Wanted

Wanted
Date of Scene:	23 August 2017
Location:	Crossroads
Synopsis:	After Sam uses his telekinesis to help capture the Winter Soldier, emotions run high and truth bombs are dropped.
Cast of Characters:	Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Winifred Burkle, Melinda May
Tinyplot:	Blood on My Name
Tinyplot2:	Tayaniye

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Sam Winchester has posed:
August 24, 2025

The Winter Soldier has been tranqed twice with werewolf darts and shot six times with ICER bullets, then transported to be chained up in Mercy’s garage with, one at least hopes, his arm out of commission. Sam had avoided looking too closely at anyone after confirming that Fred was, indeed, not permanently damaged by the soldier’s attack.

In truth, he’s still shaking with fury. It hasn’t quite subsided yet. Fury and fear, feeling like he almost lost two of the people he cares about most in the world, along with a friend to whom he owes his life. The worst part is, this is mostly his fault. He and Claire were the ones who were all gung ho about saving the Soldier; everyone else had a lot more reservations.

His anger and, more than that, the overwhelming filthiness and shame he’s feeling are enough to send him to the back of the Impala, to let him offer the shotgun seat to Fred. For one thing, he does have a dull headache. He needs a dose now, though he’s hardly going to complain about that to them. Instead, he just stretches out back there, his hand on his head, not particularly caring where they go so long as it has a bathroom where he can shoot up.

Dean Winchester has posed:
While Sam slumps into the back of the Impala and presumably Fred is gonna ride shot gun, Dean opens the trunk and rather unceremoniously begins to disarm himself. The tactical jacket comes off and for the first time in a very long time, he removes one weapon after another and unloads it into the trunk, all the while muttering to himself under his breath about one thing or another. Once in awhile, a good listener might catch the occasional word, “...Azazel… “ His eyes sting as he chokes on emotion. He knows more than he should; more than he has any right to.

He then unbuttons his next shirt and does the same. The pattern repeats itself a third time until he’s in nothing but his faded jeans and a tank. The clothes don’t feel remotely natural nor does the lack of weight, but he does it just the same. And once he’s stripped down, he grabs the large container of salt and the bottle of holy water from the back. His head shakes and he opens the driver’s side door and promptly tosses a handful of salt towards his brother followed by a holy water chaser.

A pointed look follows both.

After that’s finished, he puts the car into drive and the Impala sails down the road.

When the car comes to a stop, it’s at a nearby Crossroads. He proceeds to get out of the car, slamming the door behind him.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
It took Fred a little while to recover from the attack. While the Winter Soldier was tranqued and chained, she coughed and started to breathe normally. Already, purple finger shaped bruises are starting to rise on her neck, but it doesn’t seem as if she needs to be taken to the hospital. For awhile, her attention is put squarely on the Soldier as they load him - chained - into a car to take to some place safe and out of the way.

However, once the immediate danger is out of the way, the shaken physicist is immediately by Sam’s side. The smell of sulphur is strong and she realizes she’s smelled it, weaker, before. Perhaps it’s for the best that Sam isn’t explaining right now because talking hurts. Instead, she studies him, curious and worried. He just threw an assassin onto a scrap yard magnet with his mind and now he won’t look at them.

A part of her wishes to slip into the back seat with Sam, but she realizes that he might need his space. Instead, she settles into the front seat with a wince and feeling like she’s bruised all over. Her eyes track the stalking Dean Winchester as he unarms himself and mutters. What is an Azazel? The toss of water and salt onto Sam furrows her brows. “What’re you doing?” she asks Dean, her voice a bit raspy, but there’s a bit of fear tinged in there. She knows what dousing someone in holy water and salt means. Through the ride, she’s twisted in her seat to keep an eye on Sam, so she’s not quite paying attention to where they’re being driven. She assumed Dean was driving back to their apartment.

When the Impala stops at a Crossroads, she looks even more worried and confused. “What is going on?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
An indignant, “Dude!”

That is the only result of salt and holy water on one Sam Winchester. But then he realizes what Dean is about and his mouth flattens. He reaches out to squeeze Fred’s shoulder.

“I’ll explain everything but I think Dean is about to make a bad deal with a worse demon. Help me talk him down, please.”

Then, pain or not, he is out of the car.

“Dean, we gotta find a way to get you out of this deal, man, not get you more entangled.” His voice is soft, earnest. “You don't need to enslave yourself to some high up crossroads demon. There is some other answer.”

