Rating: R to be safe
Genre: hurt-comfort, humor, umm. I'm really bad at this.
Word count: ~4600
Warnings: Attempted non-con – again, just to be safe. It's not so much sexual as disturbing, gropey rather than rapey. Very vaguely implied past non-con (Hell). Also, language... and 'Jingle Bell Rock'.
Disclaimers: I own nothing – not even the idea, which is a comment-prompt by purplecarpets in hoodie-time's winter-themed Dean-centered h/c comment-prompt meme (on LiveJournal).
Summary: A goddess of frenzy and mad rage targets a shopping mall two days before Christmas, and because Dean has the worst luck in the world, he manages to locate her in a sex store.
A/N: Original prompt: "The boys need to take care of this poltergeist/spirit/supernatural entity of the week that's haunting the local shopping mall, but really, all Dean wants to do is take a crowbar to every single loudspeaker in the place. If he has to listen to Jingle Bell Rock one more time..."
Of course, I can't just take something like that and write a drabble about Dean being all 'Death to the loudspeakers!' - no, I have to spend hours in Wikipedia looking for a suitable monster/deity/spirit/whatever to haunt a shopping mall, and then, to get rid of it, I have to write X words of bad jokes, swear words and Dean-whump... It starts a snowball and ends up an avalanche. XD 'Jingle Bell Rock' is gonna haunt me forever, btw.
I'm sorry I'm so late – after taking the prompt, I poured all my creativity and imagination into my BA thesis (And I totally slipped in several mentions of Supernatural, HAHA. Got the best possible grade, too, so I guess it was worth it!), and then I was sick, and then just plain lazy, and then school had started again, and I was busy. Despite everything, I hope you enjoy it! I'm struggling through my writer's block so I'm sorry it's not exactly my best work. ._.
Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock...
Dean's face went blank the moment the revolving door turned enough to let him hear the music playing in the mall. "Oh hell no," he declared and kept walking, fully intending to let the door, which he had just cursed as the Devil's counterattack for humans for coming up with the Devil's trap, spit him right back out on the outside.
On the other side of this human trap, Sam stopped, effectively stopping the whole door from moving and leaving Dean with only one exit – the one that led to the mall, alive with bustling people and a wide variety of Christmas songs blaring out of the loudspeakers.
"Come on, Sam!" Dean groaned. "Seriously, I can't do this, man..."
Sam glared at him from the other side of the glass. "We have a minor goddess on her period targeting a shopping mall two days before Christmas. We leave now, do you have any idea what the body count will be?"
Dean glared back. "That's dirty, Sam, taking a mall full of people as hostage."
Sam shrugged. "You can thank our friend Lyssa for that when we manage to locate her."
"Why can't we come back when the place's closed?" Dean demanded. People were lining up on both sides of the door, eying the brothers trapped inside as if they were in a display window.
Sam sighed the sigh number seventeen: the so-you-weren't-listening-after-all sigh. "Because she's a goddess of mad rage, frenzy, and stuff like that. We need these people to find her – she'll be right where people are ripping things up and beating each other into bloody pulp trying to get the last scarf in the bargain basket or whatever. If we're alone here, we'll be the only ones for her to target, and I'd say that grappling for the same gun and slitting each others' throats in a fit of mad rage would be a little counter-productive, don't you think?"
Dean grumbled but turned anyway. He eyed the mall like it was the bandit to his cowboy, chewing on the end of a straw and flexing its fingers near the gun, ready to draw. The plump little lady strolling past the revolving door had to pass for the tumbleweed rolling across the soon-to-be battle field.
Then he took a small step for humanity but a fucking giant leap for Dean Winchester, and stepped into the shopping mall.
He was immediately very nearly swept from his feet by a flock of teenagers rushing by; Sam emerged from the revolving Devil's trap just in time to catch him.
Giddy-up, jingle horse, pick up your feet, Bobby Helms sang, and Dean was already feeling homicidal after less than a minute inside the building.
