one old bookshop [20/??? artefacts collected]

[sadfreezingbrit]

As the dust settled on a stack of yellowed magazines I remembered why I had learned to love the silence. Silence was all I had left now. Silence and books that were never bought, a telephone that never rang

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[dashboardlite]

There's a little word that rings true with those in the family business.

Revenge.

True, the family isn't all blood-related. Distant cousins, friends pulled into the fold, loyal comrades-in-arms...but not really comrades, because those are Russians and friggin' nobody likes them. Dean Winchester is of a fair mind to exact some of his own revenge on an old jasper of his. Hell, they practically used to drink from the same damn bottle.

Dean got pinched by the feds after their last encounter - one that ended in a whole lot of blood and lead. Three slugs, one gashed eye, and a finger wrenched through heavy machinery at the warehouse. Patched back together by a pretty nursing dame with gams up to her eyeballs and thrown in the hoosegow for a few months until they couldn't come with anything to convict him for besides trespassing on private property.

Let him out with a warning.

But good ol' Clarence is living respectable now. Working some kind of hock-shop on the other side of town; 'least, that's what Dean's sources tell him.

[sadfreezingbrit]

The dusty shop hadn't seen a customer in weeks... and it wasn't about to.

I was catching up with a few old friends in the paper's obituary section when I saw the light shine through the open door. And when I heard his voice I knew the shop bell had rung with the gentle chime of death.

The only question was whose.

"How can I help you, sir?"

The accent was perfection. On a good day I could even fool myself.

"If you're a collector by any chance, we've got a remarkable set of encyclopaedias in the back; all first editions, excellent condition."

[dashboardlite]

Perfect accent or not, the shopkeep wasn't convincing enough. I knew who it was, and even though I speak my mind all the time, the narration let me slide back into internal monologue like oil down a drainpipe, for the sake of everybody here.

"Sir," I chuckled, because Hell, it was too hilarious. Clarence thought he was a real wise guy, and even if he had the bulge the last time we met, I had it now. Book store salesmen don't exactly keep tommy-guns behind the counter. Still...I wasn't taking any chances.

"Yeah, actually, I was lookin' for a copy of Othello. That Iago fella, man, he sure pulled the wool over him, right?"

I sauntered up to the counter, leaning on it all gentlemanly-like, and tipped my hat up to grin at the sonuvabitch.

"But I guess it's what you expect from a double-crossin', two-bit, hinky hombre."

[sadfreezingbrit]

His words settled everything

[let's assume this takes place before the Deanthread, yes?]

[xeno_phil]

[It's late morning, and I'm making my rounds of town. No luck yet, but I'm undeterred: I know I'll find somebody who's seen my uncle if I just keep looking!

No bell chimes when I push open the door, the sound of wood creaking instead meeting my ears. But that's okay; this is a book shop. Surely a place that holds knowledge will hold a knowledgeable person, right?

This guy looks like he fits the bill, too, reading the morning paper like a conscientious citizen.]

Say, mister. D'you mind if I ask you a question?

[for the sake of not finding a bloody and destroyed book shop that's probably better, yes xD]

[sadfreezingbrit]

I smirked before putting the paper down. According to my horoscope I would enjoy getting away from routine and doing something different with my friends this evening. Couldn't wait to see how that'd turn out.

For now my eyes followed the creaking boards until they stopped at a nice pair of boots. Looking up I saw a guy I could only describe as mousy. A little rodent scrambling through this town, probably not seeing the cats for all the fur.

...My metaphors had been better, but I wouldn't have any complaints about the service. With a smile perky like a pro skirt's globes I got to my feet.

"Not at all, not at all. Ask right away, sir!"

[40410]

In my line of work, when you want the scoop, you don't go running to a book. But you might go to the guy who keeps them. I knew old Phil LaFresque from around. Never planned to meet, but we managed to anyway. He was the quiet type, with something in his eyes saying he had a hard time not getting into scrapes. I know the look. I wear it too.

Today he'd had a harder time than usual. I knew it the second I walked into the shop and smelled gunpowder, thick as the Fourth of July. Shakespeare and Shelley had tripped over each other on their rush to quit the shelves. LaFresque had beat them to their escape. His desk was empty as a smile.

Robbery, maybe. I hoped the storekeeper had been the one pumping lead.

More disappearing acts, just when I couldn't afford them.

"LaFresque?" I called, to see if there wasn't life in here.

[sadfreezingbrit]

I heard the call all right. Right name, wrong time. With my head swimming like a prized koi in a botanic garden I didn't feel much like providing customer service.

For a beat or two I almost hoped for a lead delivery. Should've guessed that the bastard wasn't going to finish the job proper. Made sure I was still breathing so I'd get to flaunt the damage, let everyone know he'd done a number on me like an oversized mutt pissing at a tree.

And damn, was I pissed in every form and definition our mother tongue had to offer.

"We're closed."

[40410]

It was a voice I knew, but a tone I'd never heard it use. Sounded the way a man might if you broke his fingers then had his own mother in front of him.

I didn't suspect the truth. It'd turn out that breaking his fingers would have been nicer than what this guy had done to him.

"What happened, pal?"

I started moving through the shelves, palming my Smith & Wesson in case the perp had decided to stick around. Finding LaFresque shouldn't be too hard. The air was still spicy with gunpowder, and there was something else too, something copper that put my hair on end. Didn't want it to be blood, but I knew that it was. And I knew that LaFresque would be at the centre of it. I just had to follow my nose.

[sadfreezingbrit]

I would've made sure to pack heat, but as it was I couldn't even pack my bags. Meant to see an old friend of mine, back alley doc who'd lost his license about the same time he'd lost his mind. Still good for a couple of stitches though.

That was the plan until I realised I'd barely make it past my liquor cabinet, so instead I took the trip there and back and sat against one of the few shelves that were still standing. Figured old Jack D was as good a stand-in for the blood I'd lost as any and with one eye down it couldn't hurt to see double with the other instead.

Then I finally recognised the voice and if that wasn't just the icing on the goddamn disaster cake. Square man getting robbed real bad. I could've sold that to some, but there were always those who bothered to have a closer look. And that look made me look about as square as a ripe peach in summer.

"Told you I'm closed."