DAY 3: Did You Get Me Some Pie?
DAY 3: Did You Get Me Some Pie?
Dean is going to die, Sam doesn't know what to think about it.
I think this story is one of my favorites, it was just so interesting to write. It was also a bit complicated, I wanted Sam to have an asshole vibe at the beginning but I'm not sure I succeeded. I also know nothing about the American justice system and capital punishment, I tried to do some research but it wasn't very conclusive. A bit of context for this story, it takes place in the Lebanonverse (I think that's the name) where John disappears in 2003 to go to the future. As a result, Sam becomes Kale!Sam and Dean is, we don't really know, a criminal, a hunter? Trigger Warnings : - Discussion of Capital Punishment - Major Character Death - Heavy Angst (That Shit Is Sad As Fuck) - That's It? Fandom : Supernatural (TV 2005) Character(s) : Sam Winchester Relationship(s) : Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester Words Count : 3,624 No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."
And this is hard to hear – performing at your best requires all of your mental energy. Every last drop. You see, it’s just not compatible with something like, uh… hobbies or, uh – or even having a family.
Sam slammed the car door behind him hard, drops of water falling from his hair onto the leather seat. He gripped the steering wheel in his hands, exhaling loudly. The rain fell heavily outside, hitting the roof of his car in a steady melody. It reminded him of nights on the road in the Impala, Dean humming in harmony with the rain, lulling him to sleep.
Back then, he felt like nothing and no one could touch him as long as he was with his family. Now, Sam knew it was his family that brought danger. It had been over fifteen years since Sam had last spoken to Dean, since he had refused to go with him to search for John. They didn’t even share the same last name anymore.
(It wouldn’t have been great publicity for a renowned lawyer like him to have such an obvious connection to a wanted criminal.)
Sam tugged at his turtleneck uncomfortably, pushing all nostalgic thoughts from his mind. Leaving Dean and John behind had been the right decision. Every wanted poster plastered with the face of the man Sam had once called his brother reminded him of that. He could never have accomplished what he had done today, his family would have slowed him down, prevented him from succeeding.
Sam meant every word he said during his conventions, performance, the pleasure of a job well done, nothing was more important. Everything else was secondary. And Jess had once agreed with him.
That didn't mean it was easy . But all the sacrifices Sam had made to get to where he was in his life had been worth it. He had the life he had always wanted as a child, the recognition of his peers, the pursuit of knowledge, the stability of a job.
Sam had no regrets about the choices he had made.
Sam ran his hand through his damp hair, brushing it away from his face, and turned on the engine. The radio automatically started, and Sam froze as he heard the last words of the news bulletin.
“The death penalty has been handed down for serial killer Dean Winchester, known for the mass murder of a dozen FBI agents in Monument, Colorado–”
Sam didn't hear the radio host finish their sentence, the blood pounding in his ears drowning out their words. He couldn't have said Dean . Sam would have known if he had been arrested, the whole country would have known. Dean had terrorized the United States for years. And it shouldn't have affected Sam, because he didn't know this Dean Winchester. He wasn't the same person who took care of him and protected him from monsters in the dark.
Really, he had no reason to change his perfectly established routine for a stranger, a criminal .
Dean and Sam Winchester didn’t know each other anymore.
Sam turned off the radio, the silence more brutal than he could have imagined. Sam was used to silence when the day ended, even welcoming it. It was synonymous with efficiency, tranquility, and security. He turned the radio back on, selecting a classical music program.
Starting the windshield wipers, Sam headed for his apartment.
Arriving home, Sam did something he hadn’t done since his divorce from Jess a few years ago. He pulled out a bottle of wine that a client had given him and poured himself a large glass. If anyone asked, he’d blame Dean. He sat on his couch, ignoring the urgent files waiting for him on his desk. If he was entitled to a night off, it was tonight.
Even after years, Dean was disrupting the life he had created for himself. Sam had fought so hard to get away from his family, but he felt like he could never completely escape them. But he had been right to do so. Where would he be if he had followed Dean? Probably in a nearby cell, also waiting to be executed.
In the distance, he could picture Dean behind bars—the one from the wanted posters, not the one from his childhood—his face blurred like an ancient memory, covered in scars, with a sharp smile and a glint of madness in his eyes. Sam never could imagine himself being by his side. Whether they were face to face or thousands of miles away, those bars always separated them.
And now, they were going to be separated forever. Because Dean was going to die .
Logically, from the perspective of the frightened child who wanted to escape the monsters and his family and the monsters that were his family, this should have been a good thing.
Sam wasn’t so sure.
Could he let Dean die? Could he let Dean live ?
Dean was a killer.
Years ago, Sam could have assuredly said that what Dean, John, and he were doing was a good thing. Now, he no longer saw the brother he had loved in the hardened features of the man on television. And a part of him thought it was possible that Dean had lost his way so much that he had actually committed the crimes he was accused of.
Blood was blood, and Dean had never known when to stop while there was still time.
Sam got up, unable to stand still when his mind couldn’t seem to stop meandering, and stood in front of the clear window. Below, darkness stretched over the city, hiding monsters and those who hunted them. Droplets of rain trickled down the glass, distorting the red and white lights of the city traffic.
Under the moonlight, the wine swirling in his glass looked like blood. Sam had been a killer too. And Dean had once been the one to wash the blood off his hands with all the devotion of a brother. Sam finished his glass in one go, red staining his lips and teeth.
Ignoring the late hour, he called his assistant. “Cancel my appointments on Monday and Tuesday, I have a… family emergency.”
XXX
Getting a last-minute visit shouldn’t have been this easy, but it had been for him . His name was synonymous with power, not the kind John would have wanted, but powerful nonetheless. Sam was capable of changing things, of making the world a better place.
A car with tinted windows came to pick him up and escort him to the prison, and after a pat-down that Sam submitted to without issue, he was issued a visitor’s pass. He left his black umbrella in the hallway and tightened his tie.
