Ten Grinches Plus Two (3/4) PG Gen SPN fic

[dixiehellcat]

3 The Winchesters spent the next two days investigating the mysterious thefts, but by Christmas Eve afternoon they had to concede they were no closer to an answer. They had talked to families of laid-off factory workers, church ladies organizing Christmas parties for those in need, and finally got a (very) few words out of the local sheriff. On a less mundane front, they had scoured the newspaper’s archives for any violent deaths at the plant that might have led a vengeful spirit to target the townspeople, and consulted with nurse Judy, Alvin’s cousin, who was very knowledgeable about the history of local pagan practitioners. Be it natural or supernatural, however, they could not piece together motive, means or opportunity.

“Let’s go take a look at the factory,” Dean suggested. “I mean, we got no other option.”

The building was surrounded by a high and oddly wrought iron fence, its gate securely locked. As they tromped around the circumference through a light dust of snow, however, they found an area where several bars had been bent and some pulled loose, creating a space large enough for a person to slip through. Dean was ready to shimmy through when Sam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Does this pattern look like anything to you?” he asked, tracing the outline of the undamaged ironwork with a gloved finger. “It doesn’t show this close, but step back a few feet.”

Dean did, paused and squinted, turning his head this way and that. “Runes,” he said. “Maybe not exactly runes, but something along those lines.”

“Yeah. I don’t recognize them, but I know who will.” Sam pulled out his cell phone and called Bobby. Following his instructions, they retraced their steps around the site, taking pictures as they went and emailing them to him half a continent away.

“It’s runes all right,” he declared. “Celtic, to be exact. They’re spelling out a general incantation for control of faery folk.”

“Fairy folks? What, Braxton wouldn’t hire gay people?” Dean cracked. Sam took off his toboggan long enough to whack his brother over the head with it. “Ow! Abusive bitch.”

“So what was it meant to keep out?” Sam asked Bobby as they walked.

‘Not out. These runes are facing away from you boys, inward.”

They had reached the forced opening in the fence again, and halted. “To keep something in,” Dean said with sudden realization. “And this space broke the circle, and let it out.”

“Right,” Bobby’s voice crackled over the tiny speaker. “Between the runes and the cold iron, it constrained whatever was in there.”

“Makes sense,” Sam agreed. “Fae are capricious, according to all the known lore: hence the absence of any discernible motive or pattern to the thefts. And they can slip in and out of places without mortals detecting them, civilians anyway.”

Dean clomped off through the snow with a “be right back’ over his shoulder, and returned in a minute with two sets of tire chains from the Impala’s trunk. “Cold iron? Can’t get much colder than this,” he said and handed one to Sam.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Sam said. “We’ll go see what’s up in there.”

“Watch yourselves,” Bobby cautioned. “And if I don’t talk to you before tomorrow, Merry Christmas.”

The boys’ eyes locked. “You doin’ all right there, man?” Dean asked with an attempt at casualness.

“Fine, or would be if your feathered friend would quit pesterin’ me.”

Dean frowned. “Cas is there?”

“Every time I turn around. Aw, I guess he’s kind of lonesome, gettin’ kicked out of the heavenly throng and all, especially this time of the year. So I won’t bitch to his face. Besides, he speaks classical Greek like Socrates, and it’s nice to have somebody around that can correct my pronunciation.”

The Winchesters grinned. “Just keep him out of the spiked egg nog,” Dean chuckled. “Talk to you later.”

They slipped through the fence and scoured the property as evening darkened into night, with no luck until a spot on the second floor near a housekeeping closet sent Dean’s EMF meter wild. Hidden behind a stack of half-rotten pallets, they watched the space until with a soft poof a stocky hairy figure appeared with its arms full of boxes. Humming to himself, he put them down, unlocked the closet door and shoved them all inside. Before the door shut Sam caught a glimpse of some of the booty: teaching software, and a bag tied shut, from which muffled yips sounded.

“He’s stealing Christmas presents from Alvin’s kids!” he hissed as the figure vanished.

Dean nodded once sharply. “Be ready next time. We can hit him when his back’s turned.”

The takedown went flawlessly. In no time, the yelling little man was wound securely in the steel chains. “Lemme go, you sons of bitches!”

“Whew, he speaks English,” Dean cracked. “Would’ve been tough to interrogate him if he only spoke Gaelic. What is he, ya think?”

“Pixie?” Sam offered. “Elf? Brownie?”

“Doesn’t look like a Girl Scout.” The little guy spat and swore, volubly and at some length. “Definitely hung out with line workers,” Dean added. “He knows some words I don’t. So, what’s up, you pint-size klepto?”

After a few introductory remarks, of which ‘none of yer feckin’ business’ was the most printable, the brownie, as he identified himself, called himself Hargis, and spilled. He was one bitter little faery, and with some reason. Old man Braxton had bound a pack of them as his cleaning crew, but his family knew nothing of his magickal endeavors; so on his sudden death, no one invoked the charms to free them. The brownies had been trapped in the decaying building, until some curious kids inadvertently freed them.

“That’s when I caught up on the news,” he rasped. “You mortals don’t know it, but the world’s about to end.”

The guys both stiffened. “We know,” Sam said shortly. “Or at least, we know that the potential exists. Some other folks beg to differ, though.”

The brownie sneered. “This is Lucifer we’re talking about, stupid. Lord of Misrule, Prince of the Power of the Air, et cetera. He can’t be stopped. Everything’s going down. But, you lot, you moronic humans, you’re delusional. You insist on denying, on laughing, on hoping. Somebody’s gotta teach you a lesson. I’m doing a service here, can’t you see? This stuff—“ he jerked his head in the direction of his treasure trove—“it represents hope to those people. I take it, and I give them a chance to get used to being without hope, in advance, before all hope is taken from them.”

Dean sputtered. “Wha—wait just a minute. Who died and left you the decider guy? Lucifer can be stopped, and he will be. You’re the delusional one, short pants!”

He looked toward Sam for confirmation. Sam nodded, but was silent, processing. Yes, he was angry, but this wasn’t the first time he had encountered this concept. He had heard it before, from the embittered lips of a trickster who had turned out to be an archangel. “You have no right,” he finally said slowly. “Wallow in your cynicism all you like, but you have no right to inflict your nihilistic belief system on the rest of the world.”

“Nile?” the brownie said. “This is Ohio, not Egypt.”

Sam ignored the jibe. “You can’t take hope from people, anyway. Certainly not by taking their material possessions. Humans will hope. It’s part of what we are. Especially at Christmas; that’s what the season is all about. Hope.” For an instant he thought back to the Christmas of Dean’s deal, how fiercely he had hoped for a miracle to save his brother.

“I’m no idiot, long-shanks.” The brownie squirmed in his chains. “Christmas is a big racket. It’s run by a big Eastern syndicate, you know. It’s all about the STUFF. And when those brats don’t get it, the holler they’ll let out! I’ve got to hear that.”

An idea popped full-blown into Sam’s head. He stood up. “Bet you’re wrong.”

“What?” Hargis scowled.

“I will bet with you that you are wrong,” Sam repeated, slowly and clearly, so the imp understood.

It did. The beady eyes lit up. “O, a betting man he is. I like that. What’s your wager?”

“Sammy—“ Dean began, in his worried-big-brother voice, but Sam forestalled him with a raised hand.

“If you’re right, we’ll let you go and be on our way. If I’m right, you give everybody back their stuff, and leave them alone.”

“Hah! That’s a no brainer. Done!” the brownie smirked.

“Fine.” Sam picked him up with an oof; the little rat was heavier than he looked, especially wrapped in chains. “Let’s go for a little ride.”

TBC