One Job

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One Job
Date of Scene: 11 August 2017
Location: The Triskelion, New York
Synopsis: As Sam Winchester tries to tend his brother in the hospital, Dean is caught up in a memory of a deadly deal made 9 years ago.
Cast of Characters: Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester
Tinyplot: Blood on My Name
Tinyplot2: Tayaniye


Sam Winchester has posed:
The SHIELD facility where Dean is put up is swank. Apparently it’s now a timeshare with Barton, at least according to one Melinda May. Designed to keep recalcitrant patients comfortable and less gripe-y while they recover, it has carpets, a bed that is actually a bed, if an adjustable one, and even a deep leather chair with an ottoman, which is where Sam, with a blanket, is staked out, sleeping soundly by his brother’s side.

And if they didn’t exactly chain Dean there, well...they seem to be about 30 floors up and there might be some strict orders not to let Dean leave till he’s well. Orders which Sammy may well /help enforce/.

The big man has a blanket with the SHIELD logo thrown over him, and he’s also got this...ragged stuffed bunny stuck under his arm, a possession he’s certainly never had before. It might well look ridiculous, this muscular warrior with this tiny stuffed animal.

But then, Sam is sleeping soundly, and what Dean doesn’t know is how difficult that’s been for him of late.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Mercy’s morphine shot certainly made a difference for Dean’s cooperation and compliance. And since coming, treatment had been relatively straightforward if not extensive. While Sam sleeps soundly, Dean’s eyes pop open--not groggily, not peacefully--and he sits up abruptly to peer around a room he doesn’t recognize. His heartbeat pounds in his chest, beads of perspiration collect on his already pale, clammy skin, and there’s a faint tremble in his hands as he tugs on the lines and monitors he’s attached to--disconnecting each to ping some alarm down the hall.

While the action itself isn’t loud /here/, the alerts his sudden jolt in adrenaline has spurred much activity outside the room down the hall. The alert on the nurse’s station screams louder with the loss of any monitoring. By all accounts, the med personnel have reason to believe he’s coding.

And it’s only after all of the cords, IV, and monitors are out of the way and Dean’s feet hit the carpeted floors that he talks stock of the room and the armchair next to the bed. His chin drops, his eyebrows furrow. “...Sammy?” his voice is low, quiet, and relieved, “Jesus,” he flops back on the bed, “it was real.”

And as he returns to the bed, the med team with the crash cart spills into the room… loudly. While Sam /may/ have slept through Dean’s almost silent panic, he won’t sleep through the team of medics filing into the room loudly with the lead looking almost certainly pained when Dean manages a faint curl of his lips and a three fingered boy-scout-ish wave.

The kerfuffle dies substantially when it’s clear the elder Winchester is, relatively, fine. When asked about his adrenaline-addled state, he offers a simple explanation, “Bad dream,” but doesn’t offer any other details. He’s hooked up back to each of the machines with one exception: he refuses anymore morphine, insisting it makes him feel distant. It’s a battle he seems to win, for the time being.

And then, as quickly as they’d come, the medic team leaves the room.

Having become resettled on the bed, and semi-willing to settle on it with little objection for the time being, Dean peers at his younger brother with the rabbit. His eyes squint and his nose wrinkles. But with the faintest edgings of a smile, and more than a hint of fondness in his voice his eyes cut to the bunny, “...baby.” His smile breaks further like a sweeping change in his expression as he inhales a shallow breath.
Sam Winchester has posed:
By the time this entire bit of chaos is done Sammy is indeed up. He also has shoved the rabbit back into the pocket of his tactical jacket. He smirks with no repentance at all though, and says, “If your very hot girlfriend give you her stuffed bunny to make you feel better, you’d carry him around too.”

And if there’s a hint of smugness there, well. Fred /is/ hot.

And he can make it all about that. Instead of how much better Feigenbaum, lord of chaos, makes him feel when he’s trying to sleep.

The smugness fades quickly though. Very quickly. The look of empathy and concern that crosses over Sam’s face pretty much stays there as he looks at Dean. “I was worried about you,” he says, the closest thing to a reproach that he’s probably going to offer. “I take it your charge after the Winter Soldier didn’t go much better than any of mine did.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Something crosses Dean’s eyes--something unusual and nearly considerate, but he doesn’t give it a voice. Instead, he speaks to something related, “Don’t waste your worry on me, bro.” His lips curve up with that nearly infamous lip curl. “Not worth the energy.” He manages a vague smile and a long inhale. “And…” his lips twist to the side almost uncertainly, “...sometimes the beast you know…” he shrugs, not quite finishing the thought.