(It had been Jess—not John or Dean—who had taught him how to tie his tie. They were still just friends at the time; she had found him in the bathroom at the university, panicking before a meeting with his advisor. Gently, she had taken his hands and tied the knot for him, patiently explaining each step.)
(Jess and he were no longer friends.)
Fiddling with the two rings on his left hand—both for people he had loved, both now obsolete—Sam followed a guard through the unknown but familiar hallways. This wasn’t the first time Sam had gone to a prison to visit a prisoner. It was the first time he went for a personal reason.
It was the first time he went without the intention of getting the person he was visiting released.
The guard glanced at him every now and then, his face hesitant as if he wanted to question Sam. Sam’s commanding gaze made him turn back each time. Sam encouraged curious and eager minds, but not tonight . Not on this subject.
(This part of his life – the darkest part – was his. (Dean’s. John’s.) And if he wanted to forget it, to consign it to the furthest part of his mind and never think about it again… that was his right.)
(There was still time to turn back.)
They stopped in front of an armoured door, accessible only with one of the keycards the guard held in his hand. Behind the door was an airlock and yet another door, one that Sam could open freely this time.
Behind it was Dean.
(There was still time to turn around.)
"At your request, your conversation will not be recorded," the guard recited. "However, given the prisoner's security level, we ask that you respect the security instructions you have been given. Do you need them repeated to you?"
(There was still time to turn around.)
"That won't be necessary," Sam replied.
"Very well," the guard said, unlocking the door. "You have one hour, knock if you want to get out before the time limit."
(There was still time to turn around.)
"Thank you," Sam said politely, crossing the threshold of the door.
The door slammed shut behind him. It was a step, maybe two, to the next door. Sam forced his body forward, his hand hesitating over the handle.
(There was still time to turn around.)
"It's a little late for a lawyer, don't you think?" Dean scoffed as Sam opened the door, not even looking at who was entering the room.
(There was still time to turn around.)
"Sammy?"
Dean’s green eyes locked on him, a whirlwind of emotion—overwhelming and vivid—that Sam didn’t dare comprehend. But above all, hope . Dean laughed hysterically at the sight of Sam, as mad as the media portrayed him, but Sam couldn’t ignore the relief in his voice.
(It was time.)
Sam closed the door behind him.
“Don’t call me Sammy.”
The defense mechanism was automatic—forgotten but never gone, like the silt of a pond rising to the surface after someone threw a rock in it—and only made Dean laugh harder.
“Oh man,” Dean sighed, happy tears welling in his eyes. “I didn’t expect this.”
Dean had wrinkles now, and scars too. Sam knew that, he had seen them in pictures, but he never thought that time could have an effect on Dean.
"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Mr. Campbell ?" Dean asked when Sam remained silent. "For someone trying to run away from his family, you're pretty bad at it. I didn't take you for a sentimentalist."
As he always did, Dean struck first. He had never known how to leave Sam alone. Always reaching out to him, dragging him along, forcing him to move on.
"Death row inmates get one last meal," Sam replied, putting a white plastic bag on the table.
But Sam had never let himself be pushed around, had always hit back, blow for blow - just like Dean had taught him - and his favorite pastime had always been wiping the arrogant smile off Dean's face.
Dean's face darkened at that, the shadows on his face harsh under the industrial light of the prison. Sam wondered if he'd made a mistake. This wasn't the Dean he knew, his big brother, this was a stranger who shared the same blood as him.
(Dean was a killer.)
“So what? You’re here to get me out of here?” Dean’s tone was sharp, like he’d never stopped fighting, like he didn’t know how. “Because I’m afraid it’s impossible, even for you, Sammy.”
“No,” Sam sighed, pulling the chair in front of Dean, the metal scraping against the floor with a shrill thud. “No. I just wanted to… It’s been a long time.”
Sam was a brilliant lawyer and orator. He wielded words the way he once wielded blades, coldly, precisely, never missing his mark. People feared and respected him.
In front of Dean, he was a scared little boy.
(Leaving had been the right choice.)
"Sixteen years," Dean retorted with just a hint of reproach in his voice. "I see you've done well. Lawyer, that suits you well."
"And what about you?" Sam asked, not knowing how to behave around his estranged brother.
"Still in the family business," Dean grinned roughly. " Someone needed to take care of it after Dad disappeared."
"You didn't find him?" Sam asked surprised.
If anyone could find John, it was Dean.
A second later, it hit him. John was probably dead. Sam waited for his heart to clench at the news, for a weight to lift from his shoulders, for a tear to roll down his cheek. Nothing happened.
John was dead. Sam wasn’t sad, or relieved, or angry.
“ Oh .”
“Yes, oh!” Dean bit out, the anger unmistakable in his voice this time.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, his words sounding more like a question.
Dean sighed heavily, running his hand over his face, the immeasurable weight of the years seeming to fall on his shoulders mercilessly. For the first time since he had entered the room, Sam looked at Dean.
Dean had hunted alone for a long time, without someone to cover his back, and it showed. His face was covered in scars, some still fresh, red-purple and blistered. A cut peeked out of his t-shirt along his windpipe, bloody and raw, and bruises dotted his arms under the tattoos and burns.
He looked tired. He looked ready to fight.
"What are you doing here, Sammy?" Dean asked. "Have you come to absolve me of my crimes? Have you come to beg for forgiveness?"
"I… I don't know," Sam confessed. "I just wanted to see you one last time."
“It's a little late for this, don't you think?” Dean laughed cruelly. “But it's not like you had sixteen years to do it.”
“Dean, please–”
Some truths were universal: Sam Campbell always won in court. There were creatures from your worst nightmares lurking in the shadows. Dean Winchester would do anything for his little brother.
“Okay, Sammy,” Dean agreed. His tone was kind but rough, as if without Sam by his side he’d forgotten how to be. “One last time for the road. I hope you got me some pie!”
