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durenjtmusings · 1 year

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Something Special: Dean

Where do you find the special things? The ones that make a difference between life and death. Things that help you protect yourself, or become yourself in a world of other things that go more than bump in the night.

Excerpt from my fic Something Special over on Ao3 Supernatural, Dean & Sam, Bobby Singer, Daniel Elkins, OFC, & others. Trope: The Little Shop That Wasn’t There Yesterday Words:11,315 Genfic

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January 25, 2004 - Alice Acres, Texas

He regained consciousness slowly and reluctantly, his body leaden and his back teeth echoing each throb of his aching head. Reflexively, he groped under the pillow, finding the solid reassurance of a gun. Baseline safety sorted, his brain automatically kicked into situational assessment: Why did he hurt? Drugged, fight, or…self-inflicted? Ahhhh, crap, self-inflicted, dammit. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he moved with the careful deliberateness taught to all true disciples of Bacchus, flipping slowly onto his back in a wide-armed sprawl across the width of the mattress. Achingly bright light combined with the scent of stale tobacco, mold, and cheap cleaning products set his stomach churning. Ignoring his body’s complaints through force of habit, he sluggishly began to work through the previous night’s memories. He remembered the bar…bars…he corrected himself. He had been celebrating…what? His brain slowly dredged up a response. Right, his birthday. Alone. Twenty-five years old and I’m stuck celebrating with goddamned strangers. No surprise he felt this crappy. Did he remain alone? No happy fun time memories came immediately to mind. His brain made note of his solitary bed state and lack of noise from the seedy motel bathroom. Made a few mental calculations. Thank god, no one slept over. Didn’t mean no one came home with him, just that his hungover morning had fewer people. Less complicated, good.

He pondered his alone state for a moment and acknowledged the anxious knot low in his gut that greeted him each morning. Cautiously opening his eyes, he turned to face the empty bed on his left. No dad. Dad was hunting down a demon lead in Ohio, his brain grudgingly supplied. He had checked in fine by phone late yesterday afternoon. No Sam. Pictures of Sam at Stanford flickered briefly through his head. He was pretty damn sure Sam had no idea how often Dean secretly checked in on him, but he simply had to know that his brother was OK. Last time was two months ago. Time for another visit soon.

Family inventory taken, Dean returned to poking at his memories of the previous night. He remembered the beginning of the evening…the first two bars, beers, shots, dancing with pretty girls…a slow smile crawled over his face. Even while partying, he had been working. He’d hustled darts in the first bar and pool in the second. Made a very tidy wad of cash, which he took to the third bar and…and…

Shit. Dean drew a blank. He didn’t remember what happened at the third bar. He remembered driving there and opening the door, greeting the bartender (bad teeth, scary muscular dude, no luck there) and then…nothing. He didn’t remember leaving the bar, coming back to the hotel…nothing. Galvanized, he sat up sharply and then clutched his head. Fucking hell. Swung his legs off the bed and staggered over to the window to squint painfully out the curtains. Baby. He signed gustily in relief. Not the best park job, but clearly he’d been just sober enough to get her home. He glanced down…and to get undressed before passing out. A bit of fear churned his stomach. Blackouts were bad, dangerous. His dad would be furious if he knew. Dean grabbed at the pile of cloth on the floor as he collapsed into a chair and began methodically checking his pockets for anything missing. Good. Everything checked out fine – even had most of the money he’d hustled. Can’t have gotten too damn exciting at the last bar, I guess. Dean made his way over to his duffle over by the TV – a cursory check showed everything in its place. He’d take a thorough inventory before leaving, like always.

Second panic of the morning averted, his body began to make its demands known. Piss, shower, teeth…food? His stomach lurched yet again. Coffee. Dean made his way to the bathroom even more slowly, the pounding in his head amped by his adrenaline-fueled searches. By the end of the shower, however, Dean was relieved to find more and more images of the third bar returning. Several more drinks (no surprise), more dancing, and…oh, god, I think singing. Crap. Dean brushed the alcohol slime off his teeth and tongue, wisely skipped a shave and headed to the nearby Denny’s for coffee. By the end of the second cup, he was pretty sure he had most of the night reconstructed - even a few flashes of driving home. There was one set of images, however, that he could not quite reconcile.

A small older man, sitting across a damp bar table. Intense dark eyes behind glasses on a wrinkled face that was…plain? Ordinary? Bland? Dressed in an oddly cut vest and jacket. Dark wispy hair streaked with silver, combed over a good-sized bald patch. The man was talking…saying something earnestly, but damn if Dean could remember what. Slid a business card across the table. Dean remembered it between his fingers, remembered agreeing to something… A worried frown on his face, Dean searched through his pockets, eventually finding an unfamiliar card in his inside jacket pocket.