As far as the Winter Soldier is concerned though, Dean’s lips hitch up on one side. “They want us alive. And Claire is, by all rights his weak spot. He thinks he saved her… is saving her… something.” He lifts his fingers almost dismissively. His eyes lid lightly, “His two weaknesses, as I see them?” A finger lifts, indicating the first, “Nurses,” a second joins the first, demonstrating the second, “and snark.” He swallows hard.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Nurses and snark. “It’s too bad we can’t work that into some sort of summoning spell,” Sam says. “But that makes sense. I think Claire was getting through to him before. Was that what you went to go do? Identify weaknesses?”

They want /us/ alive, Dean says, and Sam looks thoughtful. “Originally he told me he was going to kill you,” he murmurs. “I’m glad that wasn’t the case.”

Dean doesn’t get to know about his brother’s impassioned defense of Dean’s skills. Mostly cause that impassioned defense did not include Dean running off with a bunch of broken ribs to go taunt the international unaging assassin.

“But if he thinks he’s saving Claire, that means there might still be some James Barnes in there.”

He hesitates. Fred got furious. But he fixes Dean with those eyes. “I could feel myself slipping away around the edges in there, and I was only there 20 days. Imagine being there 80 years.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
There’s a small tick of Dean’s eyebrows--a kind of acknowledgement that being stuck under that kind of control long-term would be extremely problematic. But the question about the purpose of pursuing the visit causes a darkening of his eyes despite his nonchalant reply, “Something like that.” He can feel his lips purse, completely against his will and his eyes turn downwards with a vague frown.

“Don’t count on saving him,” Dean stares at the carpet rather than Sam. “Not everyone can be saved. You already know that bro,” there’s something unusually detached in the words. He forces his lips up at the edges. “It’s not your job to save everyone.” He can feel his mouth tighten at the edges and his body aches with the dull thrum of words unspoken. Finally, his lips part to speak, but before any sound can come, on the night table next to the bed, Dean’s cellphone rings.

He rolls his eyes and unceremoniously plucks it from the table. A glance is given the number, and he inhales a half breath before picking it up. “Hey I can’t talk, I’m driving…” he doesn’t even skip a beat with the lie. “...distracted driving--hey! Look.. going into a dead zone… “ and he hits the end button on the phone.

“Anyways…” his attention turns back to Sam with a vague frown. “Not your job. Just… mind that.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Who was that?” Sam asks.

Because of course he asks. He just watched Dean lie to someone in a near panic, and it wasn’t even a particularly good lie. There wouldn’t have been any rush of the road behind his words. No static whatsoever. It was a clear ‘I don’t want to talk to you’ to whomever was on the other end.

Mostly the people who call them are looking for help, and he’s never known Dean to hang up on someone who wants the kind of particular help that they provide. Which makes this suddenly all the more intriguing.

The stubborn line of his jaw says that he’s not done arguing the point where Bucky Barnes is concerned. But this has captured his attention for now.

For better or for worse.

Dean Winchester has posed:
A tight lipped smile follows the question. “Someone who thinks they own my ass,” Dean actually rolls his eyes at that. “And won’t let up,” his eyebrows draw together to punctuate that point. His cheeks puff out with breath. And then with a faint wave of his fingers, he clarifies, “It’s handled.”

And just as quickly as the topic had been changed, it moves back to Barnes, “So, we going to get back to tracking dad or you still entertaining this Barnes obsession?”

More seriously to the point: “I need you to be okay.” There’s no humour at the words and no mincing the discussion on the point.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam gives Dean a long look. It could, he supposes, be a woman. But he’s heard a few things that are bothering him now, bits and pieces said over the course of fights and flights. This is another one to file away.

“I’m fine,” he says.

That’s what he’ll nearly always say, whether he is or not, but in this case he doesn’t seem that bad. From time to time things are pushing him down a little bit, mentally, but his captivity with Hydra is nothing he can’t ultimately take in stride.

“We have to find Claire,” he points out instead. “Whatever you think of Barnes. She’s counting on us to get her out of there.”

Which may or may not be true, but Sam, at least, takes some personal responsibility there. And: “And of the two of them, Dad can handle himself better than Claire can handle herself. He’d want us to help her.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
There’s nothing in what Sam has said that Dean can refute, but there’s definitely something that pulls the corners of Dean’s face in a way that doesn’t suggest complete agreement. Something is off. His eyes stare at the blank wall.