Sam’s eyes flashed almost gold with mirth, coming to life for the first time in years. “See for yourself,” he suggested mischievously, pushing the plastic bag toward Dean.
Dean laughed again, with joy for the first time, and oh how he’d missed that sound. If Sam could live in one moment forever, this would be it, Sam decided. His big brother excitedly ripping open the plastic to reveal a supermarket pie, his smile aligning with his facial features in harmony, as it always should have.
“This is awesome ,” Dean said. “I haven’t had pie in months.”
Dean grabbed one of the plastic forks, the chains of his handcuffs clicking loudly against the table, and took a comically gargantuan bite.
“As delicious as always,” Dean said through his mouth full. “Would you like some?”
“No thanks, it’s—” Sam cut himself off, ‘ it’s too much sugar’, so what? “You know what, why not?”
Sam grabbed the second plastic fork and cut off a more reasonable portion before bringing it to his mouth. It was sweet , disgustingly sweet. Sam could feel the cavities attacking his teeth. He took a second bite.
It tasted like his childhood. Sam ignored the sting of tears in the corners of his eyes.
“I’m not brushing my teeth and I’m going to die tasting pie,” Dean exclaimed with conviction.
“What?”
Sam’s hand froze in mid-air. Dean’s eyes widened in surprise.
“I thought you knew. It’s today,” Dean said gently, like he used to talk to Sam when they were kids. Dean cleared his throat, forcing all emotion out of his voice. “Today is the day Dean Winchester dies. For real this time.”
Sam put his fork down on the table, a knot tightening painfully around his throat. He felt like he was going to throw up his heart. Sam knew Dean was going to die. But not now .
(He thought he still had time.)
“It’s too soon,” Sam said, unable to keep the whining tone from his voice.
“I’ve been incarcerated here for almost a year,” Dean said. “It was a long time coming. There’s not a person here who doesn’t want me dead.”
( Me ! Sam wanted to scream. I don’t want you to die. But his words stuck in his chest along with his bleeding heart.)
“Escape then!” Sam exclaimed, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. “You’re a hunter, we’re trained to get out of situations like this.”
“You think I didn’t try?” Dean retorted. “They won’t let me escape this time. I’ve had about ten tracers injected under my skin since I set foot here. But I guess that’s what you get when you blow up a police station.”
Sam’s blood froze painfully in his veins. For someone who had desperately clung to the certainty that Dean was a killer, he had forgotten it pathetically quickly.
(The eyes Dean looked at him with—bright green and more alive than Sam’s could ever be—were nothing like the man on the television. Sam didn’t know which ones were real.)
“But you didn’t do it, did you?” Sam asked.
“If even you doubt me,” Dean laughed bitterly, “how do you expect me to tell the people outside that it was Lilith, the first demon who was trying to free Lucifer?”
“What?”
Sam was repeating himself tonight. The situation was slipping out of his hands at breakneck speed, the rope burning his fingers as he tried to cling to it with no results.
“You’ve been gone a long time,” Dean replied sadly. “But I don’t want to talk about that. Tell me about your new life, about Jess.”
Sam forced a smile as he watched Dean wiggle his eyebrows suggestively.
“We got divorced a few years ago,” Sam replied, swallowing painfully.
(His vision was still blurry through the tears.)
“Oh, shit, I didn’t know. Sorry Sammy,” Dean apologized.
“That’s… You couldn’t have known,” Sam stumbled over his words in frustration, hiding his face in his hand. How could Dean apologize for something as ridiculous as his divorce? Dean was going to die .“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
(He thought they still had time.)
Sixteen years of hard work and sacrifice were crumbling like a precariously erected house of cards in less than an hour in his brother’s presence. How weak he was, the powerful lawyer.
“Sammy,” Dean said, reaching his chained hand across the table to rest on Sam’s. “Everything’s going to be okay. It should be easy for you, you don’t even love me anymore.”
Dean’s joke—if it was one—fell flat in the dead silence of the room. Sam’s eyes filled with tears, silently streaming down his cheeks, burning like acid rain.
“I’m sorry I wasted so much time,” Sam whispered, biting back a sob. “I should have come with you.”
Dean stood, spreading his arms as wide as his chains would allow.
“Come here.”
Sam rushed to his brother, clinging to him like a lifeline in the raging ocean, a thousand-year-old, unbreakable rock. Dean closed his arms around him and Sam thought – selfishly perhaps – that Dean needed that embrace too.
“I’m proud of you, Sammy. For going and fulfilling your dreams. You have the life you always wanted, the one you fought for,” Dean whispered, a secret between him and Sam, the last one. “Don’t forget that.”
“I can’t do this alone,” Sam said, shaking his head negatively.
“Yes you can,” Dean replied, smiling sadly.
“Well, I don’t want to,” Sam refused.
Why was he realizing all this now? When it was too late to make a difference. If only he had done something sooner. If only he had left with Dean 16 years ago.
If only—
(He thought they still had time.)
Before Sam was ready to let Dean go, someone knocked on the door twice in quick succession. The knell tolled.
“Time’s up.”
Dean let go of Sam first, pushing him toward the door, the freedom and life that had been stolen from him—
It was Dean who had driven Sam to the bus stop when he left for Stanford. The ride had been in tense silence, neither of them knowing that they wouldn’t see each other again for a long time, for their entire lives. (Sam wondered if it would have made any difference.) But Dean had come.
– with his big brother watching him leave once again, Sam walked away, as scared as when he was eighteen.
“Sammy!”
Sam turned around (this time). He knew it was the last time.
“Can you come?” Dean asked. It was the first time he asked Sam something. Sam wished he had never asked. “I don't want to die alone.”
The tears on Sam's cheeks hadn't had time to dry before the guard closed the door, leaving Dean alone in the room, leaving Sam alone in the one next door.
