[SPN fic] Tell Your Fortune Truely
Title: Tell Your Fortune Truely
Author: lies_unfurl
Summary: The boys investigate some evil-doing at a Halloween/Octoberfest carnival and Dean flirts with the wrong (evil) fortune teller. Psychological angst.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for language. Set early Season 4.
Notes: Written for a prompt at hoodie_time 's Hallowe'en focused comment fic meme; the prompt is the same as the summary. Credit for the title goes to Thomas Moore.
You think I'm a good fortune-teller, then, Green-Eyes? No. You're just kidding with me. It's a big joke to you. And maybe the potential punchline involves you and me in the back of your car. Definitely.
Well, guess what, pretty boy (and you are, I won't deny that)? In this day and age, sometimes the only time that people are willing to come to me is when it's just a joke. Stopping by when I'm set up between a stand selling deep-fried Oreos and a game booth that's rigged to make you lose no matter how hard you toss the basketball, well, then it's all in fun. It's different when you seek me out. Then you need to hide your tracks; only crazy people go to see a fortune teller. And no one wants to be called a crazy person, not even me, and lord knows I deserve it.
I'm surviving in the only way that I know how. It works. Sometimes, it works great. I make my money now, and for the select few assholes who really bug me, well, sometimes they're the ones that help me the most. I haven't made it this long without pulling a few strings here and cutting a few necks there. Nice necks. Like yours.
I always tell their fortunes first, though. You get what you pay for. I don't lie, not really.
But I don't like being played with, Green-Eyes. It pisses me off when you mock me without at least having the courtesy to hand over the cash first. Hell, pisses me off when people mock me at all; I don't care if I've come to expect it.
You want to have your fortune told? Step right up, then. Hell, come on in back. For a private read.
Maybe you'll get lucky.
*
Come on back, now. It's late, I know, and getting cold. Autumn's here, I suppose. Pretty much the point of harvest festivals these days. Anyways, it's not a night I'm likely to get many more customers. And really, you deserve a private reading.
Watch the curtain on your way over. Make sure it closes completely. What you're about to see is for your viewing pleasure only, Green Eyes.
Mind the candles, too. A bit clichéd, but I've always found electricity to be distracting. I like my readings to be as accurate as possible. Especially back here.
Now, what people don't understand is that tools don't make the fortunes. I could have a crystal ball of pure diamond before me, and it would show me a future about as well as peering into a pile of cow droppings. You have to have the Gift if you want to be any good.
It could be learned, too. Maybe. But that was back in the old days, pretty boy. Back when kids knew respect. They paid better then, too. Gold and spices, and, one time, a length of China silk, soft as the skin of a ripe peach. That was a good time.
Sit down. Please. I'd like nothing more than for you to be comfortable.
What I'm trying to get at, I guess, is that I don't use smoke and mirrors and fancy tools for my readings. I'm a palmist these days (though you should know, all that looking at your palm does is let me focus on you and your past, and, if the Powers let it be, your future; those things about lines telling what your life's been like is utter horseshit).
I'll try working with tarot cards on occasion, too, and oracle bones, if I'm in the mood, but they take too long for things like this; people at fairs don't want something so complicated. It's all about convenience here: fast food, fast rides, blaring prerecorded music, games that are set up year after year -but I'm getting off-topic, aren't I? And I'm not even telling you this, Green Eyes.
I'd like to, though. It's always so much fun to see the swaggering ones reduced to pathetic, squirming little boys. And that's without seeing the altar in the back, the one covered by the silk. The look on your face is going to be absolutely gorgeous, Green Eyes.
But I keep getting off-topic, don't I? Comes with the age, I guess.
Give me your hand.
*
Tell me, what's your name?
Yes, maybe I should know. I am a fortune-teller, after all. Guess I'm not that accurate, huh? Maybe my talents lie in... other areas.
(Fortune-teller, you fool; I'm no psychic. I only care about pasts and futures. I can think of very few matters -outside of politics, at least- that I care about less than I do about your current name.)
Dean. Nice name. I'm the Amazing Mistress of Fortune, Lady Destiny Star.
Or at least, that's what the sign says out front. But you can probably read.
Well, I can tell that you're into manual labor. Farm boy, maybe. Right?
Auto repair? That makes sense. (I know you're lying, but it still fits the bill; no office worker has hands so rough. And the scars -well, I'm almost impressed by the scars. You're either not handy with the welding tools, or you're really into tossing back a few beers and throwing punches on a Saturday night.) I wasn't so far off, was I?
But I'm just playing with you. Any old bat with 20/20 vision can pick up on those little signs. Now I'm ready for the real thing, Dean Green-Eyes.
Let's see. When you were young, you traveled a lot. Army brat?