Which of course means he knows more about Dean’s deals than he should.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Fred’s question receive little response save one basic thought: “Just stay in the car,” before the door slams shut. He trails to the trunk and pulls out the effects for the spell he’s been pondering for days. And it’s only when Sam is outside the car that he frowns and really reacts.

But his brother’s words leave more upset than he intends. Dean’s eyes darken. His lips press into a thin line. “I should’ve already taken it,” he hisses. “Then you wouldn’t have even remembered.” His eyes roll at his own decisions, too wholly aware that somehow he’s allowed fate to bring them to this point.

The small box is removed from the trunk. Already prepped save a few last items required.

“Get back in the car,” he deadpans. And for one of the first times in his life, his tone seems to mirror John’s.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
That furrowed brow is not going to ease up anytime soon, it seems. He’ll explain later, they have to save Dean from a deal with a demon, Dean wants everyone to stay in the car? One thing is certain, the last order from Dean is not followed. With a squeak of metal, the Impala’s doors open and she gets out.

“What deal?” Fred asks, moving up to stand next to Sam as she studies both brothers. Clearly there is something going on here of which she has yet to even scratch the surface. “Can someone please start making some sense?” Her voice isn’t very loud - she can’t raise it too much without it hurting - but luckily there isn’t any traffic about them and her words can carry.

“Dean, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have to be telling you this, but making deals with demons is a bad thing. I learned that from church before I even knew they could be real.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sounding like John is a good way to turn Sam’s attitude. Ditto for looking like him. Sam’s nostrils flare and his mouth flattens into a tight, grim line.

“I drowned at 12,” he tells Fred. “I am not even supposed to be alive. Dean saved my life by making a deal. In less than a year, a hellhound is scheduled to drag him to the pit. But this demon he made the deal with wants to amend the deal. Some sort of slave arrangement in return for extended life.”

He turns to face Dean. “I don't want you doing this. Not for me. I’m not worth it. I failed to save you from the ocean people. I ran off to Stanford and abandoned you. I’ve never been anything but a disappointment. If they had been willing to deal with me I’d already have this handled!”

He sounds, by the end, a little desperate...and he has definitely revealed more than he meant to.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s expression turns stony. His eyes steel. His jaw tightens. His free hand balls into fist while the other works at the materials he’d already gathered to summon what needs to be summoned. His gaze flits towards Fred, “You wouldn’t have your boyfriend if I didn’t make a deal. You’d never have met. He’d never have gone to school. We wouldn't be here.” His nostrils flare, but he otherwise stays strangely stoic. “None of us.”

His throat clears. He’s choking around something altogether invisible. But he can feel it. Thick. Heavy. His eyes narrow and he turns towards Sam, “So… what? You were just going to die? Not say anything, not tell anyone, just here and then gone?” There’s some irony to Dean being critical about death deals, yet the critique remains. “And the new deal is fine. Clearly this balance between your natures is all kinds of fucked. He,” Crowley, “was right. You need me. Alive, probably.”

His expression turns pinched. “You don’t get a say in this. I should’ve just taken the deal in the first place.” He’s managing to keep it together, channelling those small things he’d learned from a lifetime of watching his hardened father--nuances in expression keep him tempered, including the way his face takes on a pinched quality.

The challenge in Dean’s gaze remains. He tosses his driver’s license into the box. His gaze turns to the Crossroads themselves. And then he states plainly once again, “Get back in the car both of you.”

He walks towards the dirt.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
There is quite a bit of information from both Sam and Dean that takes Fred a few moments to unpack. It’s a lot for someone whose windpipe was nearly crushed less than an hour ago. First, unsurprisingly, her eyes go to Sam at the knowledge that he died at the age of twelve and Dean made some sort of deal to save him feels like a solid punch to the chest. “You died?” Her eyes shift to Dean, remembering their conversation in the kitchen not too long ago. “That’s why you wanted Sam to have more ties? ‘Cause you didn’t think you were going to be around?”

The implications of Sam’s own pleading for Dean to stop hit her, too. He would have handled this if the demons would deal with him. Her attention shifts back to him. “What?” The question is asked softly, not due to her injury but with an emotion closer to fear. “When did you do that?” A part of her hopes it was long before they met, something he didn’t tell Dean until just now.

A sliver of cold washes through Fred as she watches the brothers fight and Dean insist they get back in the car. As he turns to walk to the dirt, a flash of anger crosses her face. Striding forward, wincing as she does so, she attempts to get right in front of Dean and smack the box right out of his hands.