XXX
Sam Winchester watched his brother die. He looked him straight in the eyes—bright green and full of life for the last time—never failing.
This was something the world would never know. Something that would haunt Sam until he died. Dean Winchester died with tears in his eyes, sugar on his cheek, and three words on his lips, spoken to his little brother through the window.
"I love you."
When Sam walked out of the jail, a few hours and a lifetime later, it had stopped raining. The sun was peeking through the clouds, a rainbow bridging the road as he started the Impala. A ghost settled into the passenger seat and the radio started.
Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cakehole. Sam could make an exception this time.
Carry on, my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry no more
They make me physically ill, why is it so sad? They haven't seen each other for sixteen years. Sixteen years! And when Sam finally realizes that he needs and loves his brother, it's too late. And if Dean hadn't told him it was today, Sam would have left without knowing that it was the last time he spoke to his brother. Like the two times before! They had so many chances and they didn't take any of them. And Dean. He watched his little brother leave him twice (three times if you count the time after John disappeared) because he knew that ultimately it was the best decision for Sam. Argh. I break my own heart.
More Posts from The-stars-in-between and Others
I'm in my Parent Benn Beckman Feels Era right now, so expect a fic in the next few days with lots of fluff and also lots of angst because I'm apparently incapable of writing anything else.
Luffy nodded, looking determined, and walked towards the sea, his bare feet leaving footprints in the sand behind him. Makino straightened up, clasping her hands under her chin and watching him go with a smile on her face. She looked immeasurably proud of him, a sort of parental pride reflected on his own face. Which was odd considering he had only known the kid for a few months.
But Luffy stopped a few meters from the sea, the waves lapping at his ankles making him take a step back. Beckman's eyebrows furrowed in incomprehension and even Shanks lost his stupid smile.
"What's going on, Anchor?" Shanks called, his hands cupped around his mouth to make his voice carry. "Are you afraid of the water?"
"No!" Luffy replied, his voice quivering.
Makino stepped forward but Beckman stopped her with a hand on her arm. He joined Luffy in a few strides, tossing his weapon to Shanks and leaving his shoes behind him in the sand before crouching down next to Luffy.
Beckman had never seen Luffy cry, or maybe he had never heard him cry.
Tears silently ran down Luffy's cheeks and Beckman's heart broke like it had never done before. Luffy was a happy, loud, radiant, sunny child—almost painfully so at times.
"Hey Luffy, what's wrong?" Beckman asked softly, running his hand down Luffy's back.
Beckman wasn't soft, he was a pirate and a criminal for even longer before he set sail. He had the blood of dozens of people on his hands—sinners and saints alike. And he didn't even like kids!
And yet, he was the one who had bought the t-shirt Luffy was wearing today, navy blue and white with an anchor on the back. He had spent entire afternoons coloring with Luffy in Makino's kitchen, building huts and pirate ships with him.
Beckman didn't like kids but somehow, Luffy became his kid. And that changed everything.
There are days when someone comments on every chapter of your WIP and it's the only thing you can think about for a week.
And of course I love writing for myself, but when you give so much time and energy (and a little tears too), seeing someone take the time to leave not just one, but sometimes several comments, on each of my chapters, it gives me the boost to write that I sometimes lack.
So thank you to everyone who has already left a comment on each of my fanfics, whether it's a long comment with each of your favorite parts, a linear analysis that would have made my high school French teacher proud, a keyboard smash, a comment in all caps because lowercase letters can't convey the message properly, or a series of emojis.
I cherish every comment I've ever received and I smile like an idiot when I get an email from ao3. Thank you for sharing a little piece of what's going on in my head with me for a moment and loving it as much as I do. I kiss you all on the forehead with love and gratitude and I hope your pillow is cold on both sides tonight..
I'm sick as hell (my own fault, I spent the weekend under the rain) but once I'm lucid and coherent enough I'm gonna put my favourite characters in Situations. Because if I have to suffer, so do they.
But.
Light in the middle of the fever, I texted my mom asking her to pick me up from school (as a joke) and she literally said, and I quote: "I'll be there in two hours, time to get off work and come to you."
I haven't lived with my parents for two years.
And she was totally serious! She was willing to drive over three hours round trip on a weekday evening to bring me home. I love my mom so much.
And also, because I'm nice like that, here's a snippet from tomorrow's story 👀:
Dean and Dad had walked for what seemed like hours, searching for Sammy. The werewolf’s tracks had finally disappeared around a bush, as if they had never existed. The full moon setting on the horizon should have been a relief, the end of a long night, but it was only a mockery. They were running out of time.
So, I did a thing. I decided to try Whumptober this year. Decision made on September 18th so I'm not as far ahead as I'd like. But it also means I can be persuaded to change my mind if you want to see a particular character for certain days :)
Feel free to suggest your characters to me!
As usual I couldn't decide between One Piece and Supernatural so I did both with about the same number of stories for each.
I don't want to put any pressure on myself with this, just a fun way to challenge myself with prompts I wouldn't have thought of otherwise. That's all.
Last thing, I'm going to post on AO3 but would anyone be interested in me posting them here as well?
Happy (?) Whumptober and if you decide to spend some of it with me, thank you very much and welcome aboard!
Shout-out to multilingual writers who are writing in their second (or third and so on) language.
The frustration of speaking it fluently, but still having to google basic words when you're writing.
The absolute joy of finding a word that sounds just perfect and conveys exactly what you mean.
Doubting all your grammar and being afraid to post it or even send it to a beta reader.
The euphoria of someone calling your use of this language, that is not your mother tongue, beautiful.
I graduated therapy today, yohoo!
DAY 15: The Father's Mistakes Fall on the Son's Shoulders
The cycle repeats itself.
