SPN fic -- For Auld Lang Syne 1/1
Dec. 31st, 2007 09:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
vanillafluffyTitle: For Auld Lang Syne
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing: None
Rating/Work-safeness: PG for language
Approximate word count: 550
Disclaimer: I own only the neurons and electrons I composed it with
Summary: Set one year in the future and assumes Dean didn't break the deal.
For Auld Lang Syne
If you want to spend a festive New Year's Eve, this isn't the bar to do it in. The jukebox is broken, so the radio is tuned to a station that's counting down the year's greatest hits in between commercials for car dealerships and vinyl siding. There are a few regulars drooling into their beers, a couple of good old boys playing pool on a table that's off plumb and mended with duct tape.
2009 is only a few minutes away when a tall blonde pushes the door open and strides into the room. What the hell is a woman like her doing in a dump like this, the bartender wonders. She looks like a fashion model---expensive clothes, perfectly groomed, and when she gets closer, she brings with her the scent of parfum that's $150 an ounce.
"Bombay gin, neat, wedge of lime, no ice cubes," she instructs, lounging against the bar.
Bombay gin? In a dive like this? Silently, the bartender holds up the two house varieties of gin, which are, respectively, cheap and cheaper.
"You've got to be joking." The newcomer has an accent that sounds like something from Dr Who---English, kind of classy. Slumming, here.
"Is there a wine list?"
Yeah, right. Bought in bulk, the choices are, big bottle and even bigger bottle. Miss Posh makes a face. "Champagne?" There's exactly one bottle of the stuff in the building, and it's been in the back of the cooler since the bartender started work there.
"That'll do."
"Fifty dollars, pay in advance."
"For that plonk? You've got to be joking!"
"Take it or leave it."
"Oh, all right, all right." She rummages through a little envelope of a handbag that probably cost more than the bartender's car. Good grief. And grief does have something to do with it, since Miss Posh says, "I lost someone this year, and I promised I'd drink a toast to him on New Year's Eve." She flings a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. "Get on with it, will you? It's nearly midnight."
Times are tough all over, the bartender wants to say, uncorking the bottle. There aren't any flutes, but there are wine glasses that are good enough, even for a snob like this.
"Have one with me," the blonde tells her. "We may as well get my money's worth."
What's wrong with Jack and Coke? But what the hell, Miss Posh isn't the only one who's had a bad year, who's lost someone...a second glass of bubbly, then, and some bittersweet thoughts of what might have been. The DJ is making a big production of announcing the number one hit of 2008, and as the opening chords of the song ring from the tinny speakers, the Englishwoman says, "I'm going to miss you, you bastard." and drinks from her glass.
"Oh, God, that's dreadful!" she sputters, and laughs.
She's not wrong. The bartender pours both glasses into the sink and sets up two rounds of Jack and Coke. "Here's to bastards."
"Cheers," her customer says, knocking it back. "Keep the change."
"Thanks. Happy New Year."
"Somehow, I doubt it." She's gone as swiftly as she came, and behind her in the run-down bar, Jo Harvelle rinses out her dirty glass.
***
Happy New Year, y'all! Comments are shiny.
Authored by: vanillafluffy
Pairing: None
Rating/Work-safeness: PG for language
Approximate word count: 550
Disclaimer: I own only the neurons and electrons I composed it with
Summary: Set one year in the future and assumes Dean didn't break the deal.
If you want to spend a festive New Year's Eve, this isn't the bar to do it in. The jukebox is broken, so the radio is tuned to a station that's counting down the year's greatest hits in between commercials for car dealerships and vinyl siding. There are a few regulars drooling into their beers, a couple of good old boys playing pool on a table that's off plumb and mended with duct tape.
2009 is only a few minutes away when a tall blonde pushes the door open and strides into the room. What the hell is a woman like her doing in a dump like this, the bartender wonders. She looks like a fashion model---expensive clothes, perfectly groomed, and when she gets closer, she brings with her the scent of parfum that's $150 an ounce.
"Bombay gin, neat, wedge of lime, no ice cubes," she instructs, lounging against the bar.
Bombay gin? In a dive like this? Silently, the bartender holds up the two house varieties of gin, which are, respectively, cheap and cheaper.
"You've got to be joking." The newcomer has an accent that sounds like something from Dr Who---English, kind of classy. Slumming, here.
"Is there a wine list?"
Yeah, right. Bought in bulk, the choices are, big bottle and even bigger bottle. Miss Posh makes a face. "Champagne?" There's exactly one bottle of the stuff in the building, and it's been in the back of the cooler since the bartender started work there.
"That'll do."
"Fifty dollars, pay in advance."
"For that plonk? You've got to be joking!"
"Take it or leave it."
"Oh, all right, all right." She rummages through a little envelope of a handbag that probably cost more than the bartender's car. Good grief. And grief does have something to do with it, since Miss Posh says, "I lost someone this year, and I promised I'd drink a toast to him on New Year's Eve." She flings a hundred-dollar bill on the bar. "Get on with it, will you? It's nearly midnight."
Times are tough all over, the bartender wants to say, uncorking the bottle. There aren't any flutes, but there are wine glasses that are good enough, even for a snob like this.
"Have one with me," the blonde tells her. "We may as well get my money's worth."
What's wrong with Jack and Coke? But what the hell, Miss Posh isn't the only one who's had a bad year, who's lost someone...a second glass of bubbly, then, and some bittersweet thoughts of what might have been. The DJ is making a big production of announcing the number one hit of 2008, and as the opening chords of the song ring from the tinny speakers, the Englishwoman says, "I'm going to miss you, you bastard." and drinks from her glass.
"Oh, God, that's dreadful!" she sputters, and laughs.
She's not wrong. The bartender pours both glasses into the sink and sets up two rounds of Jack and Coke. "Here's to bastards."
"Cheers," her customer says, knocking it back. "Keep the change."
"Thanks. Happy New Year."
"Somehow, I doubt it." She's gone as swiftly as she came, and behind her in the run-down bar, Jo Harvelle rinses out her dirty glass.
Happy New Year, y'all! Comments are shiny.