snarklyboojum (
snarklyboojum) wrote2012-06-27 12:00 pm
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The Precision of The Fall
It wasn’t like he actually needed to practice. Dean could drive the Indian backwards, frontwards, sideways, no-handed, hung-over, and laying down. But the old girl had been in lockdown for two months and that would do things to any motorcycle, even one as awesome as her. It had broken his heart a little to put her away last winter but he had to admit there was nothing quite like the feel of unearthing his beauty, running his hands down her flanks and relearning the curves of her all over again. Not that he could really forget how she felt under him; you didn’t forget something like a 1928 Indian 101 Scout, cherry sweet and black as sin. It almost made up for Bobby and Sam teaming up to guilt-trip him into boarding her while the roads were at their worst.
The circus isn’t running, Dean, Sam had said. Why should she? It’s not exactly like she’s fresh off the line. Dean had smacked him in the back of the head for blasphemy – she was a classic, damn it – but admitted, silently, that his brother sort of-maybe-kind of had a point.
Sam was nowhere to be seen now though, just Dean and his baby, alone on the boards. Ash was up top of the Wall, doing god knows what to make the lights and microphone work, but if there was one thing Dean had gotten good at since joining up with Carver Circadia it was ignoring Ash.
So. Dean and his baby. Alone at the bottom of the Wall. It was almost better than sex. Came in a close second, at least, if he was going to make a list of his favorite things.
He’d taken some time earlier to look her over, replacing her filters and topping up all her fluids. She’d been squirreled away in Bobby’s machine shop while the old man vacationed in Florida (which was not an image Dean needed so early in the morning, nor the reminder that he’d come back with an actual tan, which meant Bobby had a bathing suit and had been practically naked in public) so there was very little maintenance she needed. Still, after spending so much time working on her the year before, Dean had to be sure.
Now she was bright, shiny, and rumbling like a tiger ready to pounce out of her cage. He revved her engine good and loud, picturing people across the lot turning up their radios and covering their ears from the racket.
The trick to performing – and surviving – on the Wall of Death was all about maintaining the proper speed necessary and allowing your equilibrium to flow with the bike, not against it. Sam liked to ramble on about force and velocity and the curvature of motion, but it was simpler than that: build the speed, don’t let it drift, and don’t let the Wall beat you. He kept his knees tight, arms loose, eyes on the horizon line. Once he got her going in a straight line vertically it’s just like trick riding on the highway; a couple revolutions and it was time to wow the rubes.
This time he merely leaned on the gas, letting the old girl tear up the boards.
Just as Dean brought the Indian skidding to a halt at the bottom of the Wall, the distinct sound of Bobby’s sarcastic applause echoed through the sudden silence. Low and behold, the old man stood overlooking the Wall in all his crotchety glory. “I see that helmet we spent good money on got lost somewhere over the holiday.”
Hell, after a ride like that not even facing the wrath of Bobby could bring him down. His cheeks were literally aching from grinning so hard. “Aw, this is circus, Bobby! We cheat death once a day and twice on weekends.”
“Yeah, but not in practice, you idjit, and certainly not during your first time on the Wall in a month. I see safety gear next time or it’s your ass. Speaking of, ain’t you supposed to have somebody here with you? Where’s Sam?”
Sam was god-knows-where doing god-knows-what at this point; Dean hadn’t seen him since breakfast. But he wasn’t about to admit that to Bobby. “I did have somebody here with me. Say hello, Ash!”
“Hello, Ash.” The electrician threw up a fist without looking up from where he was doing something with a torch and a lot of sparks. “I’ve got Dean’s back, boss-man-Bobby. Not to worry.”
“Oh, Ash was here. That makes everything better. My apologies.” Turns out the twenty foot walls were excellent conductors of scorn as well as noise. Time to turn on the charm.
“She looked good, though, right?” He leaned against the edge of the wall, letting mischief ease into his smile. Bobby was a sucker for classic machines. “Tell me she looked good.”
Bobby grunted and pushed the rope ladder over the side, coming dangerously close to smacking Dean in the face with the weighted ends. (The fact that he hadn’t aimed right for him told Dean all he needed to know – forgiven.) “The old girl runs pretty well for being almost fifty. You change her filters?”
“Yes, dad. And her oil, and her gas, and her battery. I do know what I’m doing here. Learned it from the best, after all.”
“Flattery will get you shit. I ain’t scraping you off the boards ‘cause you’re too stubborn to wear a helmet. That bike may be yours but as long as the decal on it says Carver Circadia you follow my rules. Got it?”
“Whatever you say, boss man.” Dean shimmied a leg over the top of the Wall, letting the other hang out into space for a moment before landing the dismount. Still all smiles he rescued his vest from the pile of trash left behind when he’d unearthed his baby that morning. “So tell me, what brings you down to the pit on this crappy ass morning?"
Bobby shuffled his boot through the empty boxes, kicking things around. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d swear Bobby didn’t want to look him in the eye all of a sudden. "You talked to your brother recently?"
Uh huh. Like that wasn’t ominous as hell. "No more than usual. Why, Bobby, something wrong?"
He sighed, looking off toward the big top in the distance. "Just that you Winchesters are the stubbornest sonsabitches I ever met. It can't be helped now. Group meeting in ten - put her in park and get your ass to the ring.” Bobby turned to go, gesturing over his shoulder at where Ash was unwinding himself from a strand of electrical tape. “Don’t forget your monkey.”
“I heard that! But I’m gonna forgive you ‘cause you pay me in singles and work it so I don’t qualify for taxes.”
And that, in summary, was why Dean had learned to ignore Ash. Most of the time, anyway.
By the time Dean and Ash made it to the big top almost everyone else had already arrived, familiar faces filling up the first few rows of seats. Dean had to admit, Bobby’s habit of keeping the same acts over multiple seasons was starting to grow on him; it was nice knowing the empty seats next to Jo and Ellen were reserved for him.
He plopped down next to Jo, tugging on her braid as he got comfortable. Ducking her retaliating shove, he leaned over to grin at Ellen. “Hey, good looking. What’s for lunch?”
Ellen gave him a glare, a look Dean translated universally as quit teasing my daughter, you ass, and shifted over so Ash could have a space. “Nothing if we don’t get this meeting going soon. I still don’t see why I have to be involved in this; it’s not like I don’t hear everything through the cookhouse anyway.”
“Aw, you know Bobby. It’s the first meeting of the season, everyone’s got to be invited.”
“Not everyone,” Jo leaned in close to Dean, mischief curling her smile. “The Seldinis couldn’t renew their visas and I heard Hans never made it back from holiday. Nobody knows why. It’s all very mysterious.”