//NINE YEARS AGO//

Night always left uneasiness in the Winchester household, particularly when John was out on a hunt. “Look out for Sammy,” John had said before disappearing several weeks ago to pursue something.

And those parting words echo loudly over Dean’s mind.

Tonight, the August air, thick with humidity and heat, sticks to virtually everything. The heaviness it leaves in Dean’s lungs makes him ache to open a window, but he doesn’t dare after dark, knowing too well what most assuredly lingers outside.

Dinner had amounted to peanut butter and jelly--the Dean special that had become the menu for every meal for the last week. Grocery money has been something of a difficulty this time around.

Still, with dinner over, the sun setting, and the heat radiating through the house, Dean slumps on the couch and clamps his eyes shut, attempting to focus on something other than the demands of pseudo-parenthood. And then, following that moment of peace, he cuts through it by calling, “Sammy, you remember to close the window upstairs?!”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Yes,” Sammy calls, irritable. “You’ve asked me that like 5 times, Dean.”

12-year old Sam Winchester is done arguing about windows. Instead, he comes downstairs with a thick tome in his hands. It’s of course not a house they own. They’re squatting. They’ll be gone in 6 weeks, if that. But for now, it’s a house where they can unpack some of their things, settle in, eat peanut butter and jelly, argue about windows.

Dad’s gone, but there’s a case right in their own back yard. Kids have been disappearing from Sam’s temporary middle school and Dean’s temporary high school. Mostly kids who go to make out by the river.

They’re in the Michigan UP, and while brilliant fall color is soaking into every leaf of every tree, there’s no snow yet, no ice to turn the peninsula treacherous. Raber Township on the St. Mary’s River, population 634. A prime vacation spot for anyone in the state, the UP, but not here, in particular, a forgotten little community that’s not even on any of the Great Lakes.

“Bäckahästen,” Sam adds, with what is, perhaps, forgivable pride. Since being introduced to the fight 4 years ago he has shown an immense talent for correctly identifying even the most obscure supernatural creatures on the slightest scraps of lore.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s fingers rake through his hair and he straightens on the couch. He brings himself to a stand and eyes Sam skeptically for a few beats: “Backa--whatsten?” He rubs the back of his neck and wanders to where Sam lingers with the Tome. Wordlessly his lips part, and expectantly, he lingers to where Sam holds the book.

“Where can we find it?” his eyes narrow some as he looks towards the window. It’s not an ideal time to pursue anything. Timing isn’t always a choice, but when it is, he’d pick daylight in a heartbeat.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam grins, delighted, when his brother doesn’t know what it is. He can be a little shit in that regard. He is scrawnier than Dean, his father despairs of ever turning him into a real hunter, but in this he outpaces them both, and he loves it.

“Bäckahästen,” he repeats. “It means brook horse. It’s from Scandinavian lore. This area has a strong Scandinavian tradition, so it makes sense. She appears at the water when it’s foggy, and anyone who rides on her back can’t get off again. She jumps in the water and she drowns her victims. Its weakness is steel. A brook horse can be trapped if you can get steel between it and any route to the water, and killed if you can stab her heart with a steel weapon.”

He looks up at Dean. One of his friends, Perri, is one of the missing kids. Friends may be a sort of a transitory thing, but Sam had liked the girl. Maybe even Liked the girl.

“Steel shouldn’t be too hard to find, Dean. We could take care of this. She only comes out on foggy nights, but I imagine any spot on the river would do.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
=Dean rolls his eyes at Sam’s delight. His jaw sets heavier and he gears up for a fight. Ironically, it’s not a fight he wants to have. There are moments where there’s nothing he’d like more than to really fight. Today isn’t one of them.

The tension Dean feels writes easily on his face. There’s a small hitch of his eyebrows, a frown of his mouth, and twitch of his eyes. He inhales a long breath; a steadying breath meant to aid in the decision. His green eyes turn to the window. For a second he weighs the decision.

And then, eyeing Sam again, he relents, “Fine. We’ll go, but you gotta stop being a baby about dinner.” He rubs his face and lulls his head towards the bedrooms. “And I’ll get the steel in the … horse-thing.” He ticks his head towards the doors. “Suit up. If we’re goin’ out in that, we’d better be ready.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam rolls his eyes in turn. It wasn’t /being a baby/ to point out that having peanut butter and jelly every night for a week wasn’t exactly a sound nutritional strategy. But he’s in no mood to argue. He thumps the book down and goes to pull on his tactical jacket, to get his knife, to get his gun, which is still somewhat big for his hands but functional enough.

