Fic Post: Trost Und Freude (12/17)

[gwendolyngrace]

Title: Trost und Freude (Comfort and Joy) (Chapter 12/17)
Author: gwendolyngrace
Recipient: celtic_cookie
Request terms: Sam and Dean of course, and I love John: Lots of John! A Pre-series Christmas Story! Familial bonding, maybe a holiday-themed hunt?
Summary: Saginaw, Michigan, 1990: Going holiday shopping may hold more hazards than just the insane crowds and parents hell-bent on the buying the latest toy. John goes undercover to look into a series of accidents at the local mall. Meanwhile, Dean and Sam respond to Christmas-season festivities at school with unexpected results.
Rating: PG
Genre: Gen
Wordcount (this chapter): about 4,285
Spoilers: All three seasons through 3x08, may or may not be Origins-compliant
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended, not mine, just my fantasy.
Author’s Notes: I'm kicking my beta's cute little ass to get comments on the rest of the fic so that I can finish posting before EyeCon. But she loves me, so she's sitting here reading the end as we speak. Thanks, etakyma: you're the bestest. I should be able to keep up the posting now that my show's over. Only a week and a half before Florida! YAY.

OH - I want to ask now, while I'm thinking about it and there's a little time: Does anyone know how to get a handwriting font to show up in LJ? Clue me.


From the Top

Then


Now:


Dean rooted through his jeans pockets for his Secret Santa slip. Without unfolding it, he crammed it into the old wallet he’d got from Dad, along with the twenty dollars he was supposed to split with Sammy, and a second twenty Dad had given him last night. “Ten for your Secret Santa,” he’d said, “and don’t feel you have to hit the line on that. And ten for you and Sam for lunch or whatever.” Dean shoved the wallet into his back pocket. The bulge it created felt strange, but not uncomfortable.

Sam dug out his paltry bank—a leather bag found at Uncle Joshua’s house two summers ago—and opened the drawstring. He dumped out the contents to sort them. Dean pulled out a flannel shirt to wear over his long-sleeved tee. By the time he had put it on and found a second layer for Sammy, his brother had separated out the things that weren’t money, like the seashell he’d picked up in Kitty Hawk and a button from the old Army surplus jacket Dad had long since discarded. He divided the change up by type.

“How much is it, Dean?” he asked.

“You can count it,” Dean told him. “Four quarters is a buck, you know that; so’s ten dimes.”

“And two nickels is a dime.”

“Right.”

Sammy counted painstakingly. Dean stacked the pennies in ten-cent columns, but they kept falling over on the mattress while Sam squirmed over his counting.

“Four dollars and…twenty-one cents!” Sam announced when he’d counted a second time. “Is that a lot?”

Dean shrugged. “Depends on what you want to spend it on.”

“’S’it enough for one of those shade things you put in the windshield?”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Probably not. Anyway, whaddaya want that for?”

“The car gets hot,” Sammy explained, as if that should have been obvious.

“Yeah, but why waste our money on that?”

“For Dad,” Sammy said. The way he widened his eyes and the little head jiggle he made added an unspoken, “Stupid” to his statement.

“Nah. If he wants something like that, he’ll get one.”

Sammy pulled one side of his mouth inward, with the implication that he didn’t think Dad would necessarily do anything so practical without some sort of prod. He didn’t protest aloud, though, just scooped the change back into the bag. He tied up the drawstring. “What should we get, then?”

Dean didn’t have to answer because at that moment, they heard the buzzer out at the apartment door. “They’re here!” Dean ran to the front room and pressed the intercom button. “Mrs. Stakowski?”

“Oh, it’s Ms., honey. You and your brother ready?”

“Uh, yeah. Just give us a minute to put on our coats and we’ll be right down.” He grabbed his jacket. “Sammy, come on!” he yelled.

Sammy ran out, one boot unbuckled. In the interest of time, Dean buckled it for him. They got their hats and scarves and Dean pointed out Sam’s idiot mittens just so Sam wouldn’t think he’d forgotten about them. He locked the door and shoved the key into his coat pocket.