Yeah? I'm not surprised. Most people, I can trace them to one or two places that they've stuck their roots in. You're wandering all over the place.
Your parents are both dead. Your mom died when you were pretty young, right? Four or five, if I've got any sort of credibility.
How'd I do that? Can't reveal my secrets, Dean.
It was just your dad and your brother when you were growing up. And-
Oh. Well. I didn't expect that. Nice to know I can still be surprised.
You're a hunter, you son of a bitch. I've met a few of you in my time. Their blood on my altar; it doesn't get better than that. I'm looking forward to my happy ending, Dean.
Sit down. We're not done yet.
Guns? You poor boy; how stupid do you think I am?
I said, sit down.
There, isn't that more comfortable? I like doing my readings better when people aren't struggling. They're clearer that way.
Didn't I mention, I don't lie? I promise you, Dean -everything I say is one-hundred percent true. Scout's honor.
You practically raised your brother. Daddy was a better drinker than he was father -Excuse me? I'll say what I damned well please about the man. It's not like it matters. He's dead after all, and he's never going to come back. You know this already.
And you also know that -oh, isn't this sweet- Daddy liked your brother more.
Everything I've said, and that's the one you don't bother to argue? Maybe you're just coming to your senses. You remember how pissed he was when Sammy went off to college; how it was just hunt after hunt, with a bit of whiskey in-between. But he would have been happy if you'd gone.
True, I never knew your father (though I'd thank you not to call me that name; you're in no position to be doing so). I do know you, though, or at least, I'm getting to know you, and I can see what you know. All those things you never told anyone.
Like what you were doing not that long ago. You were on a trip, right? Far away; further than you ever dared go when you were scoping out the continental 48 for a hunt.
Wow, Dean. Even I'm surprised. Your secrets go much deeper than monster slaying, don't they? Not even Sammy knows this.
Forty years. I'm almost impressed. I've heard it burns hot down there, and that you're walking around up here unscathed -that takes effort.
But I wonder -you wonder- did the angel who pulled you out know what you did?
Because ten years of torturing's no small thing. Not a chance in the world you'll be going upstairs to that shiny place where the angels are. When you're done, you'll be back in front of the rack. Where you belong.
Stop giving me that look, Dean. And stop denying it. I pulled all that useful info from you. Everything I just said is something you know is true, even if you were too scared to admit it.
But since you're such a coward -I can see why daddy liked your brother better now, by the way; Sammy was always honest, at least- I'll say it plainly: Hell is, and always will be, your final destination. No ifs, ands, ors, or buts. Sure as the sun will rise, you're always gonna be back in that pit.
And that's what you came for, to have the truth told. So I guess I'm done now. It's probably about time for you to pay up.
Send me love from downstairs.
*Epilogue*
It takes you long enough -who the hell had the grand idea of splitting up anyway?- but you finally manage to track down Dean thanks to a kindly old caramel-apple vendor who says that he saw him go 'behind the curtain' with the fortune teller.
And you're equal parts worried and pissed, because something's been causing the bodies to pile up since the fair rolled into town, and you have no idea what it is, and for all you know, it could be claiming your brother right now, and ruining the frail sort of contentment that you've found between your sessions with Ruby.
But at the same time, knowing Dean, you can't rule out the possibility that he just ducked back there for a quick session of -well, not divining, that's for sure.
So you hurry to her tent -about as corny as it comes; stars and cutesy symbols passing for occult decorating the front of her booth- and then step behind the desk, and slip under the curtains.
She's got Dean pinned beneath her, although only narrowly. He's struggling for all he's worth, back against some sort of altar, and with a silver knife with a blade that's at least a foot lying some distance away; it's not one of yours. You had silver on you, but you were figuring that bullets might be better for whatever it was.
The fortune teller doesn't see you, but Dean does, and his glance jerks over to the knife on the floor.
You nod once, curt and businesslike, and grab and, well, stab.
She screams, long and high-pitched, and you clap a hand over her mouth, even though it's hard to hear anything over the blasting music, Ferris wheel and merry-go-round competing for top spot.
You drop her body when you're satisfied she's gone, and turn to Dean. He's slumped against the altar, breathing hard and clutching at his ribs. Kneeling down, you ask him what happened; he glances at you and smirks. "Bitch thought she could one-up me. I showed her wrong."
"Did you at least get your fortune told for free?" you ask, not really meaning it, but to your surprise, something flickers in his eyes. "Dean? You okay?"
"'Course I am. Few cracked ribs, worst case." He struggles up to his feet, brushing off your attempt to help him up. "And she told me I'd get laid tonight. So come on, let's figure out what to do with the body and get the hell out of here. Least I can do is honor her last reading."
You shake your head and go about your business, and if Dean still looks a bit shaken -more than he should -well, he doesn't say anything, and you don't push.