Because he’s getting what he wants, so arguing the point-- or any point-- further-- seems nothing but counter-productive.

He supposes, really, they have steel all over the place, steel knives in particular, though they wouldn’t easily be able to use that to construct a trap. Still, maybe they just need to kill the thing. Maybe it would even make Dad proud, and maybe some of the tension that always marks their strange little family would ease for awhile.

Most of all, they’d save some lives. And much as Sam aches to be normal, he does take pride in doing that much.

“I’m ready,” he declares, just in case Dean couldn’t see that for himself.

Dean Winchester has posed:
While Sam got ready, Dean did the same, collecting several knives and a handgun. Each weapon finds its place on his person--inconspicuously tucked under clothes. He paused to stare at his reflection in the bedroom mirror, and he couldn’t help but smile, just a little.

With a shake of his head, the smile becomes absorbed by his too-cool-for-school smirk--a trademark of his short time in the high school here. He’s quickly gotten a reputation for snark. He pulls on his denim jacket and runs a hand through his hair. Yup, he looks ready.

It’s then that Sam declares he’s ready. “River is just down the block,” Dean motions outside. “We need to be quick. Got any ideas on how to trap the thing?” he rubs his chin with the palm of his hand. “...or we gonna skip that part?” his eyebrows lift. “Containing’s normally easier than killin’.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Nothing that is plausible,” Sammy admits with a slow shake of his head. “If we had a steel mill nearby we could get steel bars and construct a sort of fence, but there isn’t one. There’s all kinds of steel stuff, but it’s not pure. Cars have steel, but Dad’s got the Impala, and we’d need four cars and four drivers anyway.”

A pause. “Maybe I’ll just distract it, and then you can stab it?”

The walk would probably be a bit eerie for anyone who isn’t a Winchester boy; there are very few streetlights and most people are inside. This is the kind of town that rolls up its sidewalk at 5 PM every night, with very little to see and almost nothing to do. Thus, the great quantity of children who like to go down and hang out by the river. It’s not sitting at home with their parents, and for most kids that’s good enough.

Tonight there /is/ fog though, courtesy of the rain that is getting ready to threaten. Ideal conditions for a brook horse.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s chin drops at the plan. It’s a near nod. He rubs his nose on his jacket sleeve and falls into step with his brother. He reaches into the sleeve of his jacket and gives the knife’s hilt a tug. Its weight brings confidence. He’s used the jagged hunting knife many times before--enough that he doesn’t have any hesitation about how to use it or how to take out this brook horse.

“Just don’t let it distract you, baby brother,” he notes with a lopsided smirk. Even without having heard of Bäckahästens before tonight, he’s confident with the plan. Youth acts as a hubris blanket.

The pair reach the bank and Dean stares at the water’s edge. His thick hiking boots, meet the mud and small frogs jump along the grassy bank. His lips turn downwards some at the quiet of the air around them.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sammy pulls out a pair of honest-to-god binoculars, scanning up and down the riverbank.

“Crap,” he says, and then starts to run down the bank. “Ellie’s already with the stupid horse.”

And if Dean strains his eyes, he will just see a girl about Sam’s age, maybe someone from one of his classes, reaching her hand out to stroke the nose of a horse that is white, ethereal in its beauty, and half resting in the water.

Sam races to try to get there in time, before the girl can accept the ride that is about to be offered. He can book, when he wants to, when fueled by adrenaline, and he’s going to get there ahead of Dean.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Sammy!” Dean calls after his brother. No question Sam gets the tip-off first thanks to the binoculars. And when Sam books it so does Dean. He sprints hard to play catch up, fighting against the mud sucking on his boots. Size doesn’t often matter when it comes to speed and fitness, but when running in mud, it makes a lot of difference. The suction caused by the boots and mud slows the elder Winchester.

They need steel to pierce the horse’s heart, but that doesn’t mean that Dean won’t try to scare a poor preteen girl away from the horse. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his handgun. Running and shooting has become something of an art, and with a loud //bang// he aims the bullet at the horse, if only to cause some stir with the poor girl it aims to drown.

Sam Winchester has posed:
The girl can’t even hear the bullets. She has eyes only for the brook horse. She is a pimple faced girl in a sweatshirt and jeans. She didn’t come down here with a boy. She has braces and awkward hair. She’s the type who reads fantasy novels and has few friends, save except for Sam, who has nothing but compassion for the lonely. The horse whispers in her mind.