“Mm hmm.” That meant they were down a trapeze act and a cat trainer. Which could explain why Bobby was looking so stressed… and why Sam had come home smelling questionable the past few nights. Hadn’t he mentioned something about picking up the slack in the menagerie after they got back from Vegas?
Dean sighed and took out one of the knives from his vest pocket, tossing it blade-to-handle in his right hand. Bobby was talking with Rufus on the other side of the hippodrome, gesturing broadly but keeping his voice down. This had all the appearance of a very long meeting.
Jo nudged his knee, careful of the knife on the opposite side. “Speak of the devil, isn’t that your brother moseying in with Ruby? They’re looking awful chummy, aren’t they?“
Sure enough, Sam was entering ringside with a short brunette close behind. He leaned down to whisper something in her ear and then started picking his way through the crowd toward where Dean had saved him a seat. Chummy was one word for it. Dean was all for a roll in the hay to pass the time, but Sam was a usually a little more particular about that sort of thing. Dean didn’t recognize the girl, which meant Sam hadn’t seen fit to introduce them, which meant Dean wouldn’t approve, which meant trouble on the horizon. Fucking Sammy; if it wasn’t one thing it was another.
He leaned over to keep his voice from traveling across the tent, well aware of how noise traveled. “Hey, Jo? Who’s the bunny?”
Jo, on the other hand, could care less who knew what she was talking about. “You mean Ruby? She’s Hans’s assistant from last season, don’t you remember? She went off with him on vacation and was the only one to come back. And with some lame ass story about Hans giving the act over to her. Which is such complete bullshit it’s not even worth considering.”
Ellen turned from where she was chatting with Ash, snake sharp. “Joanna Beth Harvelle, you may have been born in a barn but you will not behave that way. Watch your mouth, young lady.”
“Sorry, Mom.” Dean couldn’t help smirking over at Jo, who rolled her eyes at him. There were few perks to having an ex-marine kinker for a father, but language etiquette was certainly not one of them.
Jo leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Word is she got kicked out of three circuses before joining up with Hans in Philadelphia two winters ago. Super shady, if you ask me.”
Sam had made his way over to them by that point, and squeezed his bulk into the empty space between Dean and the alley. It was only when he tried to sit like a normal person around normal people that Dean remembered exactly how big his little brother was. At this rate if he got any taller they’d be in freak show territory. “Hey, Jo. Dean. Anything interesting happen yet?”
“Aside from you doing the walk of shame with a tent bunny, you mean? Just the usual.”
And there was Bitchface #3, the one Dean affectionately labeled Are You Really That Childish. “Not funny, Dean. Ruby’s not like that.”
“Whatever you say, man.” Dean decided to leave it alone, at least for now. There’d be time to suss things out in the trailer away from prying eyes later on. “Where you been, anyway? We still need to get your bike out of storage and Bobby chewed me out for riding without your gargantuan ass keeping an eye on me.”
Sam was looking around the room, taking in the crowd, no doubt cataloging who was missing and who remained. “I was busy, Dean. I told you I was going to help feed the cats this morning. You were supposed to wait for me.”
Whatever. Dean didn’t remember anything from this morning aside from the hair of the dog he’d needed to get out of bed. Sam had already been gone by the time he mustered up enough energy to so much as brush his teeth.
The knife in his hands was starting to give him ideas, making him wonder if he could knock the hat off Bobby’s head from this distance. It was what, ten feet? He probably could. Probably. As long as Bobby didn’t move and nobody jostled his arm or anything. Maybe he should try it, just to get this meeting started and over with already.
When his hand closed around empty air instead of the knife blade he glanced frantically around his feet. No clanging, no pain – he hadn’t missed it, he was paying attention, what the hell –
Metal flashed in the corner of his eye; Sam wiggled the knife again, smirking. Little bastard. “You had that look on your face, man. You’re gonna get yourself into trouble if you don’t quit playing with these things. Don’t you think it’s time to put them away already?”
Sam tossed the knife back at him without looking, Dean’s reflexes (okay, and Sam’s skills) saving him from a nasty cut. But before he could get out more than a “bitch” in return, Bobby cleared his throat and stepped forward.
“All right, folks. Sorry to keep y’all waiting. I hope you enjoyed your winter holiday, ‘cause it’s time to start working again. I’m sure you’re aware that we didn’t meet our attendance quota last year. Management is concerned our little show won’t be able to compete with the larger outfits. Mr. Edlund suggested a short season rather than shutting us down completely.”
What the fuck? Protests rang through the tent, a few performers slipping into foreign languages. Crowley even stood up and started yelling, his ringmaster’s voice booming higher than anyone else’s. Dean was pissed off, too, but at least he wasn’t a fucking drama queen about it.
“All right, all right! Settle down, god damn it. The owner’s agreed to keep funding the show for a full season as long as we keep it in the black. He’s also signed on some new performers and extended the menagerie. I expect you’ll make the new arrivals feel right at home.”
Sam’s shoulders were tense where they brushed against Dean’s, but his brother ignored him when he nudged his knee, staring intently at Bobby. The manager went on, oblivious to the tension. “And because I know what the rumor mill’s like in this place I’m gonna set the record straight before things get out of hand. Yes, the Seldini Family were unable to renew their visas this year so we’ll be importing another group of trapeze artists of the topmost quality – we’re talking Olympic medalists here, people. Also, Hans Greppard has decided not to return as cat wrangler this season. Instead, his assistant Ruby has agreed to take his place…with help from our very own Sam Winchester.”
A quiet rumble went through the crowd, people shifting in their seats. No one turned to look at the two brothers, but Dean could practically feel their attention settle around him like a weight on his shoulders. Sam was still beside him, breathing deeply.
Bobby held up his hands, drawing the crowd to a hush. “We’ve all got to step it up this year, so no slouching. I know you’re all capable of great things, so let’s see it this time. You’ve got four weeks to impress me. Make it happen.”
Dean kept it together until after the meeting adjourned and the performers started filing out of the big top. Under the circumstances, he thought he deserved a fucking medal for how well he kept it together. Sam was a few paces in front of him, loping forward and determinedly ignoring Dean’s meltdown.
“The cat act, Sam? What the fuck? Are you seriously telling me you’re ditching the Wall for an animal act?”
“I can multitask, Dean, it’s not hard. You do it; you’re an asshole and breathe at the same time. How tricky can it be?”
“Oh, very funny, bitch. I’m serious!”
“I’m not doing this with you here. I don’t want to do this with you at all.”
“No shit, seeing as you never actually told me you were training for another gig. And we’ll do this wherever I say we’re doing it.” Dean grabbed onto Sam’s elbow, jerking him back.