"Giddy-up, then, Sammy," he growled. "You do realize that some people just go nuts on their own when they're Christmas shopping, without a divine kick to the butt? How do we know if it's the real case?"
Sam actually looked a little worried about that. "Well, people under Lyssa's spell will be totally rabid, seriously ready to kill for a scarf, but... Gotta say, the difference between them and regular people is not necessarily all that big."
Dean glowered. "Well, this is fucking peachy."
Because they had absolutely no idea where to start, they decided to split up and check out all the stores that seemed to have the potential; having spotted a Victoria's Secret on the right-hand side, Dean had rushed to volunteer for the left side. Sexy lingerie, sure, anytime, but Dean preferred it with girls inside, and there was no way in Hell he would be caught dead in a store like that.
Sam had shot him an exasperated look but accepted his fate so gracefully that Dean figured he had reason to suspect that this year, his little brother would get him something pink, frilly and sweet-scented for Christmas. He'd just have to beat the kid to it and get him something equally embarrassing.
He got a chance to do that much sooner than he'd thought, because in his haste to avoid Victoria's Secret, he'd picked the side with a freaking sex shop.
"Oh come on," he muttered, staring at the neon sign above the doors. Sin City, it stated. "Are you even allowed to have these in malls? Innocent kids could see something! Seriously..."
He'd been skipping the stores that were small and empty enough to scan just by looking in from the door – thus avoiding Claire's and several other girly places, though he'd been tempted to buy Sam something colorful and glittery to wear in his hair – but like all the good porn shops, Sin City was a dark, shaded cave lined with black and crimson velvet. He could see a few shelves, showcases containing colorful things he had absolutely no interest in seeing any closer, and hear the heavy beat of the techno music, but that was it; the place could go on forever behind the first glass cases for all he knew.
And it wasn't like Dean Winchester was afraid of sex, right?
"What the Hell." He shrugged, straightened his back and marched in. He was a freaking professional on a mission, dammit, and a few colorful things were not keeping him from saving the world (but no cheerleaders, because the only damn cheerleader they'd ever come across on a case had turned out to be an old hag of a witch, which was just so wrong and unfair).
Once inside, he was quick to move out of the sight of the entrance, desperate to keep his visit to this den of iniquity a secret from the world. He liked his porn, was pretty open and proud (way, way too open and proud, Sam kept saying, always with that half-disgusted, half-amused bitchface) about his sex life, and had been chasing skirts since he'd first figured out what his dick was for, but toys? Not really his thing. He was more of an au naturel type of guy.
The edible panties and vanilla-scented lubes weren't even the worst of it; as soon as he was properly inside the store, he realized that what he had taken for some random techno beat was actually a goddamn motherfucking techno remix of 'Jingle Bell Rock'.
Urge to flee, check. Urge to kill, rising.
There were several other people in the shop, and someone was rustling behind the curtain of the fitting room (what the hell did they even try on there?), but the place seemed calm enough. Relieved, Dean was just about to turn on his heels and fle– uh, proceed calmly to the next shop, when someone decided to speak to him.
"Can I help you, sweetie?"
Oh God, that was definitely a male voice, and Dean was so not ready to hear anything male call him sweetie in a shady sex store.
Thanking his paranoia for the badge in his breast pocket – despite their decision to go undercover as regular dudes shopping for Christmas presents – he whipped it out and turned with a bright smile. "As a matter of fact, you can. Agent Mustaine, FBI."
The shop assistant was a slim little thing, with a pink highlight in his black hair, skinny jeans riding low, tattoos covering his arms until they disappeared under the sleeves of his t-shirt, with more metal in his face than Dean had hidden in his clothes (and considering the Glock hiding under his jacket, the knives stuffed into his boots, the throwing stars in his pockets and the Uzi holstered under his arm, that was saying a lot), and at the sight of his badge his jaw fell open so fast that Dean almost reached out to stop it from hitting the floor.
At least he hoped it was the sight of his badge. Unfortunately, the kids eyes were on something that was several inches higher and a few to the left. And damn it, they followed when Dean tried to move his face out of the guy's line of sight.