/I’ll be your friend, Ellie. We’ll go on grand adventures together. You’ll be a hero./

The horse folds its front legs under it to let her down onto its back, and she starts to climb aboard. Sammy all but tackles her, /flinging/ her back onto the bank before her body can properly touch clammy, glowing flesh. That’s the good news. The girl hits the mud, and she gasps in sudden shock, the spell broken.

The bad news is, Sam has to touch the horse to make it happen, has to put himself about half over its back. His eyes widen.

“Dean!”

He tries to pull off the animal, but he’s held fast. He’s not really straddling it. It’s more like he’s just sort of leaning over the creature’s back. He grits his teeth and pulls his own steel knife, plunging it into the animal...and the brook horse does scream. But he’s nowhere near the heart, and Sam’s hand sinks /into/ the creature’s flesh. He’s held fast. Trapped. He struggles to pull free with all his might, even as the horse springs upright.

“Dean! I can’t get free!”

Dean Winchester has posed:
As Dean sprints, the gun is traded for the hunter’s knife. His body carries him harder, faster than he ever thought it could. The adrenaline of the moment, the sheer importance of looking out for Sam and watching Sam colours his every action.

He had one job.

He curses to himself and tries to push his body faster. “Hang on Sammy, I’m coming!!!” His arms pump furiously at his sides and he can feel his eyes burn with tears that have no business existing at all. He wills them away with every iota of his being. He’s determined to make it on time.But there is one inevitability: Dean Winchester cannot outrun a horse.

Sam Winchester has posed:
He cannot. Even as Dean draws potentially close enough to stab the supernatural animal, it rears, kicking out with powerful front legs to keep the fledgling Hunter at bay. Then it whips around and goes charging for the river.

Sam casts one last, white-faced, thin-lipped and terrified look at his brother, eyes wide. Then determined. He pulls his gun with his free hand, aims it downward, shoots at the horse. It’s futile. The Bäckahästen doesn’t care about jacketed lead. That is not its weakness.

Sammy is still shooting when the horse gives one final leap, submerging them in the deepest part of the fast-moving river. This is no casual swimming river. It’s hungry and wide, with depths of up to 30 feet at some places, serving, as it does, as the boundary line between Michigan and parts of Ontario. Currents are strong, and if they aren’t anywhere near the rapids that mark other parts of the river it’s still going to be more than a scrawny, trapped twelve-year-old can handle on the back of a ghost horse literally designed and shaped (by whatever it is that designs and shapes the supernatural) to kill kids.

It’s not even possible to see the last bubbles that rise to the surface in the fog and the dark.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“SAMMY!” the dead of the night echoes the name back to him.

Dean doesn’t think; he acts on sheer instinct. And as the horse moves into the water, Dean Winchester dives after it, fully clothed and weighed down by the small arsenal of weapons he always has with him. He’s a strong enough swimmer, but his muscles are nothing compared to the strong current that forces him back, away from his brother and the path the brook horse chooses.

“Sammy!!!” he calls again, longing to hear some vague reply, quiet as it may be. He dives down to peer through the water, aiming to see something in the black of the night and to retrieve his brother. When he gasps for air at its surface, he calls again, “SAAAM!” his eyes burn with tears that can’t really be seen thanks to the water he continues to dive in.

His muscles fatigue and the ache is real, but he doesn’t give up. Every return for air becomes heavier with panic and sobs into the black night. The deep ache in his chest surpasses the one in his arms and legs, and so he keeps going. He inhales the deepest breath he can manage and dives beneath the surface, attempting to peer into the black deep to find some semblance of Sam.

Sam Winchester has posed:
His determination is rewarded. The body comes floating gently up to the surface, right in front of Dean. It’s face down, and it’s clearly dead, but it’s wearing what Sam was wearing. It has his hair, long and impossible and ridiculous, plastered to his skull. If he’s turned over, it will look like Sammy, but a Sammy with no light in his eyes, no animation.

Eyes wide open. Features fixed in an expression of anger, of defiance at death.

But very definitely dead. The only movement coming from Sammy is the movement of clothes tugged by the river, a river which would happily claim them both. There may not be snow on the ground, but in autumn-- practically always, in fact, even in the summer-- this river is punishing in its frigidity, slicing deep into flesh and sucking away warmth without a care.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean grasps Sam’s body and swims with it to the shore. He rests his brother on the riverbank and desperately tries mouth to mouth--something he’s not particularly adept with or good at. “Come on Sam, come on!” Dean sobs his brother’s name.

