ʙᴇᴀᴜsᴇ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴋɪɴɢ ᴀɴᴅ I'ᴍ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪᴏɴ-ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ (ᴄʟᴏsᴇᴅ)

[righteously]

Who: Dean Winchester & James Mace
What: Probably being curmudgeons at one another.
When: 2nd week of December
Warnings: Blanket warnings for Dean are violence, adult language, alcoholism, suicidal themes.

fake cut tag

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[righteously]

This is the second time Dean's walked through a door without looking and wound up in candy cane hell — and it definitely won't be the last. He's goddamn annoyed, partly because he doesn't like getting mojo'd places without his permission and partly because the walk back home is such a pain in the ass. He'd been planning to take a damn shower, and this is like... the literal exact opposite of that.

He's not dressed for the snow. He's not dressed for being outside of the damn living room, matter of fact, so he grinched somebody real hard by snatching up their wreath to immediately throw it onto the ground. He stands on it with now-wet socks in front one of those tables by the cocoa and mulled wine, dumping the contents of what is very obviously a flask into his cup.

It's through glancing up to shoot a look around and see if anybody's noticed that he spots Mace, and after weighing the pros and cons, ultimately whistles out a quick low tone to catch his attention.

"Hey, psst. Give you five bucks if you go buy me one of those santa outfits from the ripoff holly jolly capitalism booth."

[hydraulics]

The first thing Mace sees are the socks.

Wait, no. The first thing Mace sees is what looks to be the only normal looking guy in this candy-coated hell, standing nearby — and there's a brief, somewhat relieved thought of thank fuck as his gaze continues to sweep the rest of the surrounding area, before his brain gives him a swift kick in the hippocampus, tugging his attention right back. Somewhere, a record scratches.

It's not the wreath. It's not the flask. It's the wet, clearly chilled socks on Dean's shoeless feet that Mace notices, and he finds himself vaguely indignant on the guy's behalf before he can even catch a glimpse of his face. You lose heat fastest through your extremities; you lose it insultingly fast in a vat of freezing coolant, especially when your leg's caught in pointy bits of angry machinery. And Mace woke up here with a new, intense dislike of the cold precisely because of those reasons —

Which is why that low whistle’s barely past Dean’s lips before Mace is already heading over, mind made up. The offer of five bucks gets a huff of breath out of him, and he glances up as he unties a hefty pair of boots, voice dry but commiserating.

"They get you on the way to the bathroom, the kitchen, or the garage?"

Mace, meanwhile, had been hoodwinked by a closet inside said garage, having been on the hunt for anything resembling a toolbox and tragically finding only several human tools in the form of Santa’s elves — again. They’d nabbed him in the upstairs closet the first time around; and there’s probably an excellent Narnia joke in there somewhere, but it goes whooshing over Mace’s uncultured head as he works his boots off and straightens up again, holding them out toward Dean. Underneath them, he’s wearing no less than three pairs of woollen socks, which.

“Second rodeo,” he adds by of explanation, but in an undertone, like some kind of black market socks-dealer.

[righteously]

Second rodeo.

He scoffs out one of those tell me about it, right there with you noises. Bad as he might feel about literally taking the shoes off the guy's feet, it looks like he's at least a little more prepped for this than Dean had been. Probably won't have to yank some dead-eyed John's hard-assembled Christmas wreath to use as a dry spot to stand on.

Either way, Dean's already got a mind to offer to swing back and pick the guy up. You know, with the car that he has at home, the long trek away from here. He'll pitch that after his toes stop freezing their balls off.

"The goddamn shower," he answers, voice gone frustrated and deadpan, body dipping to one side to start pulling on a boot. Obviously there's no door on his shower, but walking through the bathroom intent on jumping in some hot water and winding up in crappy cold nothing is annoying enough for him to simplify it that way. "You?"

[hydraulics]

Man, the guy’s got every right to trample a whole damn bunch of wreaths, frankly; they tried to get him on the way to the shower.

“That’s gotta be an assassination attempt.”

Imagine if they’d gotten him outside in his birthday suit. It’s goddamn freezing out here, there’s no way that would’ve had any impact except a potentially lethal one — and Mace turns to scowl at a nearby Robby who’s standing a little too close to them for comfort, his voice going from his usual, easy drawl to something loud and pointed.

“They keep tricking me with closets, like I can’t just buy a hammer and take all the doors off. What’re they gonna do? Sue me?” The elf merely gives him a blithe, empty smile as though he hasn’t said anything out of the ordinary, skipping away to the next table. Of course. Mace shakes his head as he watches him go with an expression that’s half defeated, half-disgruntled. This is evidently not the first time he’s accosted one of ‘em.

But speaking of buying. Turning back to Dean, he jabs a thumb over at one of the booths some distance away and, raising his eyebrows slightly, asks, “Still interested in Santa’s duds?”

[righteously]

Despite how annoyed he is, despite the cold, despite his general surly countenance, he's clearly at least a little amused by the guy popping off on a dead-eye. For at least the foreseeable future, Mace is officially his spirit animal.

Boots aggressively laced, he gives the wreath a spiteful kick with the side of his foot. The result isn't satisfying; it makes it about three feet before settling calmly into soft snow. He scowls at it briefly, acknowledging his opponent's victory.

Anyway.

"Yeah, think I'm gonna grab one of those coats to wear back," with the disgruntled air of a man unhappy about giving these people money. So begins his pilgrimage a few yards away toward the shop. As he goes he talks loudly over his shoulder Mace's direction, inconsiderate of disrupting the quiet and merry atmosphere. "Hey listen, I got a car back in the garage. You wanna sit tight? I can swing by, pick you back up. Return the favor."

For the boots.

[hydraulics]

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.”

[righteously]

He slows down as soon as Mace falls into step, because ya boi recognizes a conspiratorial muttering session when he sees one. Eyebrows hitch up, lips smush together in keen interest, and he doesn't seem to think twice about Operation Shoplifting.

"You had me at free coat," because god knows Dean is an advocate for nonconsensual charity donations from unwitting shop owners on a good day, let alone this one. "Go get 'em, tiger."

Accompanied with a firm, supportive slap on Mace's shoulder. Nary even a hitch in his step as he transitions from a steady clip toward the shop to the mandated lap around the joint. By the time he makes it back he's curious as hell about how the guy did.

Almost kind of seems like a try-out. If Mace can pull this off, consider him firmly initiated into the Dean Winchester Club of Assholes Who Get Shit Done.