LAS Challenge #4
Sep. 21st, 2010 01:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glasslogicStory Title: Buy One, Get One (LAS Prompt #4 - Redemption)
Name: glasslogic
Pairing: none
Disclaimer: I have no rights
to any of the copyrighted characters/material in this fic, and I make no profit from it.
Rating: G
Word Count: 998
Warnings/Spoilers: None
This story is for the SPN Last Author Standing challenge, one prompt a week, one story per prompt, one author voted off each cycle until only one is left. Stories must be between 100 - 1000 words. No betas allowed, voting is completely blind.
Four Corners, Arkansas. 1989
Rickers Carnival was a chaotic swirl of colors and smells, distractions designed to lure people into doing really stupid things. Dean knew this because his dad had told him so, and they were there on a job. When they reached the trailer he was looking for, John strode past the attendant out front. Dean tried to follow ...only to be slammed back by an invisible gate. John frowned, then looked over at the attendant who gave a shrug and pointed to a neatly lettered sign, “You Must Be This Tall To Come Inside.” It was at least three inches over Dean’s head. He stood on his tiptoes so the line brushed his hair and gave the man a hopeful look. The attendant sneered and John stepped back and took Dean by the shoulders.
“This shouldn’t take long, but you need to wait here while I’m inside.”
“I will.”
John looked stern. “I mean on these steps, right here. Understand?”
Dean nodded obediently and sat.
Hours later, Dean was seriously missing his dad. The bright colors of the early evening had faded into a sinister gloom, and the people roaming around the carnival grounds seemed more desperate than excited. He was just thinking of trying the door again; when he noticed the carnie in the booth across the way waving to him. It seemed rude to ignore him, and Dean didn’t see anything wrong with just talking...
Conscience stifled; he hopped off the steps and headed over.
The man smiled slyly. “You’ve been sitting there for hours. Would you like to try your hand at the gallery?”
Dean definitely did, but shrugged. “I don’t have any money.”
“You don’t need money to play our games. We take a different sort of currency.”
“Like what?” Dean asked suspiciously.
“You’re a little young for the usual fare,” the carnie mused. “What have you got that you value?”
Dean rummaged in his jacket and found the pocket knife his dad had given him for his birthday. “I have this, but my dad would kill me if I lost it.”
“Tell you what. I won’t charge you full price, but wager that knife and win, and I’ll give you a full price prize -- sound like a deal?”
Dean squirmed inside. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this in the first place. If he lost the knife... But the bottles were so close, there was no way he could miss.
“Deal.”
“That’s my boy!” The man handed a rifle to Dean. “One shot, one bottle. Aim well.”
Dean looked down the sights, suddenly uneasy. The gun felt like a living thing in his hands, and the bottles shimmered like ice. He drew a deep breath, focused, and pulled the trigger. The glass exploded into glittering shards.
They were still falling when rough hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him.
“Dean!” He looked up into his father’s furious face. “Why did you move?!”
“Easy, now. The boy hasn’t done anything, but shown off some excellent shooting skills. He’s won a prize... anything he likes.”
“I know about your twisted games. Leave my son alone! Let’s go, Dean. Now.”
Ashamed, Dean silently held the gun out to the man, who smiled conspiratorially and slipped something into Dean’s hand as he took the weapon back.
Later, in the bathroom of the motel, Dean unwrinkled the scrap of paper. It was thick parchment and written across in gold letters, “Buy One, Get One Free! Rickers Carnival of Souls.” Dean shivered and stuffed it in the bottom of his duffle bag.
Three Forks, Arizona. 2003
Dean sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with one hand and holding the phone with the other, trying to make sense of what his brother was saying.
“So, you took that bimbette from the bar to a carnival, and now you don’t have a soul?”
“She’s not a bimbette! Her name is Mandy and...” Sam cut himself off, irritated. “I went to get popcorn; when I got back, she was trying to knock down pins. She missed; they took her soul.”
“Assuming any of this is on the level, what happened to your soul?”
Dean could hear his brother squirming in the silence.
“Sam?”
“They said I could win it back, it looked easy!”
The memory of a gun like a living thing in his hands flared to life, Dean stilled.
“What carnival is this again?”
“Rickers. It’s just past Oak street over on the--
“--crossroads,” Dean finished. “Right on the fucking crossroads. Good job, Sam.”
“Screw you. How was I supposed to--“
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
“Dean...” Under the irritation, Sam’s voice was pure nerves; it hurt Dean to hear the fear.
“Put them on the phone, Sam. Let’s find out what the hell they think a soul is worth.”
A few hours later, Dean watched grimly as a grubby man in a top hat possessively spread his hands over tiny bags of rare herbs, charms, and a recipe for Cajun gumbo he had copied out of the back of his dad’s journal. After a moment he looked up expectantly. Dean sighed and reluctantly laid a battered pocket knife on the table too.
“Satisfied?”
“Yes, oh, most definitely. But this will only buy you one soul back, and I think you were interested in both of these?” He gestured towards two Mason jars glowing with soft light on the edge of the table. “I’m afraid for the second, the price goes up considerably.”
Against the wall of the trailer, Sam and Mandy were watching the proceedings intently.
Dean quirked a smile. “Yeah,” he fished in the pocket of his jacket, “about that...”
~~~~~
“Dude, you redeemed a coupon for my soul?”
“What’s the matter, Sam? Are you pissed I didn’t tell you about it, or pissed that I got you on discount?”
“Neither, I’m just... our lives are weird, man.”
