Dean Winchester (_jerk) wrote in family_business, @ 2010-02-25 03:34:00 |
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Current mood: | content |
Entry tags: | 2000, dean, people in peril, people in peril: abby, s01e02, sam, story: how the goat ate christmas |
It's a strange situation, there's no cause for alarm
There's a space above the door that, to Dean's eyes, looks just the right size for a wreath.
As far as thoughts go, that's a pretty weird one. He's going to put it down to the fact that they (he and Lea, digging through boxes of crumpled foil decorations from god only knows when and testing lights and making wonky chains and fugly jagged snowflakes out of the freebie papers that earnest charity dude keeps leaving 'for the patrons'; he has co-workers and customers now - how friggin' crazy is that?) just finished festooning the bar with festive crap. It's not like he's actually planning on buying decorations of his own or anything. Like he keeps telling Sammy, this is a temporary arrangement – until Sam's done with school, until they know Gordon's given up on being crazy, until Dad finishes his big quest. Once all of that's over they'll hit the road again, get back to hunting, but until then he's working in a bar and renting the rooms above it from his boss (the paper's peeling and the damp stains look like Lincoln or Jesus or a Playboy bunny dependent on how you squint but there's a stove, and a freezer, and neither of them have to sleep on the couch because there's actual beds in actual bedrooms) and getting to used to having a separate room and a totally different schedule from Sam and kinda-sorta-dating this Lea chick (who is way too enthusiastic about tinsel and baubles and disabused him fairly quickly and painfully of the notion that chicks who work in bars are good cooks as a rule with a mix of bizarre lumpy cakes and mysterious casserole dishes he's stashed in the freezer with new labels – 'Primordial Soup' and 'Ectoplasm' and 'I don't even know'). Until then, he's normal.
Right now 'normal' translates to long mornings in bed and getting something-like-respectable for when Sam gets back from school, working a less literal graveyard shift where the only salt's chasing tequila slammers, the only ghosts the ones driving the sorry figure at the end of the bar to seek solace at the bottom of a bottle. He's cooking what's breakfast for him and dinner for Sam when his brother gets back – three weeks since the Roadhouse, since Gordon, and he's had to stop insisting on driving Sam there and picking him up; he's planning on holding this job so they can stay somewhere that's not a motel and not worry about being chased out of town by angry poker players wise to his ruse – murdering Highway to Hell as he adds the cheese and cayenne pepper to the bechemel mix. This cooking thing is a piece of cake.