Sam’s chest was heaving, teeth gritted tight. “Dean. Not. Here.” His eyes flickered behind Dean, and he was suddenly made all too aware of the people milling about around them, most likely listening in. Gossip mill, right.
Dean followed Sam to their trailer and the meager protection from onlookers it offered. (If anyone knew how thin those walls could be it was Dean.) He knew Sam was using the extra few minutes to figure out an exit strategy, but Dean’d used the same tactic before Sam was even born. He took advantage of the extra time and exertion to order his thoughts, settle him down a little.
He stood just inside the trailer door, arms crossed. “So you’re what, doing two acts now? You don’t even help out with the one!”
Sam was pacing in the tiny space between their beds, flinging laundry towards the bin in the corner. “Oh please, it’s not like the Wall is challenging or anything. You don’t need me. If I bail now then you have plenty of time to rework the timing of the show. Besides, my bike’s a piece of crap and you never let me drive the Indian, anyway.”
He had to admit Sam had a point with that one. Still. “I think it’s challenging.”
“No, you don’t. It’s just something to do while you avoid everything else.” Sam sighed, balling up a sock. “We’ve been doing the same tricks twice a day for the past year. Don’t you get tired of that? Don’t you ever want to reach your potential?”
“Of course I get tired, Sam.” Dean was tired every damn minute of every damn day. But not during their act. Those brief moments in sync with his brother on the Wall were the best part of his afternoon. It felt like the only time he could breathe was when he was driving the Indian. His body could relax, muscle memory taking over, eliminating the need to think.
Leave it to his brother, the giant brain, to look for a way around that.
Sam ran a hand through his hair, pulling it away from his face. “You heard Bobby. Everyone has to contribute triple time unless we want this season to be our last. I’ve been working with the cats and I think I’ve come up with a new way to train them that will revolutionize everything. It’s less aggressive and they’re responding better to it every day.”
“You’ve been working with them? Sam, we only came back from winter break in Vegas two days ago. How long has this been going on?” A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched from how hard he was clenching his teeth. “Right. Listen to me carefully, Sam, because I’m only saying this once. These are not pets. These are unpredictable, wild animals. Jaguars. A fucking lion.”
“Lilith is toothless.”
“But she’s still a lion, Sam! This is not the place to be trying out your free loving hippie crap.”
Sam shook his head, smiling despite his frown. “You are so establishment it hurts to be around you sometimes, you know that?”
“I’m serious, Sam. You better be careful with this. These are killers, and they’re not to be trusted.” He flicked his eyes over to the poster on the wall, a shaft of sunlight highlighting the gold streak of Mary Winchester’s hair. “Remember what happened to Mom.”
“Dean.” It looked for a moment that Sam wanted to say something else, but instead sighed and deflated onto one of the benches, the dishes from his breakfast that morning rattling together. When he looked up at Dean his eyes were puppy dog big. (Dean’d never been able to resist that and Sam knew it, the little cheater.) “This act is something that could save the circus, Dean. There’s nothing you can say to convince me otherwise. I’m going to do it with or without your approval… but I’d like it to be with.”
Dean mulled that over awhile, remembering Sammy at six and how the stubborn little shit would sulk for hours if he didn’t get his way. Not much had changed over the last twenty years; Dean knew his brother well enough to recognize when he’d dug his heels in. “For the record, I am not okay with this. You hiding crap like this from me makes me nervous. But,” Dean rubbed at the back of his neck, trying to dissipate the tension, “if you wanna play in a cage all day who am I to stop you?”
Sam smiled and tossed the sock into the bin without looking – two points, good for him. It reminded Dean of another discussion he’d been meaning to have. “This sudden interest in changing acts wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain animal trainer would it?”
Sam groaned, the sound of put upon younger siblings everywhere. “Dean, we just finished one argument, can’t we go five minutes without starting another one?”
“I’m not arguing anything. I’m just saying, as your wiser, older sibling I’m gonna play the experience card and tell you to keep your nose clean on this one. Trust me: that girl is nothing but trouble. Did you know she got kicked out of three circuses before this one? And Hans ‘mysteriously’ leaving after she joins up? That bitch is fishier than a hippo’s breath.”
“God, I can’t believe you sometimes! Do you actually listen to the words coming out of your mouth? Your patriarchy can be so offensive.” And two points for Dean on the Annoyed Sam Scale – bonus points for use of Stanford vocabulary. “Those are just rumors okay? Ruby explained everything. And besides, she’s not the reason I’m doing this.”
“Right, you’re doing this to save the show and protect our way of life for future generations.” Dean slid into the opposite bench, eyeing his brother. “But you are fucking her, isn’t that right?”
Sam’s jaw clenched, but he looked out the side window instead of at Dean. Bingo.
Dean shook his head and got up to do the dishes. “Uh huh. Wear a rubber, man, you don’t want to catch cat scratch fever. And expect a lot of pussy jokes in your future, that’s all I’m saying.”
The devil arrived in an honest to god boxcar. It was retrofitted with heavy tires and a truck attachment, but it was a boxcar all the same.
Just the sight of the ugly thing parked in the yard was enough to conjure up memories of being rocked to sleep surrounded by the smell of old wood and coal dust. He’d spent the beginning of his life in a boxcar, the clickety clack of the railway and his mother’s lilting voice the only lullabies he needed. He understood why most outfits switched over to the highway – the mother roads made those little American hamlets so much more accessible – but there was something appealing about a circus train, eating up the miles across the country.
“I haven’t seen one of these in years. It was your first time in the ring, wasn’t it? That summer we hooked up with the Russian circus and Dad would ride horseback and shoot targets from our hands.” His first show and he hadn’t been nervous, not of the crowds or the horses or even the guns. Dad had been so proud he’d made a special trip into town for ice cream to celebrate.
“I don’t remember that.”
“Cutest thing I ever saw. You were so tiny back then.”
Ruby smirked and leaned her weight against Sam’s hip. “Must have been a long time ago, then.”
Eugh. He really didn’t like that girl.
Bobby humphed and tugged on the brim of his cap, obviously in silent agreement with Dean. “As interesting as this trip down memory lane has been, why don’t we do what we came here to and open the damn thing.”
Right. The boxcar was old and rusty, but the walls were relatively sturdy and the locks didn’t give way when Dean rattled the door. The noise that rumbled from inside as the car rocked back and forth was disturbingly loud – the eerie warning of large predator.