And the compressions carry on ad nauseum until not even the most stubborn teenager can continue. His muscles ache, he’s sopping wet, and his brother has drowned. When his persistence finally meets defeat, Dean’s shoulders bob with unbridled pain. His face buries in his hands. And for some time, he remains there, kneeled beside the now empty-vessel, sobbing into his hands.

But even grief needs to move. On a night like tonight, a body like Sam’s would leave a tasty treat for any animal out and about. And even in light of death, the words roll over his mind: //Take care of Sammy//.

Dean forces his hands from his face. He finally closes his brother’s eyes, running a palm over them to force them shut. His arms embrace the dead pre-teen, lifeless as he is. Slowly, carefully, Dean lifts Sam’s deadweight body and begins to walk it home.

When he reaches the house, Dean rests Sam’s body on the couch.

And as he continues to sob, house’s windows enter his periphery. He wipes his face on his sleeve and glances between the windows of the house. He’s alone. The worst has happened.

His lips purse and teenage determination has him running about the house… to break every single window.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“I’ve got to wonder what you think running about the house breaking windows like a spastic squirrel will do.”

The voice has a growly quality. It is British and almost bored, touched with an indefinable bit of smugness and an undeniable hint of charm. The man it belongs to sits in the nicer chair in the living room, an overstuffed plaid thing that doesn’t have too many cigarette burn holes. He plucks at it in irritation, then chooses to simply ignore it.

He is dressed in black from head to toe, save for a tasteful grey patterned tie which nicely compliments his impeccable, tailored suit. Clean-shaven, with a receding brown hairline, he could be any of a dozen successful high-end sales representatives peddling any number of products in any number of American homes.

He tilts his head sideways, then sort of flicks his fingers at Dean. “But by all means, do continue if you wish. I’ll wait.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
The voice that interrupts Dean’s destruction meets a tear-stained sopping wet teenager--red-eyed, snot-nosed, and completely plugged up. His breath rakes against his throat, drying it out with every gulp taken. But the voice, //any voice// warrants pause. He stares at the man in the middle of the living room.

And then, like a teen, he responds, “Fuck you,” his voice croaks around the tears as he instinctively walks to his brother’s body, aiming to protect it from this uninvited stranger. Everything is raw. Which is why anger so easily bubbles to the surface, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house!?”

The bottle of holy water in his jacket lining is drawn out but not opened. He holds it threateningly towards the occupant.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“I’m the man that can bring your brother back from the grave. Unless you throw that.” Crowley indicates the holy water. “Oh, it’ll annoy me quite a bit, and it will certainly ruin my suit, but I might just leave. And if I do that, you’ll lose your last and only chance to save your brother.”

He stands, then, and spreads his hands with a little bow and a little smile. “Crowley, King of the Crossroads.” He speaks the words in grand tones, and as he does, his eyes turn, briefly, a deep, blood red, signalling his position in the hierarchy of Hell. A position that’s high, since the very, very few demons John has ever dealt with have all had /black/ eyes. In fact, the last time John tangled with a demon at all, Dean was six, and he has grown increasingly frustrated at his ability to find /any/ of them, despite all his searching.

Red eyes aren’t yellow eyes, but there it is.

“Oh, and don’t worry about me. I’m not a big fan of Azazel’s nonsense,” he adds. “That would be the one that killed Mummy. We don’t exactly play for the same team.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
The offer causes Dean to tremble. He shivers with the thought and the tears continue to stream down his cheeks. Slowly, the holy water tucks back into Dean’s lining and he slides down the couch to sit on the floor beside his brother. “Crowley,” he repeats. He’s never seen anything like this, but he can remember that night his mother died.

His nostrils flare and his lips curl. The hands at his sides ball into tight fists. Even as grief strikes him, the anger from all of that has never left. His head turns towards Sam and his lips purse. Everything about this situation leaves him in want. He should dump all the holy water on Crowley, yet he doesn’t want to.

He had one job.

Goosebumps form on his arms and he hugs himself, silently longing for a moment to hug any member of his family. The chance to save Sam is too good to pass up, and so he stares at Crowley and finally asks, “How?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Oh I can just resurrect him. A little brush from my fingers, which is really just a stand-in for me plucking his soul back from…”

He tilts his head, as if thinking about it. “Well I don’t know where. Azazel gave him a nice long drink of demon blood, didn’t he? That could damn him to Hell no matter how good he is. Purgatory, I suppose, if he’s really really lucky. Are Winchesters ever that lucky?”

Another voice.

“Don’t do it, Dean.”