On the way to the car, Dean realized what Mike’s mother meant when she’d said “Ms.” and not “Mrs.” She wasn’t married. That changed things a little. He’d have to be even more careful not to give her any ideas about Dad.

Dean was used to women looking hopefully at his father. Usually when they saw the ring he still wore on his left hand, they dropped their eyes and any plans to flirt with him. Sometimes, the sight of him and Sammy dissipated their interest; sometimes it just made things worse. Dean could generally scare off anyone who tried to step-mother them—not when Dad was around, of course, because that was just a fast trip to extra drills for being impolite.

Sometimes, Dean was pretty sure, Dad set women straight on his own.

But occasionally, Dean knew, Dad didn’t discourage the women they met. And that was okay—waitresses were always fair game, when there was the possibility of extra pie or 10% off the bill. Even if it went beyond flirting, Dad was entitled to a little fun now and then (“grown-up fun,” as Dad referred to it), as long as the women he picked understood that they weren’t going to play happy families.

Dad didn’t take up with anyone like that very often. When he did see a “nice” lady more than once, he tried to keep Dean and Sammy out of it. Dean could usually figure it out, though. He knew that Dad and Mrs. Kirkland had “done it,” but he knew he wasn’t supposed to know. Since Mrs. Kirkland didn’t act any different toward him or Sammy, Dean was happy enough preserving the fiction. Mrs. Kirkland had been okay, on the scale of Dad’s choices. Not as clear-cut as any of the hookers Dad had had sex with (which Dean knew he was never supposed to know about), nor even as transitory and spontaneous as the occasional waitress or barista, but at least she didn’t swoop in with any notion that Dean or Sam would let her be their mother.

Dean hadn’t really watched Mrs.—Ms.—Stakowski closely enough around Dad to be sure what kind of woman she was. Learning she was a single mom worried him a little. On the other hand, she already had her own son, so maybe the idea of two more wouldn’t appeal to her that much. Plus Dad hadn’t flirted at all, which meant he wasn’t remotely interested. But then Dad thought Ms. Stakowski was married, too.

Sitting in the back of her car, Dean tried not to think about that anymore, and tried instead to concentrate on what to get his Secret Santa for the exchange.

Sam, whom they’d made sit in the middle so his feet were dangling on either side of the hump made by the chassis, had apparently been thinking something slightly different. “What’re we gonna get Dad?”

“I dunno. If I don’t spend all ten bucks, I guess we could use what’s left over for him. Won’t be a lot, though.”

“What did you get him last year?” Ms. Stakowski asked from the front.

Dean frowned deeply. “We…I don’t think we got him anything.”

“Mrs. Kirkland put our names on one of his gifts, though,” Sammy piped up. “She showed me.”

“Who’s Mrs. Kirkland?”

“No one,” Dean said to shut down that line of questioning. Then he had a thought. He tacked on, “Just a friend of Dad’s” and let it sit there. Let her think Dad already had a lady-friend; couldn’t hurt. So what if Dad had moved on?

“Oh,” Ms. Stakowski said in a way that reassured Dean. She wet her lips. “Well…what does he like?”

“Guns.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean said through clenched teeth. He smiled insincerely in what he liked to think of as his “Steve McQueen smug” look. “He was a rifleman in the Marines,” he explained.

“My dad says guns are out of control in this country,” Mike said over Sammy’s head.

“Your dad? But I thought—”

“Oh, Mom’s not married,” Mike said shamelessly. “My dad lives in California. I spend summers with him.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to make of that. He lowered his voice. “Wouldn’t you rather live with your dad? In California?”

Mike shrugged. “Dad’s cool. But I like Gramma and Mom.” He bit his lip. “California’s fun, though. Ever been?”

“Yeah,” Sammy put in. “We lived there a whole three months. Didn’t we, Dean?”

Dean nodded.

“We lived right on the beach, too. Dean learned to surf, an’ he waterskied right over a tank of sharks!”

