scribblinlenore | Holiday Fluff Advent Style: Day Twenty (SPN)

Day Twenty: Red Hot Racer, SPN, Gen

Red Hot Racer
by Lenore

Christmas time brought out the worst kind of demons--the supernatural world's equivalent of molesters and baby killers and conmen who swindled little old ladies out of their life savings, that's how Dean thought of it. Total bottom feeders. The worst of the worst. It was a week before the big day, and they were hot on the trail of some evil something or other, hadn't pinned it down yet, just knew what it did. Stole the laughter from children. They'd produced fake IDs at the hospital that said they were social workers to get close to the kids so they could see firsthand what had been done to them. There were two boys and a little girl, all of them blank-faced and quiet and utterly joyless, as if they'd been drained of their spirits.

So far, the one thing all the families had in common was that they'd made a trip to a vintage toy store called "Toys of Yore." Dean had been thinking it was possibly a cursed object they were dealing with until he stepped inside, and the storeowner put on a smarmy smile from behind the counter that made his crazy, crazy eyes that much scarier.

"Morning," Dean said with false cheer.

"What can I help you with?" the owner asked, still smiling.

"We need a gift for the nephew." Dean lowered his tone confidentially, "Sis married herself a yuppie, and the bro-in-law looks down on toys from Target. Isn't that right, Sam?" He glanced around for his brother.

But Sam wasn't paying any attention, kneeling by a display case in the front, staring as if mesmerized. For a moment, Dean thought he was going to have to whip out his 38 and fill the son of a bitch toymaster full of lead for working his evil mojo on his brother.

Then Sam met Dean's gaze, and Dean could see he'd gone all soft-eyed, not from mojo, but nostalgia. "Look, Dean, it's a Red Hot Racer! Remember?"

Dean made a "not now" face at him, but the storeowner was already coming over. "Bristol Toys, produced only one year, 1986. An excellent choice."

"I, uh, think we'll look around a little more." Dean plastered on a smile and hauled Sam to his feet.

The toymaster nodded. "Of course." And returned to his place behind the counter.

"Focus!" Dean hissed at Sam under his breath.

They fanned out in the store, looking for anything suspicious, and when Dean darted a glance at Sam, he seemed to be back on track, paying attention to the case.

The search came up with nothing, and Dean told the storeowner, "Well, thanks. We're going to go check out a few more places, but we may be back."

The man smiled, his eyes just as crazy as before. "I look forward to our next meeting."

Dean thought, If he turns out not to be our monster, that's almost creepier.

Back in the car, he asked Sam, "What do you think?"

"I didn't see anything suspicious, but did you catch that slight whiff of dead flowers? That makes me think our 'Toys of Yore' guy is a Shade, a kind of undead creature that stays animate by feeding on the happiness and life force of living people, particularly children."

Dean asked the important question, "So how do we kill it?"

"Your favorite way." Sam grinned. "We burn its nest."

"What do you want to bet it's in the back room of the toy store?"

Sam nodded. "That would be my guess."

"So I say we come back tonight with some kerosene and a big box of matches." Dean smiled. "My kind of party."

Sam nodded distractedly. "You really don't remember Red Hot Racer?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

***

1986

Dean knew his father would kill him if he ever found out he'd used the skills he'd learned for the hunt to break and enter, stealing when it wasn't a matter of sheer necessity, but his dad was off on a case and Dean certainly wasn't going to volunteer any information. He slipped into the toy store, darting an anxious glance over his shoulder to make sure he hadn't been seen, and went right to the shelf that had what he'd come for.

Every day, they passed this store, on the way to school and then home, its big front window full of shiny things their father could never afford to get them and wouldn't see the sense in anyway. He'd already given them the usual speech about Christmas, "Money's tight, and family's what really matters at the holidays."

Translation: Don't look for any packages under the tree. Actually, there probably wouldn't be a tree. Their dad hadn't been much on celebrating Christmas since their mom died.

Sammy was too young to understand the true meaning of adult talk or the real deal about Santa, although their father was never one to encourage that myth. He probably thought it wasn't safe for them to believe there were any benevolent supernatural beings. Everyday when they passed the store, Sam would stop at the window and linger, his face alight with the joy that was the Red Hot Racer. "Do you think I'll get it for Christmas, Dean?" he always asked, voice a high squeak of excitement.

Dean never had the heart to tell him, "I'd put the chances of that somewhere around Dad making friends with a werewolf."

He dreaded seeing Sammy's face fall on Christmas morning, and the idea for what to do about it just popped into Dean's head one night as he was falling asleep.

Come Christmas Day, Sammy was just as bounce-off-the-walls happy as Dean had imagined, clutching the Red Hot Racer to his chest.

But then his expression turned serious. "Where's your present, Dean?"

Dean shrugged carelessly. "Looks like I ended up on the naughty list this year, Sammy."

Sam considered that carefully. "Well, you can share mine."

He held out the car to Dean.

Dean smiled. "That's okay. You play with it."

"Where do you think it came from?" Sam asked in a hushed voice, his eyes big.

Dean told him, "Hey, maybe miracles do happen sometimes."

When their father got home later that afternoon, Sam made no mention of his surprise Christmas gift, much to Dean's relief. He wondered if Sam knew what he'd done, or if he just worried that their father would make him leave it behind the next time they moved on. He said too much stuff either tied you down or just got lost.

And in fact, a few months later when they had to bolt in the middle of the night after a hunt gone bad, the Red Hot Racer got left behind in the confusion. Sam cried the whole way to Memphis, and then Dean got him some ice cream, and he quieted down about it.

***

It was after midnight when they returned to "Toys of Yore," Dean toting a gallon can of kerosene and Sam with a tome in hand.

"There's a spell in here that will trap it in its nest, and then you can do the honors."

For once, everything went as planned. Sam chanted in Latin, and Dean enjoyed himself dousing the sick-ass joy-stealing motherfucker but good.

"Have fun in hell," he told it with a smile, as he pitched the lit match.

"Let's get out of here." Sam was already moving to the door.

Dean lagged behind and took the moment when he was alone in the store to break the glass on the display case and help himself to a little bit of Christmas past.

It about killed him to hide the thing the six days until Christmas Eve finally rolled around. They were staying in a tumbledown dump of a motel in Aspaloosa, Texas. He got up in the middle of the night, ostensibly to go to the bathroom, and put out the package.

Sam woke in the morning, muzzy haired and groggy, rubbing his eyes, and Dean pretended to still be asleep. He knew the moment Sam spotted it. His brother went absolutely still, and then he bounded over and picked up the box and looked as happy as he had twenty years ago.

He plunked down on the edge of Dean's bed. "I know you're awake."

Dean yawned. "I am now."

"Even back then, I figured there wasn't any such thing as Santa, and I've never much believed in miracles." Sam smiled softly. "Just big brothers who know how to break and enter."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

dolimir-k.livejournal.com

Awwwww. I like this ficlet. So sweet! Dean really is the best big brother.

From:

Not a homecoming queen

Holiday Fluff Advent Style: Day Twenty (SPN)

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