Original Prompt: Buying furniture for the Bat Cave--Ikea, a fancy store, thrift shop dump, I don't care. Now that they can pick and choose for the first time ever, they discover the other's REAL taste.
Word Count: 1957
Author's Notes: I hope I captured what you were going for cuddyclothes. Dean has a specific unusual taste. And go give dizzojay incredible amounts of love for capturing my story perfectly with her art.
In retrospect, Sam really ought to have put two and two together and realized that something hinky was going on. The fact that he hadn’t was going to irritate him for some time to come, although he knew that the anticipation of the third trial was probably to blame. He really wasn’t thinking too clearly all the time, what with his arms’ tendency to glow randomly, and the nosebleeds. Those nosebleeds were a bitch!
So when they entered the tacky thrift store in search of the cursed amulet that they’d heard had been donated along with a bundle of old Emma Carson’s possessions, it was already towards the end of a long, hard day. Dean was bitching about freakin’ witches and how much he hated them, and Sam was really just anxious to get the case tied up, finished, kaput. He should have known better.
Emma herself had been laid to rest at last, salted and burned in the approved manner, and the Winchesters were just putting the final pieces together so that they could head out. Emma had been a very busy old lady, and death hadn’t slowed her down at all. She’d continued persecuting the local kids right up until Dean had struck the match that had burned her bones. Now all that they had to do was recover this amulet that she’d been using, and which her daughter had thoughtlessly sent off to Goodwill, and then they would be able to walk away.
Entering the little store, Sam was conscious of the musty scent of old, damp clothes and mildewed furniture. He sighed as he surveyed the depressing contents of the store before striding towards the back of the room to where a small, wizened little man with an absurdly pointed nose lurked.
He had just begun to ask the man about the talisman – a copper plaque that had the sketch of a many legged worm on it – when he heard Dean call out.
Sighing heavily, he excused himself and turned back to see Dean virtually hopping with excitement as he attempted to lug a really odd piece of furniture out from under a pile of dusty bric-a-brac.
“Dean, what the hell?” He frowned. The thing Dean was wrestling with was a chair, Sam could see that much amidst the clouds of dust that his brother had kicked up. However, it was no ordinary chair; it was a monstrosity, the like of which Sam had never previously encountered, and which he would be ecstatic never to see again. It was made from bright purple plastic, and shaped like a hand, and gave Sam a headache just looking at it. Dean’s wide grin slowly faded to become a pout as he gauged Sam’s reaction to his find, and he flung his arms around the fingers that made up the chairback.
“Aww, don’t be hatin’, Sammy. Gonna buy this chair for my room back at the Batcave. Always wanted something like this.” Dean hugged the thing to his chest, petted the purple plastic of it and made a little crooning sound to it, almost as if he were trying to console it for his brother’s rejection.
“It’s hideous,” said Sam. “Totally hideous.”
Dean was outraged, his voice and his eyebrows shooting up in equal expressions of shock. "Dude, it's not just a chair, it’s art. It speaks to me. It's expressing an opinion!"
Sam gave a hollow laugh. "Yeah, and the opinion stinks. If it had a mouth, I'd wash it out with soap." Shaking his head, he turned back to the little gnome of a man behind the counter. “About that plaque, sir. Do you still have it?”
“Let me see.” The man delved into the mess contained in the very dusty glass cabinet that formed a part of the counter and began to rummage, tossing odd pieces of this and that out over his shoulder as he hunted for the plaque. “I believe it was in a red, velvet-lined box. I know it’s around here somewhere.”
As Sam looked on, half appalled and half fascinated by the store keeper’s antics, Dean gave a grunt of satisfaction immediately behind him and, from the sound of it, dumped the purple eyesore he coveted onto the ground. He whirled around to find that Dean was sitting in the chair looking smug. “Gonna be awesome to have this in my room, Sammy. Check it out; it’s purple.” He paused for effect. “I could get a purple comforter to match it and be – you know – all designer-y and shit. Maybe get my own reality show and have people call me Mr. Dean.” He sat back looking smug, evidently picturing his future success on MTV. “You think I should get myself a stage name?”
“Probably,” snapped Sam. “Considering you’re not only wanted by the FBI, you’re actually dead.”
“Killjoy! You’re just jealous. I found it, and it’s mine. You can’t have it, and that burns you up, doesn’t it?” He rose to his feet and ran his hand over the smooth plastic of the seat. “Here. Feel how smooth it is.”
Before Sam knew what Dean intended to do, his brother had grabbed his hand and run it over the back of the offending article.
Sam snatched his hand back, adopted his best bitchface and scowled mightily at Dean, and then looked at the chair again.
The purple was actually quite a pretty color. Sam could see that the chair might actually look good in the library, and it certainly looked to be comfortable. That cupped palm looked inviting, almost as if calling one to trust it, to place one’s butt into its safe-keeping.