"Sure," the boy – Clark, his name tag declared – said, but Dean got the feeling that he had no idea what he was replying to. "How can I help you?"
"Uh," Dean demonstrated his formidable intelligence. What the hell was he looking for? "I, um. Have reason to suspect that a, well, a suspect is hiding in this mall. Have you noticed anything out of ordinary today? He's, uh, prone to random fits of rage and violence, so he causes a lot of disturbance wherever he goes."
Except that most people going rabid over Christmas presents were probably women, simply because they generally did way more Christmas shopping than men, he realized a little belatedly. It was entirely possible that Clarkie had seen a Lyssa-induced fight break out, but wouldn't think to mention it because everyone taking part in it had been female.
Oh well, he couldn't exactly say he wasn't sure about his suspect's gender, so whatever. It was a shot in the dark, anyway.
Jingle bells swing and jingle bells ring, went the remix in autotune, and Dean's smile twitched as he realized that the metal collection under his clothes lacked one thing: a crowbar. The loudspeakers were practically begging to be smashed with one. Perhaps Bobby fucking Helms had been on TV when Keith Moon had decided to chuck the thing out of the hotel window... The song was playing on fucking replay!
Clark was shaking his head slowly. Left, right, left, right, but his eyes never moved, never left Dean's face; they looked a little glassy, and Dean wondered if the kid was coming down with something. No freaking miracle there, looking at the t-shirt he wore in fucking December.
"No, nothing out of ordinary," he said, and Dean was immediately on alert because the glassy-eyed stare, the hungry curl of the boy's lips and the sharp edge in his voice were definitely something out of ordinary.
Even more out of ordinary was the fact that a moment later, Dean Winchester was backed against one of the godawful showcases by a shrimp of a sales assistant that looked barely old enough to buy what he sold.
Except that the thing behind him was warm and had arms. Not against a showcase, then. Well, if that didn't make him feel better...
"Back off," a man growled in his ear – way above his ear – and thick arms wrapped around his midsection, binding his arms to his sides. Jesus fuck, what was this man, a freaking giant? And he'd thought Sam had gotten huge...
Clark bared his teeth and actually hissed. "Paws off," he shot back. "I saw him first."
The realization thatit wasn't just his natural bad luck and good looks kicking in, but that Lyssa, that unbelievable little whore of a goddess, had just mojo'ed the hell out of the whole store and chosen him to play the role of the last damn scarf in the bargain basket, was just beginning to sink in when the rest of the customers and the girl behind the cashier started to approach. He had just enough time to think that they looked absurdly like zombies as they staggered closer, arms outstretched and eyes locked on him, before the first of them got aggressive.
"Bitch, you so didn't," was the opening line of the cashier chick, delivered with a punch to Clark's jaw that sent the boy sprawling on the floor. The girl's furious eyes focused on something behind Dean, her nails digging into his chest as she attempted to rip the man's arms away from him, and then someone was pulling on Dean's hair, a hand was on his collar, apparently trying to rip it open, someone caught his hand just as he was about to reach the gun squeezed between the small of his back and the giant of a man standing behind him; he yelled and trashed and kicked, only to have Clark slither his way through the stomping feet and wrap himself around one of his legs.
Snowing and blowing up bushels of fun, now the jingle hop has begun!
Dean was beginning to think that, given the opportunity to wipe 'Jingle Bell Rock' out of existence in exchange for returning to Hell and spending the rest of eternity polishing Lucifer's shoes, he'd at least seriously consider it.
"Hey!" he shouted when the FBI badge was snatched from his hand; the cashier girl was kicking her co-worker in the ribs, and every time Clark rolled away from her stilettos, Dean would have lost his balance if not for the mountain behind him. In front of him, a young couple was clawing and punching the shit out of each other in their attempt to get to his belt (!), and suddenly the man behind him seemed to remember that he had a size-advantage to everyone else, and with a pretty damn feral growl he tightened his arms around Dean and lifted, turned around and crushed him against the glass case, covering his back with his own massive body to keep the others from getting near.