Dean snorted. “You think that was weird, wait until you hear what’s going on in Wisconsin...
Name: glasslogic
Pairing: none
Disclaimer: I have no rights
Rating: G
Word Count: 998
Warnings/Spoilers: None
This story is for the SPN Last Author Standing challenge, one prompt a week, one story per prompt, one author voted off each cycle until only one is left. Stories must be between 100 - 1000 words. No betas allowed, voting is completely blind.
Four Corners, Arkansas. 1989
Rickers Carnival was a chaotic swirl of colors and smells, distractions designed to lure people into doing really stupid things. Dean knew this because his dad had told him so, and they were there on a job. When they reached the trailer he was looking for, John strode past the attendant out front. Dean tried to follow ...only to be slammed back by an invisible gate. John frowned, then looked over at the attendant who gave a shrug and pointed to a neatly lettered sign, “You Must Be This Tall To Come Inside.” It was at least three inches over Dean’s head. He stood on his tiptoes so the line brushed his hair and gave the man a hopeful look. The attendant sneered and John stepped back and took Dean by the shoulders.
“This shouldn’t take long, but you need to wait here while I’m inside.”
“I will.”
John looked stern. “I mean on these steps, right here. Understand?”
Dean nodded obediently and sat.
Hours later, Dean was seriously missing his dad. The bright colors of the early evening had faded into a sinister gloom, and the people roaming around the carnival grounds seemed more desperate than excited. He was just thinking of trying the door again; when he noticed the carnie in the booth across the way waving to him. It seemed rude to ignore him, and Dean didn’t see anything wrong with just talking...
Conscience stifled; he hopped off the steps and headed over.
The man smiled slyly. “You’ve been sitting there for hours. Would you like to try your hand at the gallery?”
Dean definitely did, but shrugged. “I don’t have any money.”
“You don’t need money to play our games. We take a different sort of currency.”
“Like what?” Dean asked suspiciously.
“You’re a little young for the usual fare,” the carnie mused. “What have you got that you value?”
Dean rummaged in his jacket and found the pocket knife his dad had given him for his birthday. “I have this, but my dad would kill me if I lost it.”
“Tell you what. I won’t charge you full price, but wager that knife and win, and I’ll give you a full price prize -- sound like a deal?”
Dean squirmed inside. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this in the first place. If he lost the knife... But the bottles were so close, there was no way he could miss.
“Deal.”
“That’s my boy!” The man handed a rifle to Dean. “One shot, one bottle. Aim well.”
Dean looked down the sights, suddenly uneasy. The gun felt like a living thing in his hands, and the bottles shimmered like ice. He drew a deep breath, focused, and pulled the trigger. The glass exploded into glittering shards.
They were still falling when rough hands grabbed his shoulders, shaking him.
“Dean!” He looked up into his father’s furious face. “Why did you move?!”
“Easy, now. The boy hasn’t done anything, but shown off some excellent shooting skills. He’s won a prize... anything he likes.”
“I know about your twisted games. Leave my son alone! Let’s go, Dean. Now.”
Ashamed, Dean silently held the gun out to the man, who smiled conspiratorially and slipped something into Dean’s hand as he took the weapon back.
Later, in the bathroom of the motel, Dean unwrinkled the scrap of paper. It was thick parchment and written across in gold letters, “Buy One, Get One Free! Rickers Carnival of Souls.” Dean shivered and stuffed it in the bottom of his duffle bag.
Three Forks, Arizona. 2003
Dean sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes with one hand and holding the phone with the other, trying to make sense of what his brother was saying.
“So, you took that bimbette from the bar to a carnival, and now you don’t have a soul?”
“She’s not a bimbette! Her name is Mandy and...” Sam cut himself off, irritated. “I went to get popcorn; when I got back, she was trying to knock down pins. She missed; they took her soul.”
“Assuming any of this is on the level, what happened to your soul?”
Dean could hear his brother squirming in the silence.
“Sam?”
“They said I could win it back, it looked easy!”
The memory of a gun like a living thing in his hands flared to life, Dean stilled.
“What carnival is this again?”
“Rickers. It’s just past Oak street over on the--
“--crossroads,” Dean finished. “Right on the fucking crossroads. Good job, Sam.”
“Screw you. How was I supposed to--“
“Shut up. I’m thinking.”
“Dean...” Under the irritation, Sam’s voice was pure nerves; it hurt Dean to hear the fear.
“Put them on the phone, Sam. Let’s find out what the hell they think a soul is worth.”
A few hours later, Dean watched grimly as a grubby man in a top hat possessively spread his hands over tiny bags of rare herbs, charms, and a recipe for Cajun gumbo he had copied out of the back of his dad’s journal. After a moment he looked up expectantly. Dean sighed and reluctantly laid a battered pocket knife on the table too.
“Satisfied?”
“Yes, oh, most definitely. But this will only buy you one soul back, and I think you were interested in both of these?” He gestured towards two Mason jars glowing with soft light on the edge of the table. “I’m afraid for the second, the price goes up considerably.”
Against the wall of the trailer, Sam and Mandy were watching the proceedings intently.
Dean quirked a smile. “Yeah,” he fished in the pocket of his jacket, “about that...”
~~~~~
“Dude, you redeemed a coupon for my soul?”
“What’s the matter, Sam? Are you pissed I didn’t tell you about it, or pissed that I got you on discount?”
“Neither, I’m just... our lives are weird, man.”
Dean snorted. “You think that was weird, wait until you hear what’s going on in Wisconsin...
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