[Image description: Antiqued looking business card with the words: Lost and Found ltd. Buy, sell, trade. Rare and unique Weapons our speciatly. Oliver & Fitch, Proprietors 204 1/2 State St. Alice Acre, Texas 361.555.1212 www.oliverand fitch.com]

Dean considered the card. Unique weapons, huh. Maybe this was about a case. Considered the strange little man. Maybe the man was a case. Either way, the address wasn’t far and the whole thing was just weird and interesting enough to make it worth checking out. After some apple pie for breakfast. With a side of bacon, because screw hangovers.

The shop was surprisingly hard to find, down a narrow alley to an almost hidden door around the back of a rundown bodega. Dean entered in a foul mood fueled by both the stubborn remnants of his hangover and the humiliation of having to ask for directions more than once. This better be worth it. As he stopped in the open doorway to let his eyes adjust from the bright winter sun, he was immediately hit by the achingly familiar scents of wood polish, metal, and gun oil. Oddly reassured, he stepped between two long hip-height display cases set so close together he could easily touch both at the same time. Peering through the dim shop lighting into the cases, he could make out an astonishing variety of small hand weapons – jackknives, switchblades, machetes, shurikens, brass knuckles…and handguns. Lots of handguns. Derringers, pistols and what looked like an Elizabethan wheellock, next to modern semiautomatics and everything in between. Fascinated, Dean stepped further into the room. Once adjusted to the light, his eyes were drawn to the walls behind the cases. These were covered in bigger weapons: long barrel guns, bows of all types, and even a few spears. He stared in awe at a huge gun collection that included both newer models – Remington hunting rifles next to Barret sniper rifles, Uzis and AK47s – and older, more obscure firearms –Tommy guns, muskets, and even a blunderbuss. He wondered dazedly if, somewhere in the shop, he’d be able to find a phased plasma rifle in the 40-watt range.

Almost giddy, Dean spent a few moments practically darting back and forth, examining each shiny new thing that caught his eye. He was just trying to make out the inscription on a particularly evil looking blade (sacrificial knife?) when a sudden chuckle snapped his head up and his hand to the gun hidden under his jacket.

The far end of the long, narrow shop was cloaked in shadow, but Dean could just make out another glass case across the back. Behind this case stood…the little man from last night. His weathered face wreathed in a large customer-friendly smile, he only raised his brows at Dean’s startled reaction.

“Good morning, Mr. Winchester, I had indeed so hoped to see you today.” Dean relaxed and nodded, oddly reassured to see the little guy. He looked almost exactly as he remembered. Right down to the tidy but out-of-date suit and thin gold frames. Good to know he was real and not a whiskey induced hallucination. Then Dean tensed again. Winchester…he’d given a stranger his real name? Dread curled heavy in his gut. Shit, he had been unacceptably drunk last night.

“Yeah, uh…yeah. I was, uh, a little…distracted last night. - seem to have forgotten your name.” Dean peered down at the card in his hand. “Are you Mr. Fitch or Mr. Oliver? And, um, what was it again that we discussed?”

“Oh, that’s fine, fine, no problem, no problem at all. It was your name we talked about mostly – and how it related to what I do.” The man glanced down as he busied himself tidying up the already spotless counter. “You may call me Mr. Fitch. My brother is Mr. Oliver. He deals in larger items of trade – machines, transportation, and such. I deal in things that can be easily carried from the shop.” He looked up smiling into Dean’s face. “And it is not something I want, but rather something you might want that we discussed.

Dean raised his eyebrows in surprise. Something he wanted. What the hell could he have told this strange little man he wanted?

“You were celebrating last night – your entry into adulthood?” At Dean’s look of confusion, the little man, continued. “You turned 25 yesterday, yes? No longer a young man seeking his way, but truly adult, firmly established in this world.” The man’s – Mr. Fitch’s – face crumpled in a frown. “I expressed dismay that you were celebrating this momentous occasion alone and invited you here today in consolation.” His face softened into a slow smile as he spread his arms, gesturing widely, “To you to choose for yourself a gift –something you want, something special - to commemorate this milestone.” A shopkeeper’s beguiling look, a raised eyebrow. “I promised you an excellent deal.”

Dean frowned as he considered the profits from last night. That amount could keep Baby purring – and him in burgers, beer, and cheap beds – for months. Or…he could throw it away on a pretty new toy. He eyed the grenade launcher hanging just over the man’s left shoulder. Considered the other questionably legal items one could find in a store like this. Yeah…maybe it is time to do something nice for myself. Besides, it’s not like it isn’t work-related. Yeah, sure, this is a work expense.

Dean’s face shifted to one of his most charming. “And just how great a deal are we talkin’?”

“Only one limb?” At Dean’s raised eyebrows, the man laughed, “Nothing you can’t afford, I promise.”

Read more: Something Special over on Ao3

#djtmusings fic #supernatural #dean's colt #Little magic shop trope #something special #spn pre-series #shameless self-promotion

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