“Now, you...you both stop this!” Her voice is raised, raspy, but unmistakably filled with determination, even if she’s not used to taking charge in this manner. “Stop it right now!” The angrier she gets, the more Texas slips through her accent.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam looks away from them both. “I was going to leave explanations,” he mumbles. “I just-- it didn’t feel right. I’m some sort of-- there’s something wrong with me anyway so. It just didn’t feel right.”

Sam, of course, has been pushing back against John Winchester for years, and none of these expressions work. Certainly being told to get in the car doesn’t work. To Fred he says, “This...was all part of what I was going to talk to you about, but...everything came to a head before I got the chance. I don’t want to leave you, but…”

To Dean, exasperated, “And of course I need you, that’s not even the point, the point is we need to comb the lore and-- and just fix this.”

But then Fred is losing her temper at both of them, and his mouth snaps shut. His eyes widen slightly. He hasn’t really seen her angry, not really. He slides his hands uncomfortably into his pockets and looks down.

He stops.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Fred tries to hit the box from Dean’s hands and he draws it closer to himself like some deeply guarded possession. “What the hell?” Pointedly, he looks between the pair. “You don’t get a say in my decisions! Neither of you! I’ve been making my own choices since I was… what? Four?” It might be an exaggeration, but the meaning is readily apparent.

He nods at Sam’s assertion that he doesn’t want to leave Fred. “Then fucking don’t. I’ve got this,” because it’s already decided anyways. “Hell already owns my soul, I may as well just make it final.” But he doesn’t start digging the necessary hole. He doesn’t put the box where it belongs. His eyes train back on the car, and then remain there for several beats.

“There is no way to ‘fix this’. I’ve been trying for the better part of nine years when I figured out that ten years is nothing. Ten years is the blink of an eye,” he hisses. “When I asked Dad about deals with the Crossroads. When I went to Angel Investigations to ask about it. There is no way.” His lips curve upwards, but it’s not anything close to a smile. “And you can’t take it back. I didn’t make this choice for no reason. It wasn’t some selfish bid to stay out of trouble because you died on my watch. I was sixteen and it was the right decision. //Is// the right decision. No twelve year old deserves to go to hell for what happened to you! Do you not understand that!? Can’t you trust that I’m making a decision on the best information I’ve got?!”

His eyes redden as he fights against the emotions that threaten to surface. He cinches his eyes shut, shifts his weight and shakes his head. “I don’t have a future. I fucking bought you one, can you just live it?!”

Winifred Burkle has posed:
He was going to leave an explanation. That adds into the fierceness in her gait, her stance. There’s a strange brew of emotions roiling about inside her: anger, fear, worry. Sam thinks there’s something wrong with him and he also just tossed a Winter Soldier right into a large magnet while smelling like sulphur. However, she does know he wanted to talk to her after her episode at Mercy’s garage. They simply didn’t get the time in their preparations. “This is what you were going to talk to me about.” A movement of her chin indicates the Winchester brothers and the Crossroads they currently stand in. He warned her so many times about the secrets, the Need to Know way he was raised. The concealment still hurts, but at the moment, there are more pressing things to deal with.

Instead, her gaze returns to Dean, that smouldering anger still readily visible. It’s true, Fred doesn’t get angry often, or at least she doesn’t tend to lose her temper like this. “Call me crazy,” and people have! Often! “But I don’t think you should be just signing over any more of yourself to some demon without talking it out with Sam, too. Look, I get it, you don’t know me from a hole in the ground,” poor analogy, but she doesn’t really get what’s necessary to summon a Crossroads Demon, “and so you might not care about what I’ve got to say, but I should hope you’d care about what your brother’s trying to.”

There’s a shake of her head and a clench of her fists. “We’ve still got time, Dean. We’ve got options. You do this now? We’ve got less of them. I’m sorry you had to make that deal, but I’m real glad Sam’s alive, so I’ve got to say that it was probably worth it. You’ve been working close to nine years on this alone! You’ve known Angel maybe a week? He’s found ways to cross dimensions, he pulled me outta one. We can figure it out. I’ve known ya’ll only a few months and I know Sam wouldn’t be able to live down losing you! Don’t toss the baby out with the bathwater, ‘cause it sounds like right now you don’t have any trust in us to be able to help you!”

Sam Winchester has posed:
The meaning of that four years /is/ apparent, and it makes Sam flinch. His shoulders sag and he looks away. It certainly doesn’t make much more of a case for why he deserves to live at Dean’s expense.

Still, he lets both Dean and Fred have their say before he speaks up again.