“That was Happy Days, Sammy, you spaz.” Dean rolled his eyes at Mike.

“I can surf,” Mike volunteered. “Next summer, my dad’s taking me sailing.”

“Have you ever ridden a Ski-Doo?” Sammy asked. “I wanted to but Dad said I’s too little.”

“You were,” Dean said, smooshing Sam’s hood onto his head. “Still are, shrimp.”

Sammy stuck out his tongue—possibly his most eloquent statement so far that day. Week. Month, maybe.

“Well,” Ms. Stakowski said, pulling them back to the subject, “we have to go to Macy’s and I figure I can’t get away without letting you go to the toy store or Spencer, huh?”

“Nope,” Mike told her brightly.

“And there’s something I want to pick up from Sears, and my hairdresser…. Where else?”

“Bookstore!” Sammy said immediately.

“Dork,” Dean muttered.

“Okay,” Ms. Stakowski chuckled. “Any ideas for your Dad?”

“Nope,” Dean said. “’M not sure it’s absolutely necessary, though. Usually we don’t get him anything.”

“I want to, though, Dean,” Sammy said unhelpfully.

“Well, maybe you’ll think of something,” Ms. Stakowski said, soothing Sam’s distress and Dean’s scowl.

“Yeah. Maybe,” Dean stressed to Sam.

The mall was incredibly crowded. It took almost half an hour just to get from the entrance to the parking lot, there were so many cars. Luckily, a woman got into her car right in front of them, so Ms. Stakowski waited and took her spot as soon as she backed out of it.

They came in through the Macy’s. “I can hit this on our way out,” she told them. “No use carrying big bags right off the bat.” The store was festooned with garlands, fake trees, stars hanging from the ceiling, nutcrackers and angels on tables. Dean and Sam both stopped in their tracks at the sight of all the swag. Mike had skipped forward to a display of holiday baking pans.

“What the heck are these?” he asked.

“They’re for cakes,” his mother explained, frowning.

Dean recovered a second after his body halted. He tugged off Sam’s mittens to cover his moment of shock. “Hang on, Ms. Stakowski. Lemme get all this stuff off Sammy.”

Sammy balked. “Dean, I’m not helpless.”

“So help.”

That got him moving and soon their jackets were unzipped, their scarves unwound. Dean stowed his hat and gloves in his coat pockets. By then, the busy décor ceased to faze them, although the closeness of the tables and racks of merchandise still made him feel a little claustrophobic. Following Ms. Stakowski, they waded into the dangerous waters of the department store.

She led them past racks of women’s clothes and cases of jewelry. Occasionally she would touch a sleeve, checking a price, and sadly drop her hold on the garment. Dean’s nose prickled when they entered the perfume and makeup section. A lady gave Ms. Stakowski a free spritz of something that smelled like hydrangea and grain alcohol.

Sam tugged Dean’s sleeve. “Smells like Uncle Bobby’s homemade lighter fluid,” he whispered. He had to repeat it for Dean over the noise of the store.

Dean grinned. “We’re s’posed to be polite,” he reminded Sam.

“I am. I didn’t say it to her.”

They got out of the store and into the open central corridor. Shop fronts lined each side, their window displays obscured by the crowds of rushing shoppers. Ms. Stakowski pulled the three boys to a ledge near the fountain.

“Should we look at the map or just wander?” she asked Dean.

“Map—”

“Wander,” Sammy said quickly and clearly. “We don’t know what we want.”

“Okay.” She held out her hand to Sam. Dean tensed.

Sam looked at her hand as if trying to decide whether it more closely resembled a piranha about to bite him or a particularly slimy handful of worms someone had just dared him to eat. Dean bit the inside of his lip to keep from laughing.

Ms. Stakowski realized she’d made a mistake and wiped her palm on her leggings. “Well, stay together and sing out if you see something, okay?”

“We will,” Dean said. He almost held his own hand out, just to show her his superiority, but he didn’t want Mike to see him leading his little brother by the hand. Instead he said, “Heel, Sam,” and whistled a little the way Bobby signaled to Adlai.