"D-dude," Dean stammered, both from the way the action had squeezed all the air out of his lungs and left him gasping, and the fact that his face was pressed against glass only two inches from a monstrous, purple dildo. "C-can't breathe here – "
But even the man behind him, who had to be roughly the size of the Great Plains, couldn't hide him completely, and immediately he felt hands tugging at his legs and clothes, felt the man move as he kicked or elbowed them back. Fortunately, this meant that he could occasionally get an inch or two of free space between him and the glass case. His left hand was squished between his back and the dude's chest, but the right one made slow, slow progress towards the pocket on the left side of his jeans for his phone.
Granted, he wasn't exactly ecstatic about Sam seeing him in a situation like this – the kid kept going on about how he needed to stop 'flaunting his looks', whatever that meant, and 'flirting with anything with two legs', which he totally never did, or something like this would eventually happen, and his little brother's condescending 'told you so's were kind of low on his list of favorite things. But let's face it (and he'd face anything rather than the purple thing in front of his nose), he was going to need a little help, here.
He managed to push the speed dial for Sam, but then someone shoved Great Plains in the back, and his arm was stuck between his body and the showcase.
And oooookay, because Great Plains had one hand braced against the glass next to Dean's head, and another on his shoulder, blunt fingers digging into it through the multiple layers of his clothes, the hands groping his hips and thighs and holy shit sliding under his shirt belonged to someone else. Several someones, actually, and this was getting way out of hand, becoming way too something, and for a moment he thought he could feel phantom flames licking his skin and phantom knives drawing lines in it, so it was no wonder that hearing Sam's muffled voice very nearly made him sob.
"Dean?" his brother was asking, his voice very small and faint but still distinguishable even over the growling and the yelling and punching of the people behind him.
"Sam!" he yelled back, hoping that Sam would hear him even though the receiver was somewhere between his crotch and knees and someone was making grabby motions at it even as he spoke. "Found her! Backup, now – unnh!"
Clark got his phone, though it seemed to be his wrist the boy was more interested in getting, just as Great Plains pulled his head away from the glass to hook one of his thick arms around his neck, effectively twisting him into an uncomfortable position flush against his barrel-like chest.
" – ean! Wh... re you, De... Dean!"
Fuck fuck fuck he couldn't breathe and hands were tearing at his clothes, feeling up his chest now, his vision was swimming already but he had to reply to Sam somehow – so he did the only thing he could think of, and sank his teeth into the arm blocking his throat.
Apparently Lyssa's spell didn't make people completely immune to pain, because the arm jerked – not much, but just enough for him to suck in a deep breath and yell, "Porn!" at the top of his lungs before his windpipe was under crushing pressure again.
He thought he could hear an incredulous "What?" before the phone was crushed under the weight of the young man that had been after Dean's belt, shoved back by his girlfriend and – ouch – kicked in the nuts for good measure.
He lost track of the phone and the couple when the cashier jumped up and apparently wrapped her arms around Great Plains' head, intent on stabbing his eyes out with her painted nails; this made the man jerk and tighten his grip instinctively, and Dean felt his eyes water and lungs burn. Pulled back from the showcase by the weight of the girl hanging from the larger man's neck, his right hand was momentarily free to claw at the arm around his throat; the other was still behind his back, twisting his shoulder and elbow into an unnatural angle.
His mouth was hanging open in a desperate attempt to get some air, but his vision was already turning blurry and the grip around his windpipe was vicious and unyielding. Worse still – space between him and the glass case meant space for someone else, and before he knew it Clark was all over him, pawing his face and chest, slipping hands under his jacket. Even in the hazy, half-unconscious state, Dean froze when he felt the boy find his gun. At first, Clark seemed utterly uninterested in his finding, and the fingers kept exploring, digging into his ribs so hard that for a moment, Dean found himself absurdly thinking that he'd manage to dig right through skin and muscle and bone, that an extra hole to his lungs would be wonderful just now, but then he seemed to realize that he did have one use for the gun.