For this prompt, I was hesitating between Dean&John and Jack&Dean but my little sister suggested I do both so you'll have both. This story is not intended to bash characters but rather to show sons hurt by the actions of their parent figure and fathers realizing, too late, their mistakes. Because let's be honest, I love Dean but the way he treats Jack is often horrible and you might think he would learn from the way his own father raised him but noo. (Also, Dean is 17/18 in the first chapter.) Fandom: Supernatural Character(s): Dean Winchester Relationship(s): Dean Winchester & John Winchester, Jack Kline & Dean Winchester Words Count: 1,115 Trigger Warnings: - Minor Burn - Minor Blood and Injury - Dean's Canonical Self-Esteem Issues No. 15: CHILDHOOD TRAUMA Painful Hug | Moment of Clarity | "I did good, right?"
Dean’s fingers were numb from the cold as he desperately tried to light his lighter. Every time he failed was another minute of Dad risking his life distracting the ghost. The metal dug painfully into his thumb with each failure and blood was already starting to trickle down his wrist.
“Come on, come on,” Dean whispered, his words forming a cloud of condensation in the abandoned house. Dean wasn’t sure if it was the freezing February temperatures or if the ghost had somehow escaped Dad but he didn’t plan on staying long enough to find out. “ Come on! ”
Finally, finally , a small flame flickered at the end of his lighter and Dean wasted no time in throwing his lighter into the hearth of the fireplace where the ghost's bones already lay covered in salt. The fire caught instantly, burning the tips of Dean's fingers when he didn't pull his hand away fast enough. He hissed in pain, blisters forming on his index and middle fingers.
Somewhere up the stairs, the ghost screamed as its soul was destroyed in a burst of yellow light.
Dean flopped down on the moth-eaten floorboards, kicking up a cloud of dust big enough to make him cough. When he opened his eyes again, Dad was in front of him, one hand out to help him up and his gun in the other.
“You really took your sweet time here,” Dad joked, but Dean couldn’t help but flinch. Dad either didn’t notice or chose to ignore it. “Let’s go find Sammy, he must be freezing out there.”
Dean grabbed his dad’s hand with his left and let himself be pulled to his feet. Dad looked at his face suspiciously.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asked.
(If they were a normal family, Dean would say it was worry that made his father frown. But normal families didn’t hunt deadly ghosts in the middle of the night, and Dean knew better.)
“Nothing,” Dean replied, hiding his hand in his jacket pocket, the sensitive skin of his fingers catching in the zipper.
“Dean,” Dad sighed, grabbing Dean’s elbow and forcing his hand out of his pocket. “Stop being so stubborn all the time.”
Dad tugged sharply at Dean's arm and grabbed his wrist, directing his hand toward the light of the flames. He whistled loudly as he saw the blisters forming on Dean's fingertips.
"I think we have some Biafine left in the car, you can ask Sammy to bandage you up," Dad ordered.
"There's no point," Dean protested, not wanting to waste bandages on a wound that would go away on its own in a few days.
"What did I just say?" Dad sighed. "Stop being so stubborn all the damn time. I don't want your dominant hand immobilized any longer than necessary."
It made sense. With his burn, Dean's grip on his gun wouldn't be as effective.
"And why are your hands so cold?" Dad asked, taking Dean's hands in his to warm them up, being careful with his injured fingers. "Don't you have gloves?"
"I gave them to Sammy, his had holes in them," Dean replied.
For a moment, they said nothing and Dean enjoyed the warmth of Dad's hands against his own. He was too old to hold his father's hand anymore but he missed it sometimes, the casual affection of the early days. An arm around his shoulders, a hand in his hair, a hug when he was scared.
But part of Dad had died with Mom in the fire and Dean didn't know how much of the soldier or father had survived.
"Come on Dee, let's get you warm," Dad said, letting go of his hands.
Dean was next to a fire but he had never been so cold. He followed his father's lead, shivering in his jacket with holes in his elbows. The drafts of the house wrapped around Dean like ghosts.
Outside the abandoned house, Sam stood watch next to the car, kicking the gravel to pass the time. When he saw Dean come out of the house, the kid's face lit up and Dean couldn't help but smile back.
"Hey Sammy, haven't you been too bored without me?" greeted Dean with a lazy smile.
Sam didn't have time to answer, a ghost flickered behind him as ice creeped up the car windows.
(Protect Sammy!)
Dean rushed toward Sam, shoving him out of the ghost’s reach with one arm and making a wide circle with the other, hitting the ghost with the iron-clad butt of his pistol. The ghost disappeared but not before briefly digging its hand into Dean’s ribcage and holding Dean’s heart ready to rip it out. A bitter cold gripped Dean and he collapsed to the ground, coughing up blood.
The ghost rematerialized a few feet away, Dean’s blood staining his shirt. Dad slammed the trunk of the car shut, yelling at Sam to duck and shooting salt at the ghost with his rifle.
His vision darkened and the screams of Dad and Sam grew distant around him, stretching out until Dean no longer recognized their voices. There was a flash of light, then silence.
(Dean was so cold.)
Arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him almost painfully against someone’s chest. The heavy grip around his arms was sure to leave bruises tomorrow and his aching ribs protested, a throbbing pain almost making it hard to breathe. Still, Dean wanted the person to never let go of him again.
Leather and tobacco.
“Dad?” Dean asked, his voice muffled in his father’s jacket. “I did good, right? I saved Sammy.”
“You did very well, son,” Dad answered, his voice strangely strangled. “I’m proud of you.”
Dean looked up and oh , Dad was crying. Why was Dad crying?
“It hurts,” Dean said, the pain turning his vision white.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Dad apologized, his hand cradling Dean’s head tenderly, like he’d taught Dean to do when Sammy was a newborn. “We’re going to take you to the hospital.”
(Why was Dad apologizing? It wasn't his fault. Dean should have been faster. But he was so slow tonight.)
"Can we go home now?" Dean asked weakly, his eyes fluttering with fatigue.
There was blood on Dad's jacket in the shape of Dean's handprints. Everything he touched ended up covered in blood.
