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

Comments

[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.