"Don't," Dean tried to say, only getting out a pathetic, wheezing little sound, when Clark's fingers closed around the gun and pulled it out; the other hand never left him, kept trying to drag him away from Great Plains. For a moment, the gun was level to the hunter's eyes, and then it was pointing at something above his head.
Which was, by the way, such a miserable moment for autotune-Helms to sing cheerfully, What a bright time, it's the right time to rock the night away, Dean thought as he felt the rest of his consciousness start slipping.
The last thing he knew was a familiar voice chanting a spell, a flash in the corner of his eye, the sound of breaking glass, and a female voice screaming in fury.
" – ean! Dean, are you okay? Come on, man, wake up or I'm gonna have to try this mouth to mouth..."
He couldn't really make out what it was saying, but sweet Jesus, that was Sam's voice, Dean thought, he was safe – except that he wasn't, there were still hands all over him, on his shoulder, on his chest, pushing now instead of pulling, then on his face, alternately petting his cheek and slapping it lightly.
He made a protesting sound, and if it came out kitten-weak and not at all as gruff and strong as he'd hoped, he could hardly be blamed because half of his brain cells had just been strangled to death, dammit. The hands remained on him even though he tried to smack them away – at least for a while, until he heard a gasped, "Oh shit, sorry, I wasn't thinking" and they disappeared, and for a moment he felt like he was alone in the universe.
Somewhat freaked out by the sudden amount of empty space around him after the stifling pressure of unwanted physical contact of just a moment ago, Dean forced his eyes to open, blinked at Sam's face hovering over him, opened his mouth to speak, and was reduced to a coughing, wheezing, trembling mess for several minutes. Sam's hand reached out to stroke his back in calming circles as he rolled over and doubled over his knees to cough his still burning lungs out; it hesitated when he stiffened at the contact, but after a moment of consideration his brother decided to leave it there anyway.
Dean wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that because right now, the mere thought of any kind of physical contact made him want to hurl, but this was Sam, whose whole presence radiated home and safety, so he allowed the hand to stay there, rubbing a gentle circle between his shoulder blades, for a moment after the coughing fit had dissipated. When he felt strong enough to at least sit up and perhaps even inhale and exhale like a decent person, he pushed the hand away and straightened a little, earning a frown as his shoulder, sore from being twisted the wrong way, made him wince, and opened his eyes to looking around.
Wow, Sam was a fucking Terminator.
The store looked like a battle field; every single glass case had shattered, probably from the dying goddess's unleashed power. The shop staff and the other customers were sprawled on the floor, each with their hands close to their head like they'd collapsed clutching it. The girl from the cashier was crushed under the dead weight of Great Plains (who was a freaking titan and had probably broken both of the girl's legs by falling on them); the woman of the belt-coveting couple had a bleeding gash on her forehead, and her lover's arm was sticking out in an unnatural way. Clark had fallen next to the Uzi he had dropped, and Dean figured the kid was going to have at least a few broken ribs from the kicks of the stiletto chick.
In the middle of the store there was a corpse of a woman Dean hadn't seen before, with an obsidian dagger sticking out of her chest. He face was frozen in an expression of pure insane rage, outstretched fingers curled like talons, dark hair a matted mess. She reminded Dean of the poor bastards they'd once found living inside the walls of that house and at first taken for spirits.
"Charming," he tried to comment, but only managed a wheezing little whisper. He coughed, licked his lips and tried again with some success. "How'd you find her? Wasn't here when." He glanced at the others. "Yeah."
Sam's brows did their best to touch his hairline. "What? Dude, she was right there, standing just behind you guys, watching and enjoying the show.
Seriously? Sneaky bitch – Dean glowered at her corpse – she'd probably been the one hiding in the fitting room, since he didn't recall seeing anyone come out from there. It wasn't like he'd been in the best position to see if they had audience.
He flinched when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Come on," Sam said. "We need to go before someone comes in. I think the music covered most of the noise, but..."