Sam punched him in the arm. Mike laughed.

They walked down the mall, avoiding baby strollers and shoppers with too many bright carrier bags. Every store seemed to be for chicks: clothes, shoes, makeup, jewelry. Dean recognized the chain store where he’d found the jelly bracelets he and Sam still wore. They’d been all the rage in Cookeville, Tennessee, last spring—but only two, and they came in three-packs. So he’d given the extra one to Sam. Here, instead of the jellies, the place had a huge display of extra ear piercings for girls.

“Mom, c’n I get my ear pierced?” Mike asked.

“Not until you’re thirteen,” she said.

“But Dad said—”

“Your father doesn’t get to make this decision, Michael,” Ms. Stakowski said tightly. Dean felt like he and Sam should have moved a step away.

“Toystore!” Sam exclaimed, pointing.

“Yup,” Ms. Stakowski confirmed. “How about I give you guys fifteen minutes in there, while I run into the salon for my hair stuff?”

They took off without any more encouragement.

The store was a mess. It looked like a whole brigade of miniature tanks had swept through, dumping everything from the third shelf down onto the floor. The staff were gamely trying to restock with a dead look in their eyes quite the opposite of their pasted-on smiles and cheery, “Happy Holidays.” The line to pay wound all the way through the store. The only way to look around was to thread through and between the parents and the toys.

“Dean! It’s the one I want!” Sam called. Dean came around the corner to see Sam holding up a Transformer almost half as big as he was.

“Put it back, Sam.”

“But—”

“You can’t afford it. You’ve only got fourteen dollars. ’Sides, give Santa a chance.” It kinda felt bad lying to Sam. Not about Santa, but about the present. One look at the size of that monster toy and Dean knew Dad would never go for it. Not even if the trunk were completely empty.

Sam pouted, but put the toy down.

“Look, go play with the action figures. They probably need someone to help hang them all back on the right hooks.”

Sam held his gaze, then seemed to hear Dean’s unspoken plea to drop it and shrugged.

“Okay.” He turned the corner. Dean looked at the Transformer again. No way. Not only was it ginormous, it was expensive, too. Triple no way.

He found a matchbox that looked like it would make a good Secret Santa present. He plucked out his wallet to check the name on his slip. And groaned. It was Jill. Jill Hingenberg was his Secret Santa. He had no freaking idea what to get a girl. He’d never considered ever wanting to. Dean looked at the matchbox car: a 1968 Camaro. He put it back on the hook. With a sigh, he decided he’d have to brave the pink aisle.

Mike found him scowling at a hundred different Barbies. “S’up?” he asked.

Dean held out the slip. “No clue, man,” he said. “We could ask Sam. He’s practically a girl, anyway. Where is he?”

They wove back through the line, ignoring the glares of hurried, haggard parents clutching plastic and cardboard boxes.

Sam had found a video game display and was focused on the controls. “Sam, c’mon. Need your opinion.” Dean slapped his shoulder with the back of his hand. Sam turned, causing the joystick to veer to the right. His video car crashed into the spectator stands. Sam tsked angrily at the game, but then it registered that Dean had asked him for help. He trotted happily along at Dean’s side…until they turned and were faced with unrelenting pink. Sam tsked again and huffed.

“You suck, Dean,” he said.

“Look, Cabbage Patch dolls, Samantha. See where you came from?”

“Why’re you being mean? I haven’t done anything.”

“Just a matter of time.”

“You’re showing off for Mike, that’s all.” Sam pointed beyond him to Mike.

“No, I’m—” Dean shut his mouth in a frown. Mike was grinning at him and suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. He turned back to make it up to Sam. But Sam was stomping away. Mike shrugged at Dean.

“You said he’s kinda bitchy—”

“Shut up,” Dean snapped. “He’s my brother, not yours.”

“Sorry,” Mike mumbled. He looked at his feet.

“Yeah, okay. Come on. Dolls are dumb,” Dean said. He tapped Mike’s arm and led the way out to the front.

“There you are!” Ms. Stakowski called from the entrance. “Where’s Sam?”