Sam took a deep breath and placed his seat into the inviting clasp of that welcoming hand. A feeling of warmth suffused him. It was almost as if he were coming home at last. It was a minute or two before he realized that Dean was growling at him.
Behind them, the bell above the door to the store jangled, announcing that yet another customer had entered. Both Sam and Dean dove for the chair, to stand between it and the newcomer as if defending it from covetous eyes.
At that point, the gnome straightened up from behind the counter, proudly bearing aloft the red velvet lined case Sam had been requesting. “I knew I had it somewhere,” he said. “Cost you $12.95 plus tax.” He opened the case and was about to pull out the contents to display it, when Sam reached to stay his hand.
“No, sir, don’t touch it. Not a good idea to touch it.”
The man nodded meekly, obviously aware that Sam outnumbered him, two to one, or four to one if you counted Dean as well. “Okay. Want me to wrap it?” he said, his voice a testament to his insecurity.
“Please.” Dean fished out his latest credit card, in the name of Brett Michaels. “I’ll take the chair too.”
“The chair?” The storekeeper and Sam spoke at the same time.
Sam drew out his credit card (courtesy of Klaus Meine) and tossed it onto the counter at the same time as the man behind the counter yelled, “No! That’s not for sale.”
“What’s not for sale?” the lilting voice behind them reminded both brothers that there was a stranger in their midst. Both men scrambled forward to wrap their arms around the chair before turning to look at the intruder.
There was a brief tussle, and then Sam sat down in the chair while Dean turned to respond. There was a lengthy pause before Dean gritted out, “You!”
“Moi?” There was amusement in the interloper’s voice. “I suppose it is me; it usually is, isn’t it?”
“Gabriel!” There was a definite insult in the way Dean spoke his name.
“Dean!” Nothing loath, Gabriel responded with exactly the same intonation, causing Dean to flush angrily. “Nice to see you again,” he said. “I can always count on you two to be where the action is.” Gabriel stepped forward to smile at them and laid his hand on the back of the chair, right between where the pinky met the ring finger. Both Sam and Dean drew in a gasping breath, and then, a second later, so did Gabriel.
“The chair is mine. I’m taking it home tonight…” The little shopkeeper spoke, but as he looked at the three larger people all clustered around his object of desire, his voice trailed away. “Sorry,” he croaked, cringing.
“That’s okay, little feller,” smirked Gabriel with his trademark curl of lip. “I can see that you want to avoid a fight. I can help you with that.” He gave the chair one last caress and vanished along with the chair, dumping Sam onto the floor, since he’d been the one sitting in it at that moment.
“Hey!” Dean was the first to react, but he was rapidly followed by Sam, who pulled himself up to his feet in a manner that spoke of his anger and the need to find Gabriel and punch out his lights.
“Too late, dude. The bastard stole our chair.”
“What do you mean, ‘Our Chair’? I saw it first.” Dean looked as if he was about to start a battle to the death even though his prize was gone.
“It was my chair,” whispered the small clerk, and then quailed as both Sam and Dean fixed him with stony glares that did not speak well of his future survival.
Sam opened his mouth to start the row that he felt he needed for closure, when the doorbell tinkled once again. This time all three of them turned to watch the stately entry of the person who had opened the door.
Sharply dressed as usual, in a suit that was tailored to perfection, and a greatcoat that was made from mohair spun on the thighs of exotic virgins, (Sam had an eye for these things.) Crowley took his time picking his way up to the counter. Once there, he nodded to Sam and Dean.
“Well, if it isn’t Moose and Squirrel. I hope I find you well.” Both brothers ignored him, and he gave a tragic little sigh. “Just because I’m the King of Hell doesn’t mean I don’t need love,” he confided to the storekeeper, who promptly began to tremble and whimper. “But no matter. I hear that you’ve found my favorite office chair. Can’t miss it. It’s purple, and very, very friendly. Don’t suppose you’ve seen it, have you?”
The storekeeper fainted dead away, and it was left to Dean to say, ”Hey, Crowley, Gabriel bagged it and took it off to wherever, but if you find another one that’s just that shade of purple, I want first refusal.
If Sam were recording this encounter for posterity(which he absolutely doesn’t want Dean to find out about), he would have said that Crowley looked annoyed. He wasn’t, of course, and so the incident will forever be shrouded in mystery save for random tweets by a gentleman named Carver Edlund. What? Why not use the name that was so carefully set up for such things?
I’d like to surmise that it took both Winchesters a while to overcome their craving for the ridiculous chair, but alas, we’ll never know. All that we do know is that Crowley will forever sit on an inferior chair, and that in the long run, that isn’t necessarily a good thing.