It would be nice, perhaps, if an angel had come down to argue the other side of this case. It might be a symbol of some sort of symmetry in all the universe. Good versus evil. A clear and present choice that is basically more or less easy on the surface of it. Just follow the light. Always let your conscience be your guide and all that. But that’s not what happens.

The creature that shows up does glow, and it is white, but it’s the white of old, bleached bones. It’s transparent, and hideous, with long, clawed fingers and a lean, hungry face, a gaping maw of a mouth and the suggestion of tattered robes. A few seconds later, it resolves itself into a stern black woman in a leather jacket and jeans, one that matches the no-nonsense voice that had implored Dean Winchester not to save his brother, but it’s impossible to forget that ghostly frame.

“There are natural laws,” says the Reaper, for that is who she is. Dean has seen at least one of these before, though John dealt with it very quickly. John had explained that really, they aren’t evil unless they go rogue, or get bound and misused. They have a job. To ferry the souls of the dead to their ultimate destinations.

Crowley flicks his eyes to the Reaper and rolls them in irritation, but goes right on speaking as if he had not been interrupted at all.

“The angels are real pricks, my young friend, and they’re very intent on rules no matter who the rules hurt. It’s possible he’s tucked in safe with Ma Winchester, but he could be on the rack as we speak. You’ve been doing this sackcloth and ashes thing for about an hour so if he’s damned...it’s been about...20 days of pain and abuse for him already? And oh, that’s right, it’s all /your/ fault, isn’t it?”

Dean Winchester has posed:
There are few moments in life that define people; fewer still that such definition hinges on one decision. But for the first time in Dean Winchester’s relatively short life, he has a decision to make. Yet in many ways, it’s not a choice at all.

Dean’s green eyes flit between the pair. He knows enough to believe all of it, even if at least some, remains mired in speculation rather than outright truth. But then something stands out, even amid his own pain, “Wait. A freaky-ass demon gave my bro demon blood?!” his nose wrinkles. That certainly seems like something that would create damnation. “Why?!”

But even as the question escapes his lips and the demand hangs in the air, he turns to Crowley rather than the reaper. “Bring him back.” He looks towards the Reaper, “Sam doesn’t deserve hellfire and brimstone. He doesn’t deserve suffering. He’s the good one, everyone knows he’s the good one and I’m--” his eyes focus on his feet “--well, not. If anyone deserves hellfire,” the teen leaves the rest to their imaginations.

He had one job.

//Look out for Sammy.//

And so he is.

“Bring him back,” he says again.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“Excellent,” Crowley says. “You’ve made the right choice, Dean Winchester.”

He takes three steps towards Sam’s body, then snaps his fingers. “Oh. Right. There is one /small/ proviso you should know about. Just a little detail. There is a price to be paid. A life for a life, I’m afraid. Damnation for damnation. I can give you ten years, enough time to protect your brother, help him grow up strong and able to take care of himself at last, but after that I’m afraid you’re going to have to take his place. But, as you said, you do deserve it, so that shouldn’t be a problem, right?”

First rule of sales. If you say it, you’re lying. If /they/ say it, it’s absolute truth. And Dean has already said it, hasn’t he? He’s the bad one.

“You’ll take on more than that,” the Reaper says. “He died by water. I can’t hurt you directly, Dean, but the water /claimed him/. If you take on his death-debt, you’ll take on the vendetta the spirits of the waves will have against him too. Water will never be your friend. You’ll have to watch your ass even when you take a shower, and the waters won’t respect any timeline. You’ll be stealing from them, and they are /hungry/.”

She comes to get right in front of Dean, staring into his eyes. “You aren’t the bad one, Dean. That’s not how you should be looking at this. He’s already half a demon. It’s all latent, but it’s there. Eventually, he’ll end up being driven to realize that nature. He won’t be able to help himself. If you let nature take its course, this inevitable transformation will simply happen in a way that minimizes pain and suffering for you both.”

Crowley rolls his eyes again. “Blah, blah, blah. Billie never shuts up. If you accept the terms, Dean, I just need you to approve the paperwork.”

He snaps his fingers. A contract appears right on Sam’s chest, along with a pen filled with dark red ink that looks suspiciously like blood. Dean’s own blood, in fact, because he’ll feel a sharp /prick/, and find that while his arm is bleeding, the blood just seems to be evaporating even as the fountain pen fills right up.
Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean swallows hard and his eyes flit between them again. His eyes burn once more with tears as he finally speaks to Billie, “He looks out for the weird kids. He takes care of them. All of them. He’s a friend to the lonely.” And then in a whisper he asks, “How could I ever let anything like this happen to him?”