“It never even crossed my mind that you thought you’d get in trouble,” he says softly. “Where did you even get that from? The only thing that crossed my mind, Dean, is how you’ve always sacrificed for me, and how I’ve never deserved it, and that I can’t lose you, and I can’t be one more reason why you’re hurt. I appreciate what you did, I love you more for it man, but Fred’s right. I really won’t be able to live with myself.”

He’s having enough trouble as it is.

/I may not have deserved to go to Hell at 12,/ he thinks bitterly, /but what am I now? No, what was I always? Dean lost his Mom because of me./ He’s never said it out loud, but the truth is he’s never felt like he had a mother. Dean had one, one that Sam basically killed by...what? Existing? Pretty much.

“My thought was...when I um. Came to my senses...New Orleans, Savannah...they’re both good sources of crossroads lore. We might be able to run down some leads there. No offense, man, but um...running down the lore wasn’t ever your thing. It was always mine.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean squints while Fred speaks. His jaw tightens. His nostrils flare. He clings to the box. “You don’t know me,” he says plainly to Fred. “We met //literally// months ago, and we talked for the first time last week.” His expression steels. “So no, I don’t care what you have to say.” He looks pointedly at Fred, “And it’s becoming clearer you don’t know Sam as well as you think you do.” He turns on his heel to push passed them back to the car. “So yeah, lady, I am damned well going to stay that course.” There’s a pause. “Do you know what it is to /know/ you have ten years to live and keep that secret? Eight? Six?” His eyebrows knit together. “One? Do you know how that changes what you do or don’t do? I’ve given up everything for this. Willingly.” His lips twitch. “So no, you don’t get to tell me the weight of my decisions. I’ve lived with this secret for nine years. It stalks every decision. It reiterates the utter futility of major life change. Of commitments. Of anything sustained. So no, you don’t get to lecture me on what someone can or can’t live with. I’ve been constantly boned for nine years.” He stares through her. “You don’t know. And if you did? Maybe you’d understand that I want to keep my investment safe.”

And as he does so, he shakes his head as he moves, hands holding tightly to the box. “I’m not… this isn’t…” his voice cracks and he drops his chin to his chest. “...I can’t… the new deal expires... “ he’d said no. He’d resolved not to do it, but it’s not something he can deal with now. He sniffs hard, pushing back the emotions that bubble faster. “No. It’s not your choice.”

“You’re going to have to find a way to live with it,” Dean finally resolves. “I’ll buy more time,” with this new deal, “but I’m still marked. It’s not going away.” His hands rake through his hair and he leans against his car. And as far as waiting is concerned, “I’m dying. Even with the new deal, it’s just a matter of time before--” his head shakes. “You’re supposed to live, Sammy. That’s how this works. You need to sort out your own shit. Get off the demon blood. Refuse that other nature. That’s what you need to research. Not this. This is done.” Or it will be. “Find out what the hell Azazel,” a name that has haunted him for nine years almost as much as Crowley, “wants, why he did it, and stop it. It’s next level shit.”

The notion of not having trust to let them help him, he actually cracks a smile as his eyes well with tears. “Nine years and no one even knew anything was wrong. Or cared. A year with ocean folks.” His head shakes and he laughs mirthlessly.

“Look. You two do your thing. Do you. Forget what you know.” He blinks hard, but one tear trails down his cheek. “It’s not worth remembering.” //I’m not worth remembering.//

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Fred stays silent when Sam speaks. Her being here seems a matter of happenstance. This is between the Winchester brothers. However, because she is here? She isn’t about to stand in the background without a say. This effects her because it affects Dean and Sam - she knows what happens to the one will reverberate through the other. She wants to speak to that, to illuminate how Dean’s choice is hurting Sam despite his hope of saving him. Instead? She focuses on a single thing.

“What someone can and can’t live with.” Her voice is, strangely devoid of emotion for a moment. “Choices.” Something snaps in Fred and she stalks forward to Dean. “No you don’t know me. And I don’t know you, even if you wanted me to look after Sam. But, you know what I can do? I can tell you what’s in store for you.

“You want to know what hell is? I can tell you. I lived it for five years. You pick up a book in the library you work and you say some words out of it ‘cause you’re curious. Sure, it’s not as noble as saving a brother from death, but guess what, you made a choice you didn’t realize was one and then you’re on a plane where humans are slaves. I didn’t even realize there was such a thing as other planes! So, congratulations, you’re actually better off than I was, you went in with eyes open. But, anyway, hypothetically, you’re terrified, pulled through a vortex and there’s nothing to hold on to, it’s just being pulled apart and then put back together again in a world where you’re less than nothing and it hurts. They take you, they put you in a collar and they say if you do anything they don’t like? It will detonate and your head will explode. If you touch it, it will explode. If you tamper with it, it will explode. If it randomly malfunctions ‘cause they don’t really care about maintenance, it’ll explode.