"Sure," Dad replied.
A familiar weight fell on his shoulders (leather and tobacco) as arms slid under his knees and armpits to lift him off the ground. Dean's feet left the ground and he bit back a gag as his head spun and spun.
(Dean wasn't cold anymore.)
"I'm sorry, Dean," Dad whispered as he walked toward the car.
There were still tears in his eyes.
So, I was reading the prompts for Whumptober, just for funsies. What do you mean more than half (so far) can apply to Ace? How is this child so traumatized?
So, I did a thing. I decided to try Whumptober this year. Decision made on September 18th so I'm not as far ahead as I'd like. But it also means I can be persuaded to change my mind if you want to see a particular character for certain days :)
Feel free to suggest your characters to me!
As usual I couldn't decide between One Piece and Supernatural so I did both with about the same number of stories for each.
I don't want to put any pressure on myself with this, just a fun way to challenge myself with prompts I wouldn't have thought of otherwise. That's all.
Last thing, I'm going to post on AO3 but would anyone be interested in me posting them here as well?
Happy (?) Whumptober and if you decide to spend some of it with me, thank you very much and welcome aboard!
DAY 7: The Heart of a Demon
The heart of a demon, willingly given, is a powerful weapon for the one who wields it.
I hated that Crowley got so little recognition after his death from the Winchesters. Obviously with Cas dead he wasn't going to be the priority but even in death he's the second choice. It makes me want to scream. He deserved so much better. There will be a second chapter to this story because I didn't have time to write the ending and I won't have time until tonight. Fandom : Supernatural Character(s): Crowley Relationship(s) : Crowley & Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester, Crowley/Dean Winchester Words Count: 3,060 Trigger Warnings : - Suicidal Thoughts - Implied Future Self-Sacrifice - Stabbing No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | "It's us or them."
“Yeah, but not our kind of weird. Look, whatever this thing is gonna be, it's gonna be big and bad–”
Crowley couldn't help but appreciate the irony of the situation.
He materialized inside the library, the Winchesters still trusted him enough, even implicitly, to include him in the Bunker's wards. That would change, of course, now that they realized he'd let Lucifer out of the Cage but the trust and… companionship had been nice while it lasted.
“You rang?” Crowley smirked. “Hello, boys.”
Dean's reaction was immediate, not that Crowley expected anything else from him. He was so predictable sometimes, to Crowley at least.
“Did you do it? Did you let Lucifer out?!”
Dean’s voice was thunderous, shaking with rage and betrayal, and a cold blade was at his throat before he even hit the ground, his nose broken by Dean’s punch.
“I didn’t ‘let’—”
Crowley tried to justify himself but Dean immediately cut him off, shaking him roughly by the collar of his suit, seeing through his lies, as usual. Seeing that he couldn't get anything out of Dean, Crowley turned to Sam, hoping that his logical mind could cut through Dean's anger.
"Moose, a little help here!" Sam sighed, stepping towards his brother.
"Dean, wait."
"Seriously?"
The surprise was apparent to both mother and son, and while Crowley didn’t give a damn about Mama Winchester’s opinion of him, Dean’s reaction hurted where it shouldn’t have. He and Dean had tried to kill each other for years, but Crowley had come to see those interactions as foreplay.
Today, Dean could have plunged his knife into Crowley’s heart without thinking twice. And Crowley probably would have let him do it if he didn’t have a mission.
Still, Dean’s hands loosened around his neck. But not for Crowley’s sake, for Sam’s.
“Look, just don't kill him. He worked the Cage spell with Rowena. Maybe he can help us,” Sam explained.
“And what if he can't?” Mary asked skeptically.
“Well, then we kill him,” Sam replied.
Crowley stood up and dusted nonexistent specks off his jacket, ignoring the death threats and mimicking the Winchesters’ disdain and nonchalance.
“Cage spell? Thought you had Mother for that.”
Crowley tried not to be petulant in his bitterness. His relationship with the Winchesters was strictly professional, sworn enemies or tentative alliance. No hard feelings. Except—
“Rowena’s dead,” Dean announced calmly, coldly .
Would he talk about Crowley’s death the same way if that happened? Probably, they might have been more one day, but at the end of the day, Dean would only keep him around for as long as he was useful.
“Really?”
Mother was a bitch but she was a tenacious bitch, a survivor . Crowley had a hard time believing she would die so easily. He himself was currently assumed dead by everyone except the Winchesters.
"Yeah, really. Lucifer ," Sam replied.
Sam was tired but the venom in his voice at the mention of Lucifer was deadly. Few people hated the Devil with such force and they were all in this room.
"Funny. I always thought I'd be the one to kill her," Crowley said, keeping his voice steady and avoiding Dean's gaze.
Crowley didn’t know what to think. He had hated his mother most of his life, both of his lives, and yet for a moment, he had truly believed that they could be… family . But now was not the time to assess his complex feelings toward his blood.
(A wise man once told me family don’t end in blood, but it doesn’t start there either. Family cares about you, not what you can do for them. Family’s there through the good, bad, all of it. They got your back even when it hurts. That’s family.)
“Crowley...why did you do it? Save Lucifer,” Sam asked. “What did you want?”
Crowley didn't know what he had expected when he went to the Bunker. But certainly not Dean attacking him without even being able to meet his gaze in his anger and Sam hearing his reasons, giving him a chance to explain himself.
"I wanted to win," Crowley seethed, humiliation and anger still deeply rooted in his mind. "I perverted Mother's spell, put Lucifer in a vessel of my own making because I wanted to win ."
It wasn't a feeling the Winchesters could understand, they had fought all their lives for others. But Crowley was a demon , he fought for himself and himself only (not anymore) and for cockroaches like Lucifer to think they could take the fruits of his hard work was infuriating.