Dean blinked and tried to shake the hand – and along with it the feeling of filthiness – off. Both deemed it better to linger. "Yeah," he rasped out, reached out to grab the gun lying next to Clark, located and recovered his badge half-buried under shards of glass, and struggled back to his feet. "Better go through the back. They gotta have a backdoor, right?"
They could do nothing about the surveillance cameras, though; one was winking at them from above the counter. It had no doubt recorded him waving a fake FBI badge, very little of how he'd been attacked because his luck had made sure it happened out of the camera's range, and quite a lot of Sam stabbing a woman. Sweet.
They found a door in the back room, and were at the employee door by the time they heard yelling; someone had found the bodies. They glanced at each other and kept walking; the door was open, they were out, and Dean was slightly stunned that it was still bright. For now, nothing of the terrible discovery someone had made showed on the outside, and no one looked at them twice as they walked across the snowy parking lot.
Choosing to utterly ignore Sam's stern glare, Dean hurried to take his place behind the wheel – still suffering from the aftereffects of asphyxiation or not, he was driving out of this hellhole on his own.
He turned the key, and fucking 'Jingle Bell Rock' filled the car.
He'd ripped the radio out of its place and opened the door to chuck it into the snow before he even knew it.
Sam stared, hands frozen halfway putting his seat belt on.
Dean glared at the broken wires and cords sticking miserably out of the empty hole in the dashboard. "Shitty old piece of crap," he muttered. "Been meaning to get a new one for ages."
Sam nodded slowly. "Sure," he said, hesitant and careful like someone approaching a wild animal, which made Dean's mood plummet even more because it meant that his brother was worried and would want to talk about it. Story of his life, really: Dean stumbled around and Sam wanted to talk about it.
"Let's just go," he interrupted before the younger man could get a word out of his mouth. "I need a fucking shower."
"Dean," Sam persisted. "They didn't – um. You know. Hurt you?"
Dean looked at him askance. "No, Sam, they just almost strangled me to death."
Bitchface number seven: I-know-you're-not-that-thick-so-stop-pretending. "I could barely even see you, you were covered in people," he pointed out. "Everyone seemed to want their hands on you, and most of them succeeded. That was all fine and peachy with you? 'By all means, go ahead and grope me'?"
And there it was, the smug little 'told you so' just waiting to jump out of Sam's mouth. Deciding that offense was the best defense, Dean summoned a smirk and aimed it at his brother. "Aww, Sammy, worried about my virtue? I hate to break it to you, and I know this will be a great shock to you, but I popped my cherry a while ago... I know you expected me to wear white to my wedding but I don't think I can."
"Dean." Sam was frowning, and Dean had a sneaky feeling that he could read a 'Start talking or I'll slash your tires while you sleep' in the thin, imperious line of his lips.
He rolled his eyes and gave in, if only for the sake of his baby. "Dude, you try getting groped by a freaking viking, a slut in stilettos, a fairy boy and one seriously fucked up couple in a porn store. You'd want a rape shower, too. But honestly, Sam, a few grabby hands are hardly the worst thing to have ever happened to me. Been to Hell, remember? And other crappy shit. I think I'll live."
They'd never talked about Hell, not really, but Dean was pretty sure that Sam knew, knew and would also hear the unvoiced but I'll never forget at the end of his statement.
And, he figured, Sam knew that he knew, because he simply nodded and said nothing, and Dean fucking loved his brother for it.
They passed the police car and the ambulance on their way out of the town.
1. Lyssa is a goddess/personified concept in Greek mythology. I spent forever trying to find a god or goddess that fit the job description but wasn't too well-known, partly because I'd like to focus on Greek gods a bit more in some other story, and partly because then killing him or her would require much more showtime. XD
2. Managed to squeeze Dean's cowboy obsession and a space (and thus, a scifi) reference within two sentences! I'm so proud of myself. :D
3. Some of you probably remember that "Save the cheerleader, save the world" was a recurring sentence in the first season of the TV show Heroes a few years back.
There we go! I hope you enjoyed it despite everything (sorry, I'm all whine whine bitch moan today...), and I'd be thrilled if you left me a comment to let me know what you think. :3 Thanks for reading!