“Open it.” The teasing was gone from Ruby’s voice now, leaving her staring at the car like it was the last hint of salvation to a dying man. (All right, so he can sort of see what Sam saw in her, but there was still the serious annoying factor to deal with.) Sam scrambled to obey, but Dean went a little slower on principle. They undid the locks on the sides to discover the entire front panel lifted up to form a sky board, likely in homage to the wooden circus wagons of yore. Dean anchored his side carefully using the long pole hanging from the top and leaned in to have a look, curious to see what Carver Circadia’s distant owner had procured for them this time –
- and damn near got his head swiped off for his trouble. A booming roar and thick claws inches from his face were all Dean needed to see before he fell onto his ass in the dirt. It took a moment for his heart to quiet enough that he could make out Sam’s laughter over its frantic beating. Son of a bitch.
Bobby addressed the matter with his usual sangfroid. “Idjit. Don’t you know better than to stick your head between the bars of a lion’s cage?”
No way in hell was that thing a lion. That paw had been as big as Dean’s entire head. The cat roared again, drawing Dean’s attention away from the heat of his cheeks. The animal was massive, twice as large as any of the other cats already in the show. Nine feet long if it was an inch, with pale striped fur along its haunches and back and darker spots along its face. Its eyes were the yellow-gold of a night predator, and it stared at Dean as if wondering what he tasted like.
The panel they’d uncovered had a painting of the beast in faded, stylized glory. LUCIFER, it declared. The liger - one of a kind devil cat! Half lion, half tiger, all fury!
“Liger?“
“Lucifer? ” Good to know Sam was just as unsure as Dean on this one.
Ruby slunk forward, tugging on Sam’s long hair at the nape of his neck. Sam grimaced, or perhaps leered, it was hard to tell. “That’s right, Samson. You and me are going biblical. Or haven’t you noticed all the other cats have religious names, too?” She stepped a little closer to the cage, eyes glazing over with possessive greed.
Dean finally gathered his wits enough to shake the dirt off his jeans. “I’m sorry, but what the hell is a liger? And why do we have one in a boxcar?”
“Just what the sign says, handsome. Half lion, half tiger. This is what happens when you don’t lock the cages at night. And I’d imagine he’s in a boxcar because that’s the only place he’d fit.”
The cat – Lucifer? – roared again, and this time the sound tapered off into a moan that caused the hair on the back of Dean’s neck to rise. It started pacing the bars, huffing as it went. Oh, hell no.
“Sam, there is no way you’re getting in a ring with that thing. It must weight three hundred pounds!”
Ruby grinned. “Three seventy-five.”
“Not helping your case here, lady. Sam, that thing’s a monster. It damn near took my head off!”
“You’d be vicious, too, if you were kept locked in a cage all day.” Ruby made to step up to the bars of the cage, but Sam grabbed onto her elbow and tugged her back.
“Maybe Dean’s right on this one, Ruby. Give it some time to calm down from the move first.”
She snorted, lip curling into a smirk. “Sam, trust me. I do know what I’m doing.” She lifted the flap of the bag at her side and lifted out a cut of meat as thick as Dean’s thigh, tossing it carefully between the bars of the boxcar. Lucifer pounced with an angry snarl, devouring the chop within minutes and gnawing at the bone. When it’d even chewed that to slivers, it licked its chops and cautiously sniffed at the humans. Then – and Dean rubbed his eyes to be sure he wasn’t seeing things – it started to rub its massive side against the bars, actually purring like the world’s largest demonic house cat.
Ruby grinned and shifted her weight away from Sam, leaning on the bars of the cage. She pressed her palms and cheek against Lucifer’s fur (oh, that’s just not right) and the big cat butted against her for another pet. “He’s beautiful,” she breathed.
Dean was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open. Sam was smirking, in that I know everything way of his. He bumped Dean’s shoulder, arms crossed over his chest. “Yeah, I think we can handle it from here. Thanks for the vote of confidence earlier, though.”
Christ. He needed a drink.
The Angels showed up just a few days after Lucifer, which Dean took as a sign about how fucked up his life had gotten.
He hadn’t really spoken to Sam since unloading the liger, since he and Ruby’d been granted complete access to the big top in order to “break in” the new addition, see what tricks he knew or was capable of learning. In the five minutes between slamming through the door and crashing in his bunk Sam swore that everything was fine and going as expected, though Dean would believe it when he saw it.
So, Sam was off playing with his pussy (he would never get tired of that joke) and Dean was repainting the outer shell of the Wall, brightening up what the sun had bleached the season before. Well, technically he’d finished that a half hour ago and was enjoying a cold one in the weak spring sun, but it wasn’t like anyone would notice if he slacked off awhile.
Although apparently someone did. His first clue that the new act had arrived was when a shadow fell over him. Turned out it was a man, standing far too straight and far too close for comfort. His crisply rumpled exterior stood out like a sore thumb around the lot, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was entirely possible someone from the home office had snuck in to observe the training for the new season. Dean hastily swallowed his beer and tucked the bottle behind his hip – wouldn’t do for the high muckety-mucks to see him imbibing on the job.
The man continued to stare at him, expression empty and still. Seriously, this guy was starting to give Dean hives.
“Uh. Can I help you, man?”
The stranger blinked and took a deep breath, eyes settling into something determined. His voice was far deeper than Dean had been expecting to emerge from that tax-accountant body, raspy and resonating, sounding almost painfully in need of water.
“Hello, Dean.”
And apparently he knew Dean’s name. Right. Because that wasn’t creepy as hell.
He frowned at Dean’s lack of recognition, shifting his feet slightly. “Do you – How are you?”
“Fine.” Dean drug the word out, hoping for a little help from on high. Just when it seemed like he’d be stuck in limbo with this creepy ass stalker Bobby rounded the corner, two men following close behind. One of the men was talking a mile a minute, asking questions he didn’t seem to expect answers to. The other looked like he smelled something really offensive.
“There you are!” Bobby was smiling with his teeth gritted through the beard. Dean was suddenly afraid for his life. “Dean, these are the Flying Angels, otherwise known as the Novak brothers. This is Raphael and Gabriel. I’m assured their brother Michael will be along directly.” Ah, trouble with the new flyers already. No wonder Bobby was pissed. “I see you’ve already met… uh, Castiel was it? The catcher.”
The man – Castiel, apparently, weird name – lowered his head in a brief nod.
Bobby tugged on the brim of his hat and moved next to Dean, clapping a meaty hand on his shoulder and turning a bright smile on the Angels. “Dean here is one of my best performers. He’ll give you a tour of the place, hook up your trailers, answer any questions you might have. Won’t you, Dean?”