It took a minute to find him. This time, he’d taken himself to the far corner of the store, where the games and puzzles were. “Hey, Sam. Did you find anything you want?” Ms. Stakowski asked.

Sam shrugged. “Nothing I can afford,” he said, looking at Dean snidely.

“Dude, it’s not my fault we got no money,” Dean told him. He willed Sam to hear his apology.

“Well, cheer up. Maybe Santa will bring you what you saw today.”

Sam’s lip trembled. Dean felt his eyes getting wider as he watched. Please, he prayed, don’t be a crybaby in front of other people. Don’t be a punk-ass bitch.

But Sam didn’t cry. He stood up and took Ms. Stakowski’s arm to lead her away a few steps. Dean saw her lean down so Sam could say something into her ear. Dean’s brow furrowed and he crossed his arms. He shrugged at Mike.

“What’s wrong with him?” Mike asked.

“Beats me.” But he suspected, and his suspicion bothered him. Was Sam telling Ms. Stakowski that Dean had been mean to him? That would be totally uncool—odd even for Sammy—especially to someone they barely knew. Was he just bitching about his Transformer? Probably. That was more classic Sam behavior. Unless….

Ms. Stakowski led Sam back over, stepping around a woman with a Cabbage Patch doll clutched firmly to her chest. At least this time she didn’t try to take Sam’s hand.

“Sam thought of something he’d like to do, and I suppose both of you will consider yourselves too grown up for it.” She pouted at Mike. “But I told him I’d ask anyway. So, you two feel like going to see Santa Claus?”

Mike snorted, apparently not bothering in the least bit to conceal his disdain. “Mom, we’re way too old for Santa.”

Dean fought to keep his embarrassment off his face. “Lemme talk to Sam—I mean, can we have a second alone, please?”

“Sure. We’ll head back outside. I wouldn’t mind a moment with Michael, myself.” Her hand fell on Mike’s shoulder and from the way she said his full name, Mike was in for a tongue-lashing. Not that anyone’s lectures could measure up against one of Dad’s.

Dean gave them a couple paces to get out of earshot. Sam’s hands were tight little fists at his sides, as if ready for Dean to take a pot shot at him. He was practically vibrating. Dean took a deep breath, wanting to get at the answer to his question, but not wanting to widen the rift he’d already opened up between them. “Sammy—”

“Don’t tease me, Dean. I mean it. I got my reasons.” Sam uncurled one white-knuckled fist to jab a finger at Dean. He drew his hand back jerkily, like he wasn’t sure where to put it. It landed on the sleeves of his coat, which Dean had tied around his waist.

“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to upset you before, Sammy. Really. Okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Sam’s other fist relaxed and he played absently with the string on his idiot mittens.

“Cool. But—Santa? I’m not teasing!” he added quickly to keep Sam from exploding again, because Sam looked up angrily. “I just don’t get it. Why the heck d’you want to see Santa, Sam?”

“R’you mad?”

“No. Mortified by my big baby of a kid brother,” he continued through a wink, “but not mad. Just curious. What’s up?”

Sam shrugged. “Well…I haven’t mailed my letter yet. An’ it’s getting pretty close. An’ Kris in my class said Santa had deputies at the mall. Dean, I know that Transformer is pretty expensive. So I figure I gotta make sure Santa knows that I don’t care if I get anything else—that way, maybe Dad can go in on it together with him, or something.”

Dean shook his head. “You are such a freak.”

“Why?”

“You’re like the only kid on the planet, I bet, who’d suggest that Saint Nick and Dad go halvsies on a present. Whatever.” He hitched his arm over to tell Sam to follow him. Sam caught his wrist.

“Is it a dumb idea?”

Dean put his hand over Sam’s, twisted him into a lock, and gave him noogies. “No dumber than when you decided we could hide that cat from Dad.”

“I didn’t know he’s allergic!” Sam insisted, dancing away toward the store entrance.