“You have any idea how many people have made a play for my throne over the years? Lucifer, Abaddon, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. Too damn many,” Crowley snapped angrily. “I thought if I could put the Devil on a leash... my own personal nuke, no one would ever dare challenge me again.”
“Yeah, that worked out great ,” Dean scoffed.
Crowley couldn’t deny it considering how he’d narrowly escaped death. But it had given him time to think about what was truly important. His throne wasn’t even in the top ten.
“Wait. In an actual rat?” Mary asked.
“Wasn't too bad, really,” Crowley replied, never one to refute his own mistakes. “Gave me time to think. You know, I've been focused for so long on keeping my job. Never realized I hate it. All those whining demons, the endless moan of damned souls, the paperwork! I mean, who wants that?”
The Winchesters didn’t seem very sympathetic to his introspection.
“You,” Sam replied, impassive.
He should have know that they were going to be little shits about it.
“Once, maybe,” Crowley replied dismissively.
“So why are you here?” Sam insisted impatiently.
“Well, whenever there's a world-ending crisis at hand, I know where to place my bets,” Crowley replied, smirking. “It's on you, you big, beautiful, lumbering piles of flannel. So if you'll forgive my transgression, I'll make it worth your while.”
Dean straightened up from the table he was leaning against, addressing Crowley for the first time since he’d tried to kill him. Which, by the way, was still incredibly rude .
“Which means?”
“After we put Lucifer back in his cage, together, I'll seal the gates of Hell. You'll never see another demon again, apart from, of course, yours truly.”
Crowley knew they would accept. Even if the semblance of trust between them had been destroyed, the Winchesters had once fought, almost to the death, to close the Gates of Hell. And their greatest obstacle at the time was offering to finish the job for them.
(Crowley winced as he remembered what he’d revealed in that church, to Sam and to himself. He hadn’t been the same since, he hadn’t been the Winchesters’ enemy since.)
“You would do that?” Mary asked skeptically.
“Why not? They stab me in the back, I'll happily stab them in the front, the sides, and right up their little black-eyed asses,” Crowley replied viciously. “So... we have a deal?”
Crowley met Dean's gaze for the first time. Everyone had their own motivation, sense of duty, greed for power, need for love or dear old spite. The Winchesters didn't need to know which one drove Crowley.
(Maybe he would tell them if he knew himself.)
Dean nodded slightly in his direction. Everyone collectively let out a breath.
"Alright," Sam decided. "We still have to find Cas and Kelly."
The Winchesters sat back down around the table and pulled out their laptops, leaving Crowley standing alone at the end of the table. There was a seat next to Dean but it wasn't for Crowley, it never would be despite what Crowley had once thought they had.
The Winchesters clearly didn't need nor wanted his help, otherwise they would have already requested his assistance, with more or less threats depending on their mood. Given the stiffness of Dean's shoulders, they wouldn't have been very polite.
Crowley could have snapped his fingers to summon a glass of scotch but he preferred to advance to the bar in a corner of the room, his leather shoes echoing against the library floor. He opened the precious wood cabinet and, still in its place, was a bottle of his favorite brand.
Crowley poured himself a glass, the amber liquid appearing almost like liquid gold in the dim lighting of the room. He returned to the table and sat down, the glass in his hand. At the head of the table.
"This is what you do when I'm not here? Type?" Crowley asked after a few moments of silence, an inquisitive eyebrow raised.
At least when he was King, he could order his minions to do the boring work for him.
"Yep," Dean replied without looking up from his phone.
"Wait a second. I got something," Sam interrupted. "Okay, two hours ago, there was a massive power outage in the Pacific Northwest."
"Sounds like the right kind of weird," Mary conceded, glancing at the article on her son's computer.
"Oh, yeah. Wait. They tracked the outage to an address in North Cove, Washington, to a house currently being rented by one James Novak ," Sam continued, emphasizing the last few words.
Only a few people in the world knew the importance of that name, but with an alias like that, Cas was practically begging the Winchesters to find him. Even Crowley knew that.
"It's Cas. Let's roll," Dean decided.
"It’s about time," Crowley said, standing up to follow the Winchesters.
Faster than Crowley could register, Dean stabbed Crowley's hand with his knife, pinning him to the table. A flash of gold illuminated the bones in his hand for a second and Crowley cried out in pain as his blood spilled onto the table.
"Think we're gonna trust you out there after what you pulled? Hmm? No ," Dean snapped, his green eyes deeper than the lushest forests, blazing with anger. "You stay here, sit down, and you shut up."
Dean twisted the knife in the wound for good measure before walking away, leaving Crowley alone. Great, now he was going to have to rip his hand off before he could leave.
Asshole .
XXX
Dean, as usual, was the first to notice.
"Oh, come on!"
"Hello, boys. Again ," Crowley greeted.
"Wait a second," Sam asked, "how the hell did you—?"
Crowley held up his bloody, bandaged hand from where he had — painfully, he might add —pulled out the knife.
"I improvised. Lucky I did. Turns out I'm the answer to all your problems."
Dean groaned in frustration, throwing his hands up in the air in defeat. “It's impossible to get rid of you, you're like a cockroach!”
“Now that we've all come to the same conclusion, maybe we could stop wasting time?” Crowley suggested with a saccharine smile.
Crowley didn't wait for Cas or the Winchesters to answer and headed towards the house. This isn't where Crowley would have imagined the birth of the Antichrist, more on an altar made of skulls and blood, but the Winchesters never did anything like everyone else.
Including rifts through space and time to an apocalyptic world.
Luckily for Chip and Dale, Crowley didn't do ordinary things either. And in theory, he knew a spell that could close the rift, preferably with Lucifer on the other side. In theory.
When they arrived a few minutes later, Crowley was already seated at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. (There was no alcohol in the cupboards, he had checked.) Cas glared at him for invading his space. Cas stayed by the door, Sam positioned as a barrier between him and Dean.