Oh, hell no. “Uh, I’m actually kind of busy right now –“
“Right, you sure look busy.” Bobby used the hand on his shoulder to squeeze Dean in close under his arm, holding him far too tight to be classified as a ‘hug’. He spoke through the smile; Dean could almost hear his teeth grinding together. “Castiel here wandered away from the group before I could so much as say how do you do. And I don’t like the looks of these other two, either. Keep ‘em entertained while I track down this Michael or I’ll demote you to stable boy and have you shoveling horse shit the rest of your life.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” Bobby shook him one more time then backed off, gleefully clapping his hands together. “Well! I’ll leave you folks in Dean’s capable hands. Glad to have you with us!” And then he took off, fast as his legs could carry him.
Dean straightened his vest, yelling at Bobby’s retreating back. “I ain’t paid to show around the First of Mays!”
Bobby didn’t even slow down. “You ain’t paid to sit on your ass and drink beer, neither. Get going.”
“Whatever.” Dean waited until Bobby rounded the corner to retrieve his bottle and swallow the dregs. The darkest of the Angels (Raphael maybe? Dean hadn’t been paying attention) curled his lip in obvious disgust. Gabriel was looking around with a shit-eating grin, obviously jazzed about being there. Castiel continued to just stare at Dean, waiting. Fucking First of Mays. He hated new circus people.
Dean chucked the bottle off to the side. He stretched out his shoulder a little before standing, the scar tissue itching from Bobby’s manhandling. “All right, let’s get this over with so Bobby will leave me alone. Welcome to Carver Circadia, the happiest place on earth.”
Castiel looked around, confused. “You don’t look very happy. Neither did the other people we’ve passed along the way.”
The chatty one groaned and hit himself on the forehead. “Ignore my brother, he takes everything far too seriously. He’s a little… well, socially inept is the polite way to put it.”
Castiel glared at his brother. “I merely suggested that the show should use a different slogan if its workers aren’t going to perform adequately. It’s false advertising otherwise.”
Dean rolled his eyes. Christ. “We’re off the clock, Einstein, even clowns can frown when there’s no people around. Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”
He took the brothers across the backyard in the fastest route possible, pointing out the cookhouse and donnikers, stables and practice ring. Turned out Gabriel – the chatty brother – didn’t expect Dean to respond to his jokes anymore than he did Bobby and disappeared somewhere around clown alley.
Dean wound up the “tour” at the brothers’ two campers, large and shiny new in the grass. Raphael disappeared inside without a backwards glance but Castiel followed Dean around to the back, listening carefully to his instructions about how to hook up the propane and electric.
Dean brushed his hands as he stood, stomach just beginning to rumble as he saw Ellen hanging the flag up outside the cookhouse. From the smells, today was meatloaf day. He said his goodbyes and walked away, only to hear a second set of footfalls following behind.
He turned, Castiel still hovering behind. “Uh, that’s the end of the tour. I’m going to get some lunch. Don’t you wanna stay here and, I don’t know, unpack or something?”
Castiel looked behind him at the trailers, hoses and wires still mostly unconnected despite Dean’s crash course in trailer maintenance. “If I stay they will make me do it for them. I’d prefer to eat with you and the other kinkers.”
Dean held up his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa, don’t say that, man. Kinker’s disrespectful.”
“I’m sorry, I was told it’s what people in circus acts are called. Did I not get the vocabulary correct? ”
He was told? This guy really was new. “Well yeah, but you don’t call someone that to their face. It’s bad luck. Like telling an actor to break a leg.”
“Then what do most circus employees call themselves?”
“I dunno. Usually performers. Artists if they’re a douche.” Castiel nodded and frowned, like he was editing his series of mental notes. “Whatever, man. Come on, flag’s up at the cookhouse. We better hurry before all the aba-daba’s gone.”
“I… don’t understand that reference, either.”
“Aba-daba? Dessert?” Dean stopped in his tracks, wanting to get things straight once and for all. “I’m sorry, I thought you were a professional trapeze act. How can you be in circus and not know what aba-daba is?”
Castiel frowned, as though Dean insulted him. “I have been performing since I was a child in one capacity or another. But my father thought American circuses were a hotbed of moral ambiguity and sin.”
Dean smirked. “Well, that’s true. Mostly. The good ones, anyway.”
“We often toured privately, but Father never let us wander far regardless. After he died and Michael began training for his medal there seemed little point in socializing with anyone other than family.”
“So, why are you so interested in socializing now? I doubt Bobby’s paying you that much.”
Castiel went still for a moment, watching the other performers and roustabouts line up outside the cookhouse and settle down with plates heaped high with Ellen’s meatloaf. “I’m curious. I’ve discovered there’s a group of people I’ve lived next to my whole life without seeing. As Stoppard said, the truth is like being ambushed by a grotesque.”
Dean eyeballed the men lining up. “I admit, the crew isn’t the prettiest bunch but I wouldn’t go so far as to call them grotesque.”
“You misunderstand me; I meant no disrespect. I’m merely intrigued at what’s behind the curtain. I was born into this work, but at what point do regular people consider it beneficial to swallow fire or contort their body into unnatural shapes? What type of person makes a living risking their lives?”
Dean smirked, stepping up to join the queue. “I suppose it all depends on what you consider a regular person, Cas.” He tapped Victor on the shoulder, then snuck into line just before him. He grabbed a plate for himself and Castiel before the horse trainer knew anything was amiss. Deftly avoiding Ellen’s swat on the wrist, he winked at her and ducked back out without missing a beat. “My philosophy is that everybody’s running from something and you might as well run away with the circus.”
“Good philosophy.” Castiel accepted his plate with a frown and sniffed at the contents as if the meat might be toxic - which was fucking shit, because Ellen’s meatloaf and mashed potatoes were not to be missed.
Dean found a likely looking table, far enough from the crowd that no one would bother him. He sat with his back to everyone else, hoping the flyer would take the hint and find somewhere else to sit.
Of course, Cas ignored that social cue like he had all the others so far. He made himself comfortable on the bench next to Dean, though the other places at the table were all empty. “You know all these people, correct? I’d like to know the caliber of performer I’ll be working with.”
Dean scooted over a couple inches. “Look, I just wanna eat in peace. Besides, I don’t kiss and tell.”
“Yes, you do.” And right on cue, there was Sam, flopping down onto the bench next to Dean, long legs stretching to the other side. Sam hadn’t seen fit to dine with his brother these past two days, so what could possibly be different today? Oh, that’s right. The nerdy limpet attached to Dean’s hip. This was going to be a long meal.
Sam stirred butter into his mountain of potatoes (did that boy have a hollow leg?) and tucked in. It seemed that even four semesters at Stanford couldn’t knock the road manners out of him because he certainly had no trouble talking with his mouth full. At least Dean knew it was crappy etiquette, even if he didn’t give a shit.
“Besides, we expand ourselves by sharing with other people. An army may run on its stomach but a circus runs on gossip.” Sam smiled, sneaky hand creeping towards Dean’s bread.
