The wreath gets exactly what it deserves, a solid, disdainful little side kick, sending it skittering a few feet away. It settles into the snow as though nothing too upsetting had occurred, but Mace knows the truth of it: its prickly, woodsy feelings are hurt. Excellently done, buddy. The boots had been worth it just for that, and for the scandalized expression on the face of the nearest townsperson to witness such an atrocity.

Mace falls into step a couple of feet behind his new best friend, and there’s a small, grim smile curling the corner of his mouth at Dean’s deliberate, angry volume and the ripple of discomfort it sends through the merry throng of holiday sycophants clustered around them.

It also gives him an idea.

“Listen, I’d appreciate the hell out of that,” Mace says, matching Dean’s volume, before lowering it abruptly as he adds, taking a stride forward until they’re walking together, “But I know you don’t wanna give ‘em a dime, man.”

Or a cent, as it were, considering they’re in ancient goddamn times. “They kidnapped us here, least they can fork over is a free coat, right?” And with a meaningful glance-and-nod at the holiday booth, Mace mutters,

“Take a lap, meet me back here in five. If I’m not out by then, it’s too late for me. Burn a wreath in my name.”