Crowley smiled viciously as Dean took the chair next to him. It seemed he wasn’t the only one in Dean’s bad graces.
“I’m going to check on Kelly,” Cas mumbled, glancing at Dean one last time.
“So what’s your plan?” Sam asked, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.
“I know a spell that could close the rift,” Crowley explained. “And with Lucifer a few hours behind you–”
“We could lure him into the other dimension and close the door on him,” Dean realized, a glimmer of hope lighting his eyes for the first time.
Dean had a way to fight, to resist. It was enough for him for now. He smiled at Crowley, as if the betrayals and anger had never come between them. Crowley let himself believe for a moment that this was a recurring occasion and not a rare memory.
"What do you need for the spell?" Sam asked, searching the kitchen for a piece of paper.
"Nothing I can't find in your little Bunker," Crowley replied, standing. "Be back in five."
When Dean reached for him, Crowley quickly removed his hands from the table and hid them behind his back. Stab me once—
Dean gave him a strange look as his hand came to rest on Crowley's shoulder to stop him in his tracks. "I'm coming with you."
"You still don't trust me?" Crowley asked, his bandaged hand resting on his chest, pretending to be hurt. “You wound me so, Squirrel.”
“Stop talking so much,” Dean complained.
Taking Dean to the Bunker took more energy than he would have normally used, but considering he hadn't planned on surviving the night, Crowley didn't care.
"All that to get back here," Crowley remarked as he arrived. "It would have been quicker if you hadn't stabbed me in the first place."
"If you want an apology, Crowley, you're not getting one," Dean replied.
Now that they were alone, Dean couldn't hide behind his brother and mother to mask his anger at Crowley. But anger was good, it was better than the cruel and indifferent apathy of Lucifer or his mother.
To be angry was to feel .
"You're not the least bit sorry?" Crowley insisted.
A stab in the hand was nothing. It was the proof that Dean didn’t want him around, didn’t trust him, that hurted him.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you’re not exactly trustworthy,” Dean retorted.
“You always knew who I was, and yet you used to trust me,” Crowley pointed out. “What changed?”
Crowley knew what had changed, Dean thought Crowley had reformed, that he wasn’t the demon he once was. Because Dean Winchester could never love a demon, could never love who he was.
Crowley wasn’t enough .
But he wanted to hear Dean tell him. If he couldn’t have love, he would have the truth. He wanted to know if the man in front of him was worth dying for.
Dean turned on his heel, not wanting to hurt Crowley or caring enough to answer him.
“What do you need? We don’t have much time and I don’t want to leave Sam, Mom, and Cas alone for too long,” Dean asked, his back turned.
“Holy oil,” Crowley answered without missing a beat, as if their conversation never happened.
(Crowley didn’t even deserve the truth.)
(The answer was yes .)
Dean left Crowley to search for the rest of the ingredients alone and Crowley wandered through the Bunker, past Cas’s room and down into the basement. Maybe he could have that, he’d be content being the group’s demon mascot, helping Dean on his hunts. They’d made a good team, hadn’t they?
(Dean didn’t trust him.)
(Crowley wasn’t enough.)
But victory over Lucifer wouldn’t be satisfying enough unless Crowley wiped that arrogant smirk off his face himself. He had to deliver the final blow, no matter if it was through his own heart.
It wasn’t like he had any other reason to stay.
Crowley opened a cupboard, searching for lamb's blood and his gaze froze on a bag of small, decorative red plastic tridents. He pulled one out of the bag, it was so small in his fingers, so easy to break. After a moment of hesitation, Crowley put it in his pocket and closed the cupboard behind him.
Crowley grabbed the lamb's blood from the next cupboard and went back into the library, the trident burning in his jacket pocket. Dean was already waiting for him in the library, tapping his fingers nervously against the wooden table. He looked up well before Crowley arrived in the room, damn hunter senses.
"Ready to take on the Devil? Again ," Crowley asked mockingly. "What must this be, the third time? You're not very good at your job."
"Whose fault is that?" Dean accused.
It wasn't a very good idea to remind Dean that Lucifer was on the loose again, especially when he wanted his forgiveness but Dean was so easy to rile off.
"I counted and I only let him out once, while you bozos let him out twice," Crowley retorted. "I don't see why I should take all the blame."
Dean’s jaw muscles clenched and part of Crowley wanted to brush against him to see if Dean would bite him.
(Depending on the context, Crowley would happily let him.)
“Come on, I know you get cranky when you’re away from Samantha for too long,” Crowley smirked.
Crowley grabbed Dean’s shoulder and led them back to the house, the effort taking a toll on the bones of his vessel. His vessel was falling apart slowly, with Lucifer’s attempted murder and the strain he was putting on it with the repeated use of his powers, but Crowley had grown too fond of it to jump ships. And it wasn’t like he was going to keep using it for long.
Crowley nearly stumbled upon landing but Dean caught his elbow, pulling him against him to steady him. His brows furrowed almost in worry as he studied Crowley’s face.”
“Are you okay?
“Don't worry your pretty little head about me,” Crowley replied, pulling away from Dean. Dean's hands were warm against his forearms. “Just missed a step.”
Crowley walked away in the direction of the kitchen, but Dean’s voice made him stop in the hallway, just under an open window. One floor below, the rift glowed brightly in the night, the exact shade of gold a demon or angel produced before dying. Crowley caught Dean’s gaze in the reflection of the glass.
“Crowley, thank you for coming. I–” Dean paused, searching for his words. “I needed you here.”
Crowley turned around. "We make a pretty good team, don't we?"
"Yeah," Dean smiled weakly, the tiredness on his face even more visible in the silence.
"It was a pleasure, Dean," Crowley replied sincerely.
I'm a firm believer that Crowley was at least a little bit in love with Dean. But who can blame him? Either way, their relationship is so complex and interesting, I love them.
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oscillating between one piece and supernatural as my hyperfixation depending on the weather
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