Dean sighed, whacked Sam a good one and gave up all hope of enjoying the deliciousness in peace. “Sam this is Cas, Cas this is my hippy brother Sam.”
Sam winced, shaking the sting out of his wrist. “Sorry if my brother’s offended you in any way, he’s just repressed under centuries of a testosterone-driven hierarchy. Plus, he’s a dick.”
“I am not! And whatever you said about the first thing, I’m not that either.”
Sam ignored Dean and leaned over the bench to shake Cas’ hand. “It’s Castiel, right? The catcher for the Angels?” Cas tilted his head, curious. “Word gets around fast; I wasn’t lying about circus gossip.”
“Hello, Sam,” Cas said. “Your brother and I were discussing his philosophy on why people are attracted to the circus. What are your thoughts?”
“Let me guess – the running theory, right? It has some merit, I’ll give him that.” Dean rolled his eyes. If Cas got Sam started on a philosophical debate they’d be there for hours. “We’re a strange group of people with a strange combination of idiosyncrasies and talents, there’s bound to be conflicts between social norms. It makes sense that you’d immerse yourself in something like that to avoid facing your fears.” He nudged Dean with his elbow, earning a glare. What exactly did he mean by that?
Sam went back to his meatloaf. “I suppose we’re all fundamentally damaged people in one way or another. Isaac and Tamara keep a baby blanket in their trailer and Bobby refuses to talk about the wedding ring he wears even though we’ve known him since we were kids. Half the ring crew won’t tell you their last name, let alone their hometown. Plus, we’re always on the move so it’s hard for cops to find us. Although, Victor used to be a cop if you believe the rumors.”
“I see.” Cas looked around at the gathered crew, taking in the assorted weirdness. He took a first bite of his potatoes and hummed in appreciation – fucking right – and tucked in. “This is a very masculine show, Dean. Why are most of the performers men?”
He shrugged. “Just the way it is, I guess. Too much testosterone and you run the risk of trampling over the fine line between great and gay, though. The rubes won’t watch. Take your act for example: four guys in tights grabbing each other in midair? Kinda sketchy. You should find yourselves a chick."
“Dean.” And there was Sam, right on cue, calling him a chauvinist pig and to watch his mouth without actually saying anything. Dean smirked and took another bite of meatloaf.
Cas was quiet for awhile, pushing his food around his plate. "My sister Anna used to travel with us but she left some time ago. I miss her."
Well, this conversation got real depressing, real fast. Sam nudged him again, eyebrows wiggling toward Cas – the signal for he’s your friend, you deal with it. Dean wasn’t sure when the hell Sam got that impression but he couldn’t leave Cas floundering in the land of Awkward Silences like that. “Uh. Do you know where she is?”
“Boston, last I heard. She married a doctor.”
Dean smiled, relieved to be back in vaguely familiar territory and further away from the no man’s land of a stranger’s feelings. “That’s great, Cas. At least she’s got someone, you can be happy about that. When Sam left for Stanford he was all alone.”
Cas looked up at that, surprise overtaking the sadness on his face. And, miracle of miracles, Dean’s gigantic baby brother was actually starting to blush. “Yeah, he got a scholarship and everything. Full ride. Always was smarter than the average bear.” Sam dodged the noogie Dean threw his way, muttering lay off, asshole under his breath. “Anyway. To prevent the public from shunning our cavalcade of gaydom, Bobby hires the tent bunnies to spice things up.”
“Tent bunnies?”
Dean looked around and spotted the group of girls lingering at a table behind Cas. They were chatting and smirking in their direction, most likely laying bets over who’d get to the new guy first. (Heaven help him.)
“Those, my dear Castiel, are tent bunnies.”
Cas turned to look, gulped, and swung back around quickly, eyes the size of fifty cent pieces. The girls saw him looking and giggled, the most forward of them blowing kisses Castiel’s way. Dean leaned around him to wink at the bunnies, having the added benefit of breaking the mood entirely and having the bird flicked his way. Very ladylike. Still, been there, done that, got the rash to prove it.
Sam was muttering something sympathetic to Cas over the last of his meatloaf. “Yeah, I know, man. But what are you gonna do? Pretty girls sell tickets.”
Dean left Cas to consider that one while he dug into the pie he’d valiantly been saving until after the “real food”. He didn’t know how Ellen found the time to make it, considering everything else she did around the lot, but he was so glad she did. Today’s pie was blueberry. Not quite as fantastic as apple or cherry, but good all the same.
Cas flicked his gaze to Sam briefly before settling on Dean again. He swallowed (mouth no doubt watering at the delicious aba-daba Dean was devouring before him) and blinked a couple times. “You have filling on your chin.”
Dean licked his fork. “Don’t care.”
Sam laughed. “Don’t interrupt pie-time, Cas, it’s not good for you.”
Cas shook his head and cleared his throat. “And what about the two of you? What’s the Winchester’s story?”
“Us? Ours is the oldest story in the book, literally. Our parents were circus folk therefore so are we. Seven generations on one side.”
“Surely there’s more to it than that.” Cas’ eyes glittered with the hint of mischief, lips curling. “Everyone is running from something, after all.”
Dean wiped his face and stood, still chewing his final bite of tasty, tasty pie. “Maybe, maybe not. But we’re not telling you about it over a plate in the mess tent, that’s for sure. C’mon, Sam, we got work to do.”
Sam made Bitchface #5 (Quit Harshing The Vibe, Man) but shoveled the rest of his food in his mouth and stood anyway. He held a slightly saucy paw out to Castiel and, proving he was the nicer of the two Winchesters, shook his hand goodbye.
They were a solid ten feet away from the cookhouse when Sam finally caught up to him. “Why do you have to be such an asshole to new people all the time? I like Castiel. Can’t you be nice for once?”
“It ain’t my job to babysit the First of Mays, Sam. Let’s go do something. I don’t want Bobby thinking we don’t pull our weight around here.”
Sam snorted. “Whatever you say, Hershey.”
And he couldn’t let that particular jibe go without proper retaliation. “Sam, I will kill you and feed your body to Lucifer. Seriously.”
As always, the weeks leading up to the first roll-out were packed with frantic activity, performers and ring crew desperately trying to fit in one more practice, master one more move. Bobby’d secluded himself in the big top, making sure the timing of the show was perfect and that the acts had cohesiveness to them – a tricky feat, considering the wide range of performers. Boss canvasman Rufus was a big help, seeing as he was mostly out of work until the circus actually rolled out in a month.
By virtue of Dean’s brilliance, the Wall of Death was packed and ready to go in record time. He spent his time helping where he could, focusing on the thousand and one little things that needed to be done before the show could get on the road. Most days he practically lived in the machine shop, overhauling the large semi trucks engines or tweaking equipment just so.