Author: lies_unfurl
Summary: The boys investigate some evil-doing at a Halloween/Octoberfest carnival and Dean flirts with the wrong (evil) fortune teller. Psychological angst.
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, for language. Set early Season 4.
Notes: Written for a prompt at hoodie_time 's Hallowe'en focused comment fic meme; the prompt is the same as the summary. Credit for the title goes to Thomas Moore.
You think I'm a good fortune-teller, then, Green-Eyes? No. You're just kidding with me. It's a big joke to you. And maybe the potential punchline involves you and me in the back of your car. Definitely.
Well, guess what, pretty boy (and you are, I won't deny that)? In this day and age, sometimes the only time that people are willing to come to me is when it's just a joke. Stopping by when I'm set up between a stand selling deep-fried Oreos and a game booth that's rigged to make you lose no matter how hard you toss the basketball, well, then it's all in fun. It's different when you seek me out. Then you need to hide your tracks; only crazy people go to see a fortune teller. And no one wants to be called a crazy person, not even me, and lord knows I deserve it.
I'm surviving in the only way that I know how. It works. Sometimes, it works great. I make my money now, and for the select few assholes who really bug me, well, sometimes they're the ones that help me the most. I haven't made it this long without pulling a few strings here and cutting a few necks there. Nice necks. Like yours.
I always tell their fortunes first, though. You get what you pay for. I don't lie, not really.
But I don't like being played with, Green-Eyes. It pisses me off when you mock me without at least having the courtesy to hand over the cash first. Hell, pisses me off when people mock me at all; I don't care if I've come to expect it.
You want to have your fortune told? Step right up, then. Hell, come on in back. For a private read.
Maybe you'll get lucky.
*
Come on back, now. It's late, I know, and getting cold. Autumn's here, I suppose. Pretty much the point of harvest festivals these days. Anyways, it's not a night I'm likely to get many more customers. And really, you deserve a private reading.
Watch the curtain on your way over. Make sure it closes completely. What you're about to see is for your viewing pleasure only, Green Eyes.
Mind the candles, too. A bit clichéd, but I've always found electricity to be distracting. I like my readings to be as accurate as possible. Especially back here.
Now, what people don't understand is that tools don't make the fortunes. I could have a crystal ball of pure diamond before me, and it would show me a future about as well as peering into a pile of cow droppings. You have to have the Gift if you want to be any good.
It could be learned, too. Maybe. But that was back in the old days, pretty boy. Back when kids knew respect. They paid better then, too. Gold and spices, and, one time, a length of China silk, soft as the skin of a ripe peach. That was a good time.
Sit down. Please. I'd like nothing more than for you to be comfortable.
What I'm trying to get at, I guess, is that I don't use smoke and mirrors and fancy tools for my readings. I'm a palmist these days (though you should know, all that looking at your palm does is let me focus on you and your past, and, if the Powers let it be, your future; those things about lines telling what your life's been like is utter horseshit).
I'll try working with tarot cards on occasion, too, and oracle bones, if I'm in the mood, but they take too long for things like this; people at fairs don't want something so complicated. It's all about convenience here: fast food, fast rides, blaring prerecorded music, games that are set up year after year -but I'm getting off-topic, aren't I? And I'm not even telling you this, Green Eyes.
I'd like to, though. It's always so much fun to see the swaggering ones reduced to pathetic, squirming little boys. And that's without seeing the altar in the back, the one covered by the silk. The look on your face is going to be absolutely gorgeous, Green Eyes.
But I keep getting off-topic, don't I? Comes with the age, I guess.
Give me your hand.
*
Tell me, what's your name?
Yes, maybe I should know. I am a fortune-teller, after all. Guess I'm not that accurate, huh? Maybe my talents lie in... other areas.
(Fortune-teller, you fool; I'm no psychic. I only care about pasts and futures. I can think of very few matters -outside of politics, at least- that I care about less than I do about your current name.)
Dean. Nice name. I'm the Amazing Mistress of Fortune, Lady Destiny Star.
Or at least, that's what the sign says out front. But you can probably read.
Well, I can tell that you're into manual labor. Farm boy, maybe. Right?
Auto repair? That makes sense. (I know you're lying, but it still fits the bill; no office worker has hands so rough. And the scars -well, I'm almost impressed by the scars. You're either not handy with the welding tools, or you're really into tossing back a few beers and throwing punches on a Saturday night.) I wasn't so far off, was I?
But I'm just playing with you. Any old bat with 20/20 vision can pick up on those little signs. Now I'm ready for the real thing, Dean Green-Eyes.
Let's see. When you were young, you traveled a lot. Army brat?
Yeah? I'm not surprised. Most people, I can trace them to one or two places that they've stuck their roots in. You're wandering all over the place.