His hands press to his eyes again and he releases a long breath. “Twenty-six,” he sniffles quietly. “I’ll be twenty-six.” He shivers again. “He’ll be grown. He won’t need me anymore. He’ll be able to take care of himself,” everything Crowley sells Dean buys. He glances up towards his lifeless brother. The ache in his chest continues, cutting deeper by the minute.

“And I //am// the bad one... I’m the one no one expects anything from…. He could be //something//. I never will,” he mops up the tears with his sleeve.

“I… accept the contract. And the water-hate. And… all of it,” he sniffs hard and takes the pen in his grip. In one fluid motion, his name signs on the dotted line.

//Dean Winchester//

Sam Winchester has posed:
Billie gives him a disappointed look. “You’re going to regret this, Dean.”

But then she’s simply...gone.

The contract is gone too. “Excellent choice,” Crowley says. “And because you’ve been such a fantastic customer today, I’ll throw in a freebie.”

His grin is satisfied. Predatory. “He won’t remember a thing.”

And then he strides over and brushes his head across Sam’s forehead. His fingers don’t even leave the flesh of the boy’s forehead before Sam’s chest rises and falls again.

“I’ll be in touch,” Crowley says, tossing Dean a little salute. “Toodles.”

And then Crowley, too, is gone. In less than the time it takes to blink.

And Sam does blink, eyes fluttering. He sits up, looking left and right, confusion darkening hazel eyes. “Dean?” He sounds groggy, just as though he has come up off a long nap.

“Dean, why are we all wet?”

Dean Winchester has posed:
And despite himself and the knowledge that Sam will remember nothing, Dean envelopes him a long tight hug. He releases him moments later. “Dude, we got caught in the rain. You were dawdling again!” the reprimand, however, comes with more than a modicum of good humour and good-natured teasing.

He sniffs loudly and brings himself to a stand, “I…” he looks to the kitchen “...think we need to get dad and move on.” It’s unusual for him to leave anything undone, but this time the brook horse has already taken too much and Dean has lost enough to it. He turns on his heel to go back his room, “The vandalism from earlier today is gonna get attention. Bet the owners are back soon.”

And with that, Dean retreats to his room to sob.

//PRESENT//

And to this day he can’t tell if they were tears of joy or tears of sorrow. Or something in between.

He blinks, finally looking away from the wall and casting a very guilty expression towards Sam. “Sammy,” his lips twitch, “I know this won’t make any sense to you, but //I// need to find dad. Soon. Sooner than soon.” His lips edge downwards. “And so will you.”

His eyes lid and he finally admits, “We’ll find Claire, but I can’t stop looking for dad, not now…” there’s another quirk of his lips, an odd tell, especially when it’s followed up with a very real, nearly choked on, “...please.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam’s brows furrow gently. “Yeah, yeah, of course. I’ll-- well if it won’t creep you out I’ll try to force a vision of him, okay? I can do that for you right now. Maybe it will help. We can juggle the cases, we’ve done it before. It’s going to be okay, alright?”

He steps forward, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It’s really going to be okay. But you have to rest first. You have to recover.” He squeezes. “No more running off. We won’t be able to help Dad if you’re not at 100%. SHIELD tech is good…”

He trails off. “Actually, if you won’t hate it too much, I may even have an option for getting you on your feet faster. She’s a wizard but I think she’s one of the good ones. I’ll text her.”

He steps away from Dean, and pulls out his phone.

/Buzz. Buzz/. That’s Dean’s phone. Buzzing with a text of its own.

/I suggest you find a way to get rid of the Moose long enough to take my call, Squirrel, or I’m afraid I’m going to have to show up in person. I might even have to jog Sammy’s memory. All that time in Hell as a kid? Hardly going to be helpful for him, especially not now./

Three dots, indicating a bit more text.

/20 seems to be his unlucky number, wouldn’t you agree?/

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Do it. I need to get out of here,” Dean says regarding the wizard friend. He forces a very tight, very-guarded smile as he looks at his phone. “Uh… Sam, can you do that whole vision thing in the hall?” He squints. “I’m not… I’m still…” he shrugs a single shoulder before waving his hand in the air.

“I know you get network cable, but I’d appreciate just,” he points to the door and whistles. “It creeps me out… still. Baby bro the pseudo-psychic.”

But even before Sam responds to the request, Dean responds to the text:

/I’ll call in a couple. Don’t get your panties in a knot./

Smiiiiile for Sam.