Dean took his time following. Just the tiny bit of sparring had winded him a little. Which was just wrong. But they’d barely got started shopping and now Sam had this harebrained scheme. He didn’t want to ruin the trip for everyone just because he needed a breather.

The other three were standing by a potted plant when he came out of the store.

“Okay,” Ms. Stakowski said. “Here’s what I thought: the Workshop doesn’t let kids stay in line by themselves, so Sam and I can wait together and you two can go check out Spencer’s.”

“Alone?” Mike asked.

“Yeah. Make sure you have enough before you buy anything. Remember sales tax.”

“How much is it here?” Dean asked.

“Six percent. That’s—”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean said, “six cents on top of every dollar.” He remembered the first time he’d bought groceries by himself. Dad had left him money and explained that most food didn’t have a tax, but sometimes it did. That hadn’t helped much, because apart from being something that made the Pilgrims throw a tea party and then start the Revolution, Dean didn’t know what a tax was. But he hadn’t wanted to disappoint Dad by asking. So he’d taken the few dollars Dad gave him and went to the Minimart up the street for cereal and peanut butter and stuff. He’d added up his purchases to the penny, so when the cashier rang it all up, Dean had been incensed to see a total nearly fifty cents higher than he’d calculated. He’d argued with the cashier, who’d shrugged. “Sales tax, kid.”

“But it’s food!”

“Still taxed here. Sorry, son. You could just put something back that will cover the tax.” He indicated the Hostess pies Dean had decided to get as a treat. In the end, Dean had put back one can of Ravioli and kept the Hostess snacks.

Ms. Stakowski suggested that Dean and Mike go to Spencer’s to shop and if they finished before she and Sam did, they should come to the Workshop to find them. “Or can you stand to be seen there?” she teased.

Mike and Dean both rolled their eyes. “I guess so,” Dean allowed.

“Could we go to the arcade?” Mike asked. That made Dean smile. Way better idea; he hadn’t known there was an arcade in the mall.

Ms. Stakowski licked her lip. “Do you still have any tokens from last time?” she asked Mike.

Mike nodded.

“With you?” she pressed.

Mike dug into his pocket and pulled out a fistful of arcade plugs. “I got’em out this morning,” he said proudly.

Dean could tell Ms. Stakowski didn’t really want them to go to the arcade, but she was running out of ammunition against Mike’s barrage. She turned to him.

“Dean? How about you?”

Dean shrugged. “Dad gave us a little money to spend. I can change a buck or two.” He felt a little bad joining Mike in his mutiny, but the arcade was infinitely preferable to standing in line for Santa.

“Okay, well, let’s go by and see what the line’s like. You two can go to Spencer’s from there.”

“Okay, Sam?” Dean asked pointedly.

“Fine,” Sam said. To anyone watching—Mike or his Mom—Sam seemed perfectly okay. Dean watched him carefully for any sign to the contrary. Sam smiled his #3: I’m fine in public but you owe me. Dean could live with that. He’d been an asshole, Sam had called him on it, and Sam was right. Dean decided that if he won any toys or anything, he’d share; that would fix any lingering hard feelings.

They moved toward the mall center. The tree at the central crossing was gigantic, which almost made up for how kitschy the rest of it appeared. From this angle, they could see the entrance and exit, but had a sideways view of Santa; they couldn’t see much of the decorative pathway, which in Dean’s opinion was just as well.

“Ugh,” Ms. Stakowski said as they came up to the little board indicating the approximate wait time. “Tell you what, Sam: you wanted to go to the bookstore?”

“Yeah, sure!” Sam chirped.

“Well, why don’t we all do that first and I can get a magazine. This line looks brutal.”

“Mom, can’t Dean and I go on now? We don’t want to look at dumb old books.”

She sighed. “Okay. It’s 1:15. If we don’t find you at Spencer’s, or the arcade, by 2:00, come back to the Workshop and see how we’re doing. Then we’ll get lunch.”

They took off. Between the noise of the display, the muzak, and the kids in line, they barely heard her shout, “Behave yourselves!” in their wake.


Continue to Chapter Thirteen