It was one such afternoon - elbow deep in the guts of the clowns’ tiny car - when the small hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention. The nervous tension creeping across his shoulders meant only one thing – someone was watching him. It was so similar to being out in the bush he found himself gripping his wrench like a club, aiming at his attacker’s head as he turned –
To find Castiel, hands in his pockets and casually staring like he did when Dean first met him. Completely unconcerned that Dean had almost brained him like a Viet Cong guerilla.
Dean’s heart was gonna burst out of his chest at this rate. “You can’t sneak up on people like that, man! I almost hurt you.”
Cas blinked. “I was not aware that I was sneaking. Perhaps your radio is too loud?”
“Whatever. It’s a good way to get yourself killed.” It’s a good thing he took of his knife vest before starting on the motor, otherwise… well, it didn’t bear thinking on.
He turned back to the tiny “car”, trying to put it out of his mind and steady his breathing. It was no more than a lawn mower engine, really, so it just needed a cleaning and lube job to be good as new. Still, it was tedious work and not all that exciting. It certainly didn’t merit the attention Cas was giving it, who hadn’t moved from his spot since Dean first noticed him.
“Uh,” Dean glanced over his shoulder, reaching for a smaller wrench. “Can I help you with something there, Angel?”
Cas apparently took that as an invitation, leaning in to peer closer under the hood. “What are you doing?”
Okay, Crazy. “Fixing a clown car. How about you?”
“Watching you fix a clown car.”
“Jesus wept, what do you want? Are you high? Is this some elaborate plan to freak me out, ‘cause I gotta tell you, man, it’s working.” Cas tilting his head, eyes unfocused and dull. It reminded Dean uncomfortably of an exotic bird show he’d seen once. “I mean… How are you not busy? Everyone else is working their asses off but you have time to sit and stare at me all day.”
“Your brother Sam has reserved the ring at this time. Since Michael’s arrival my brothers and I have done all the work we can outside the big top and I’ve not been given any additional tasks in the meantime.” Jo attempted to show me some of the opening act choreography but… it did not go as well as she hoped. She threw me out.”
Dean couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up out of the anxiety making his chest tight – for an aerialist, Cas didn’t seem to have any rhythm at all. He could just picture lithe little Jo trying to walk him through the motions. There was a confidence in his body, undoubtedly, a relaxation that came from knowing every muscle and how to use it, but Dean knew grace in the air or the ring didn’t necessarily apply to the dance floor. He himself had two left feet, and Sam? Dean had seen a moose blunder into a make-up tent once that had more elegance.
“She then suggested I earn my keep another way and that if I kept you out of trouble then I would be more than worth it. Is this something you are prone to, causing trouble?"
“It’s been known to happen, yeah.” Jo thought he needed a babysitter, huh? Fuck that. Then again, watching the awkward way Castiel poked around the shop, it was entirely possible that Dean was the sitter in this situation. Or Jo could have been teasing and Cas was too obtuse to realize it. Either way, not a situation Dean wanted to be a part of.
While Dean got lost in thought, Cas scratched a nail through some of the chipped paint on the side of the car, once-bright flakes falling to the floor. His rough voice had gone quiet, causing Dean’s hands to slow on the bolt he was tightening. “I assume she was poking fun, since you obviously don’t need my assistance here. Still, I would much rather loiter here useless than wait for practice inside that trailer with Gabriel. I had no idea his habits were so,” he shuddered, staring into the distance without seeing anything, “crude.”
The smile that crept up this time felt more natural, the anxiety from earlier disappearing like it had never been there. “I know the feeling. I’ve shared a trailer with Sam all my life, though I’m guessing he’s a lot neater than Gabe. Having an ex-military father will do that, I suppose. But if you wanna talk about crude, there’s nothing quite so bad as being stuck inside a metal tube with Sam once he’s had a couple tacos.”
Cas groaned, wincing in sympathetic pain. “Tell me about it. What does Ellen put in those, mustard gas?”
It felt good to laugh with someone who wasn’t family for a change. Dean thought about what it was like in a new show, with only a brother to talk to. He wondered how it was for Cas, working and living so closely with three older brothers who – from the looks of things – were so drastically different they had nothing in common. Why else would he be seeking out Dean when he had family so close by?
Dean sighed. “You know anything about engines, Cas?” He passed over the wrench when Castiel shook his head with. “Well, you’re about to. You may want to roll your sleeves up for this one.”
They worked on the car until the supper flag went up, slowly reassembling parts until it was working again. It was the best afternoon Dean’d spent in a long time.
Cas was back the next day, and the day after that. For want of anything else to do, Dean let him help with whatever he was doing – mostly working on the countless lot vehicles and machinery that always seemed to need some kind of attention. When Sam asked him at dinner what he’d been up to all day, Dean was often hard-pressed to remember anything noteworthy happening, yet the catcher continued to show every morning.
Cas was a quick study and an able set of hands at the toolbox, absorbing everything Dean said with the air of an art student at the elbow of a master. It seemed a little ridiculous (no one could be that interested in how a spark plug worked) but as the weeks wore on Dean suspected Cas was just glad to be out of the trailer and away from his family. For his own part, it was nice to have an audience again, someone to take him seriously and to value his opinion. Sam hadn’t needed his help for far too long now.
Dean would talk about almost anything, rambling on about motors and rpm and whatever Bobby was complaining about that day. Sometimes Dean found himself bringing the most random things, like how the camper seemed smaller since Sam started sleeping over at Ruby's a few nights of the week and shouldn't it be the opposite? Other times they'd work in silence, shoulders bumping as they leaned over some project or other, radio playing quietly in the background.
Their solitude was interrupted only by breaks for lunch, or when Cas would wander away to meet his brothers to practice. He’d return frowning but pleased with himself, hair windswept and muscles loose in the way Dean remembered from his days performing in the ring. When they leaned close together over some random machine he smelled like sawdust and sweat, the combination making Dean’s mouth water and his eyes close.
He was sure it was Pavlovian, nothing funny there or anything. Dean hadn’t performed in a big top since before getting out of the hospital, but he’d been in one almost every day before that. That was probably why.
If Cas noticed Dean never left the machine shop to practice, he never mentioned it. He mentioned very little, in fact, his damaged voice almost absent from the machine shop. Cas seemed content to merely observe, asking few questions about the work Dean was doing. It was actually kind of peaceful having him sit nearby, watching Dean’s hands getting dirty as he fixed was he was able to.