Your parents are both dead. Your mom died when you were pretty young, right? Four or five, if I've got any sort of credibility.
How'd I do that? Can't reveal my secrets, Dean.
It was just your dad and your brother when you were growing up. And-
Oh. Well. I didn't expect that. Nice to know I can still be surprised.
You're a hunter, you son of a bitch. I've met a few of you in my time. Their blood on my altar; it doesn't get better than that. I'm looking forward to my happy ending, Dean.
Sit down. We're not done yet.
Guns? You poor boy; how stupid do you think I am?
I said, sit down.
There, isn't that more comfortable? I like doing my readings better when people aren't struggling. They're clearer that way.
Didn't I mention, I don't lie? I promise you, Dean -everything I say is one-hundred percent true. Scout's honor.
You practically raised your brother. Daddy was a better drinker than he was father -Excuse me? I'll say what I damned well please about the man. It's not like it matters. He's dead after all, and he's never going to come back. You know this already.
And you also know that -oh, isn't this sweet- Daddy liked your brother more.
Everything I've said, and that's the one you don't bother to argue? Maybe you're just coming to your senses. You remember how pissed he was when Sammy went off to college; how it was just hunt after hunt, with a bit of whiskey in-between. But he would have been happy if you'd gone.
True, I never knew your father (though I'd thank you not to call me that name; you're in no position to be doing so). I do know you, though, or at least, I'm getting to know you, and I can see what you know. All those things you never told anyone.
Like what you were doing not that long ago. You were on a trip, right? Far away; further than you ever dared go when you were scoping out the continental 48 for a hunt.
Wow, Dean. Even I'm surprised. Your secrets go much deeper than monster slaying, don't they? Not even Sammy knows this.
Forty years. I'm almost impressed. I've heard it burns hot down there, and that you're walking around up here unscathed -that takes effort.
But I wonder -you wonder- did the angel who pulled you out know what you did?
Because ten years of torturing's no small thing. Not a chance in the world you'll be going upstairs to that shiny place where the angels are. When you're done, you'll be back in front of the rack. Where you belong.
Stop giving me that look, Dean. And stop denying it. I pulled all that useful info from you. Everything I just said is something you know is true, even if you were too scared to admit it.
But since you're such a coward -I can see why daddy liked your brother better now, by the way; Sammy was always honest, at least- I'll say it plainly: Hell is, and always will be, your final destination. No ifs, ands, ors, or buts. Sure as the sun will rise, you're always gonna be back in that pit.
And that's what you came for, to have the truth told. So I guess I'm done now. It's probably about time for you to pay up.
Send me love from downstairs.
*Epilogue*
It takes you long enough -who the hell had the grand idea of splitting up anyway?- but you finally manage to track down Dean thanks to a kindly old caramel-apple vendor who says that he saw him go 'behind the curtain' with the fortune teller.
And you're equal parts worried and pissed, because something's been causing the bodies to pile up since the fair rolled into town, and you have no idea what it is, and for all you know, it could be claiming your brother right now, and ruining the frail sort of contentment that you've found between your sessions with Ruby.
But at the same time, knowing Dean, you can't rule out the possibility that he just ducked back there for a quick session of -well, not divining, that's for sure.
So you hurry to her tent -about as corny as it comes; stars and cutesy symbols passing for occult decorating the front of her booth- and then step behind the desk, and slip under the curtains.
She's got Dean pinned beneath her, although only narrowly. He's struggling for all he's worth, back against some sort of altar, and with a silver knife with a blade that's at least a foot lying some distance away; it's not one of yours. You had silver on you, but you were figuring that bullets might be better for whatever it was.
The fortune teller doesn't see you, but Dean does, and his glance jerks over to the knife on the floor.
You nod once, curt and businesslike, and grab and, well, stab.
She screams, long and high-pitched, and you clap a hand over her mouth, even though it's hard to hear anything over the blasting music, Ferris wheel and merry-go-round competing for top spot.
You drop her body when you're satisfied she's gone, and turn to Dean. He's slumped against the altar, breathing hard and clutching at his ribs. Kneeling down, you ask him what happened; he glances at you and smirks. "Bitch thought she could one-up me. I showed her wrong."
"Did you at least get your fortune told for free?" you ask, not really meaning it, but to your surprise, something flickers in his eyes. "Dean? You okay?"
"'Course I am. Few cracked ribs, worst case." He struggles up to his feet, brushing off your attempt to help him up. "And she told me I'd get laid tonight. So come on, let's figure out what to do with the body and get the hell out of here. Least I can do is honor her last reading."
You shake your head and go about your business, and if Dean still looks a bit shaken -more than he should -well, he doesn't say anything, and you don't push.