couple of times, of that collection of fortune-hunters who buy units like this, hoping to hit the jackpot. They'd hit one here, that's for sure, but it wouldn't be the kind of fortune that comes free and clear.
He thinks of Bela Talbot, and that damned rabbit's foot, and sighs.
When Dean doesn't answer, Sam picks his way around boxes and tiers of shelves, into a corner that wasn't visible from where he was standing. Dean's staring at something, his expression hard to interpret.
"Dean?" Sam prompts.
Dean points.
It's an old machine, steel and wood and glass, thickly skinned with dust and cobwebs. Six feet tall, maybe three feet wide, three feet deep. Not a Coke machine; not anything like that. Frowning, Sam moves a little closer, takes up a position alongside his brother. What he can see from that vantage point makes his heart trip until he realizes that no, that's not a body inside the machine. It's a mannequin, a doll. Above its head, painted in fancy scrollwork across the front of the machine, are the words ZOLTAR SPEAKS.
"Can you believe this shit?" Dean demands.
"I - what is it?"
"You're kidding me, right? Dude. It's the friggin' fortune-telling machine from that movie."
They've seen a lot of movies over the years. Dean's seen a colossal number, sprawled in front of the TV while Sam was reading, studying, doing research for Dad, then for himself and Dean - and most of those were the type that's marked Turkey on all the movie-rating websites. This machine was probably featured in something like Zombie Biker Chicks from Hell.
No, from the Planet Zoltar.
"Big," Dean presses.
"Mm-hmm," Sam says with a smirk.
"Oh, for - the movie Big, idiot. With Tom Hanks. Tell me you don't remember."
Sam doesn't.
Then he does. He watched Big a couple of times with Dean, once (maybe twice) with Jess. He can't match Dean's near-encyclopedic memory for obscure details - can't even imagine why he'd want to - but the more he stares at the machine, at the eerie features of the mannequin (they're truly creepy, here in the dark), the more he understands that yes, Dean's right: this is the machine from the movie. The machine that granted a small boy's wish to be big.
Why Dad would have the damn thing is beyond him.
Has to be, because surely…
"It's real?" Sam blurts, his voice breaking shrill in a way it hasn't for a good fifteen years. "That's not - it can't -"
"Why else would it be here?"
There is no other reason. The only objects in this little warren of dusty, sour-smelling rooms that aren't supernaturally juiced are keepsakes from years ago: Sam's soccer trophy, Dean's first sawed-off. This thing isn't a keepsake. Dad didn't buy it because he knew his kids enjoyed the movie in which it was a centerpiece; he had no plans to build a man-cave full of arcade games, a foosball table, a fridge packed full of snacks.
It's hard to breathe for a minute. Then Sam murmurs, "They used a real wish-granting machine for a movie."
"Couldn't have. There would've been gossip."
Of course. And if there'd been gossip, Dean would have heard it. Read about it.
Replica, then.
With a deeply pensive look Dean moves into a squat and pokes around the base of the machine. Comes up with a power cord in his hand, and it's badly frayed, just like in the movie.
"We can't," Sam says, even though there's no electric outlet nearby. No way to get the machine running. "It's not - we didn't come here for this."
"We came to find a way to beat those bloodthirsty sons of bitches."
"By making a wish?"
"Worth a try."
But the rabbit's foot didn't work out well. Neither did that ancient coin they ran across a few years back. There's always a price to pay, Sam thinks. Nothing comes for free. Particularly nothing on the scale of ridding the world of a menace that pre-dates Time. There's always a curse. A downside. Something that will spin around and bite you in the ass.
Sometimes, the price is nothing more than a bone-deep disappointment. But there's a price.
"I used to try," Dean says.
"What?"
"Mom used to tell me you could wish on a star. Or throwing a penny in the fountain at the mall."
There's a picture in Sam's head: his brother sitting on the edge of a mall fountain, casually dipping a hand into the water and coming out with a couple of bucks' worth of tarnished coins. Enough for some candy, or a pair of sodas.
"I used to wish on every friggin' thing I could think of," Dean says, his gaze not quite meeting Sam's.
"I know, man."
"No you don't."
"I do. Because I used to do it too."
Now Dean looks. Meets Sam's gaze full on.
"Turkey wishbones," Sam says, and he knows Dean remembers. Any diner meal that involved turkey sliced off the bird - they'd ask the waitress if she could bring them the wishbone. He can't even guess at the number of times they scored one.
"Thought you always asked for stupid stuff. Toys and shit."
"Is that what you asked for?"
Dean's shoulders come up a little, as if he's cold, or he intends to punch something. "No," he says finally, and it's barely loud enough to make out, barely more than a simple exhale. He's still got the power cord in his hand, and for a minute he stares at it, as if he's forgotten what its purpose is. "It was never for anything dumb."
Through all of it, Zoltar watches them in inscrutable silence.
"We've got no idea what it does," Sam offers. "It might not grant wishes. Who the hell knows."
"Plug it in, we could burn the place down."
It's in Dean's eyes: Maybe we ought to.
"We could call Tom Hanks and ask," Sam says with a shrug.
"Yeah, like he'd know jack about anything."
The head of the power cord hits the cement floor with a smack. Dean strides away from the machine as if he's closed the door on it, and makes himself busy going through a row of books, sneezing at the dust that billows off the old leather bindings.
There's a hundred-foot extension cord in the trunk of the car. They could plug the machine in. See what it does. Maybe it would grant a wish. If not ridding the world of Leviathans, then something else. Something smaller, easier to accomplish.
Maybe the price would be worth paying.
"I gave up on wishes a long time ago," Dean says without turning his head. "Whole thing's just a bunch of crap."
Slowly, Sam sinks into a crouch and picks up the business end of the power cord.
Thinks of his brother, fishing in a fountain at the mall for enough coins to buy them a treat. Of Bela Talbot, and of their father, both long dead. Of a prairie sky full of stars, and the bones of dead birds with bits of flesh still clinging to them.
I wish I may, I wish I might…
The machine that looms over him does nothing. Says nothing. Produces no scrap of cardboard that says Your wish is granted.
It's silent in this little warren of rooms, save for the rustle of pages and another sneeze. When Sam looks toward his brother, he can see nothing but the slump of Dean's shoulders, the slight shift in position as Dean examines books that more than likely will tell him nothing.
I gave up on wishes a long time ago.
No you didn't, Sam thinks, and he shifts back up to his feet.
* * * * *