The nature of the circus was to be transitional, a fleeting dream set up and gone again the next day. After a lifetime spent living on the move, being stationary fit like a bad coat. And as familiar and comfortable as Carver’s winter quarters were, Dean was glad to finally get this show on the road.
It became second nature for circus folk to pack everything up and leave on a moment’s notice, seeing as they never really unpacked in the first place. Sam secured their belongings and hooked up the trailer to their Dad’s old truck while Dean anchored the Indian to the back. Dean trusted the road crew to move the Wall, but not his baby. (Sam never even bothered to start his, let alone get it prepped for the upcoming season. A freaking travesty, if you asked Dean.)
After that, it was all up to Sam’s navigation; everyone would hopefully meet at the same place without being separated by traffic. Generally it wasn’t a problem – the average motorist tended to move out of the way when six semis, three animal trailers, and sixteen campers hauling god-knew-what thundered past. The battered old Ford wasn’t nearly as impressive as the Indian, or shiny as the Airstream, but Dean liked the rumble of it underneath him nonetheless.
Sam fidgeted the entire length of I-29, thoughts no doubt lingering on the boxcar behind them in the caravan, and the trailer full of cats behind it. Or perhaps on the woman driving it – fucking Ruby. Dean really didn’t understand what Sam saw in her. Granted, she had a certain skanky charm but that was usually more Dean’s thing than Sam’s. At least, it had before Stanford and the War. Dean hadn’t really seen Sam with anyone since then. Hell, maybe college lowered a guy’s standards. How would Dean know?
He seemed to mellow a little once the radio fizzled out into the horror of country-western crap that was Iowa and Dean switched to playing his eight tracks. After a few songs he rested his head against the window and attempted to contort his legs into a position comfortable enough to nap until his turn at the wheel. Dean couldn’t blame him; it didn’t matter where they were going or where they were leaving from but the Winchesters always slept better when they were traveling. (He knew he did, anyway.)
After an uneventful night-drive the caravan made Des Moines in record time, and Sam was out of the trailer like a shot the second he put the brakes on, running back to settle the cats into their temporary home. One by one the car doors opened, and the backyard quickly became alive with the sounds of the big top being raised and preparations being made for the first show of the season.
Dean sat in the truck for awhile watching Sam and the crew swarm like busy bees, then wandered over to help unload.
Despite what Sam might have thought, riding the Wall wasn’t exactly easy. There was a rhythm to it, to harnessing your body’s natural spatial awareness and balance and extending it over the bike itself. He had to trust the Indian, trust his repairs of her, and not hesitate when going around. The bike started to stick to the side at a mere twenty-six miles an hour, but Dean usually cruised at around thirty-five – fast enough to be impressive, safe enough to let go of the handlebars. Falling from that speed from the top or the sides, regardless of how long you practiced or how meticulous you tuned your engine, could cause some serious damage.
There was a reason they called it the Wall of Death, after all.
Since it was self-contained, the Wall didn’t make for very good ring material; unless the wood boards mystically became transparent the audience wouldn’t be able to see any of the stunts from the blue seats. As such, Dean was relegated to the Midway, a flashy lure for rubes to stick around for the main acts.
Truth be told, he didn’t mind so much. People came and went and he didn’t have to pander to any of them. So what if he didn’t get his face on any of the posters; let Sam and the Angels pose for the camera all they wanted. At least Dean smelled like exhaust and sweat at the end of the day, instead of bullshit.
His brother took up such a large amount of space on the Wall around him that Dean was having a hard time compensating now that it was just him treading the boards. The first few revolutions were less than steady, the front wheel going anywhere but straight. But by the time people started trickling in to the raised platform around the edges of the Wall Dean was barely noticing Sam’s absence and moved on to the opening barrage of tricks in his repertoire.
One hand off the handlebar, three circuits around the Wall. Both hands in the air, five circuits. Standing, four. Sideways on the seat, legs horizontal, three. And then, Dean’s favorite: a rush of speed at the very edge of the Wall, making the crowd pull back, breath stolen in the wake of the wind he created. Topping forty, fifty, faster and faster until even he wasn’t sure he’d come out of the spin, the force of it nearly pushing him off his seat.
God, what a rush. His teeth were cold from the wind bruising his grin. How could cats ever compete with running the Wall?
Slowly, like a lover sliding between cool sheets, he brought the Indian down to a reasonable speed, the roar of the engine calming enough that he could hear clapping and cheers – the lifeblood of the circus. Garth was on target with the new script, reeling them in before they wandered off to the big top.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if you have enjoyed the show we’d like to present you with a chance to become part of the act! Take out your billfolds and your wallets, hold that cash high in the air! Flying by at unrecognizable speeds, Winchester will pluck it from your outstretched fingers like raw fruit from the vine. But only if you are brave enough to lean over the Wall itself.”
And there they were, right on cue, a few tentative hands peeking over the side of the Wall, clutching at the bills like they were going to bite them. Dean picked a likely rube first (woman, young, surrounded by friends) and drove right up, winking and oozing the charm Winchesters were famous for. She giggled and screeched, friends echoing her so loud Cas could probably hear it from his perch at the top of the trapeze. After that everyone wanted in on the act and Dean was more than willing to oblige, going so far as to steal a guy’s hat right off his head and wearing it around the ring a couple rounds before throwing it back with one hand and grabbing his cash with the other.
It was only after most of the crowd had dispersed and Dean had started slowing enough to stop at the bottom that he noticed Sam lurking above the edges of the Wall, loitering next to the crane that would lift the Indian out of the pit once they were ready to move onto the next stop.
Sam, as always a bastion of self restraint, waited until Dean had come to a full and complete stop before yelling down. “Asking for tips, huh? Isn’t that a little cheap?”
Dean laughed, sneaking a sip from his flask before answering. “Cheap hell, I just made twenty bucks. Besides, I had to come up with something now that you’re not around. Don’t you have kittens to groom or something?”
Sam lowered the rope ladder before Garth could get to it from the small platform he barked from. “Ruby’s getting them ready. Thought I’d swing by and see how you were doing before the show starts.”
Dean let the ladder fall beside him and stared up at his brother, a little peeved. “Doing fine. No need to worry your hairy little head, Samson.”
By the time he climbed to the top, Sam was fully into Bitchface #2, complete with clenched jaw and pursed lips. Dean shuffled through the cash he’d stuffed into his vest pocket, couldn’t help a laugh at what he found there. “Besides, cheap sometimes has its perks.” He held up the dollar, phone number penciled in on the edge. The a in Tammy was a little heart.
Sam snorted and walked away, shaking his head.
Continue...
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Have fun reading!
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"cavalcade of gaydom" *snort* I'd go to that, but I'm a bit of a perv so there ya go.
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loved the Visual of dean it was Gorgeous.