“You stay there for about a year and they don’t feed you, they beat you and they demean you, the call you cow and treat you like it. At night you hear others try to run away and are beheaded for doing so, or you see their heads explode. Sometimes they do it just ‘cause they’re bored and they think the sound it makes is funny. Sometimes, at night, they prod at you, try to see how you bleed. Then, you try to run, but you can’t get back home. There’s nowhere you can go but a dark forest where there’s wild animals you’ve never heard of, but what is the alternative? And there’s still a collar on your head that can be blown up at a moment’s notice, whenever they feel like it. It’s remote controlled, I forgot to mention that. It takes you a bit to disarm it, but you have to keep it on, ‘cause if anyone randomly saw you without a collar? They’d execute you. So, you stay there for four more years. You forget who you are, what you are, where you came from. This?” she gestures wildly about her. “This is a nightmare you wake up from on the bad days because it feel so real but you know you can never go back there and you know it. It makes you remember things you can’t believe because you can’t ever imagine a place without fear. Thinking about //here//? It makes you wake up screaming ‘cause you know that it just doesn’t make sense. This world has to be a lie ‘cause otherwise why would you still be here.”

There’s a breath, a pause. That came out in a rush of anger and emotion. She’s hinted at parts of this to Sam over their time together. The living in the woods, the collars, the fact that she was there for five years. This, though? It’s a rundown of it all, the emotion, the fear. Then, she very pointedly says, “I’m real sorry you had to live with the //idea// of that over your head for nine years. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Fred’s eyes narrow at Dean. “Ya’ll’s secrets have secrets, Dean. If you’re pissed that Sam didn’t know you did this? Well, you just told us you wiped his goddamn memory so how can you be mad at him for that?” An emphatic shake of her head and a cough erupts from her. She talked too much. “We’re trying to //help// you. We can do that if you let us. We //want// to do that. When does that deal expire?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Emotions are running high. Too high. When that happens Sam’s default mode is to try to soothe things over. It’s hard, though, because Fred’s no-holds-barred description of Pylea makes him sick for her, and what Dean says makes him sick for Dean. He looks it, sick and sad and helpless.

He steps between them.

His right hand stretches out to land on Dean’s shoulder. His left, on Fred’s.

“Please don’t fight,” he says quietly. He drops his head, looks down at the ground between them.

Then, he looks at Dean, and there’s anguish in his eyes. “I did look for you. By my calculations I realized you were missing almost within 3 days of you being taken. I just didn’t have any leads. I looked and I looked and I looked. I just didn’t find you, but it consumed my every waking hour. I’m sorry I didn’t realize there was something wrong when we were kids. You hid it well.”

/It was Dad who should have realized different, not me. He was the god damn parent./

But Dean idolizes their father, and Sam cannot possibly think of a bigger miscalculation than saying a single word against him, especially not right now.

“I understand that you feel like you’ve already invested everything into keeping me alive,” he says quietly. “But I am /begging you/ to listen to Fred. To me. To try to find another way. I don’t have the strength to face this-- Azazel?-- thing-- and lose you too.”

/I’m the worthless one. I don’t even begin to know how I can get off the blood. I think trying might kill me. I know it hurts more than I can take./

“Let’s find Dad. Let’s find a way to get some leverage over this demon. There may be no supernatural method, but if we get him over a barrel he’ll have to renegotiate. With the three of us working together anything’s possible. I’m sorry I’ve led you to believe that I’m the kind of person who can just cheerfully accept my own brother falling on his sword for me.”

He can’t keep the hurt out of his voice that Dean thinks that, or that Dean thinks that he didn’t try to find him when he went missing. But he tries. He tries to keep his words quiet, steady, even. But his eyes go red-rimmed with unshed tears as he drops his gaze to the ground once more.

“It /is/ your choice, Dean. I’m just asking you with everything I’ve got to make a different one. Please.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean silences and stares at Fred. His head shakes. His body tenses and his free hand bids away the tears that have managed to fall while the other clings to the box. His head turns and even with the hand on his shoulder urging him not to fight, at the moment he feels like that’s all he has. Fight. Tears and fight, and Dean will not cry right now. Instead, he starts slowly. “Look. I get it. You had a shit deal. You ended up there through some accident. /This/ isn’t accidental. My brother died and I tried CPR for the better part of an hour. I dove after him in the water alone as the brook horse decided he was theirs. I went to where we were squatting and smashed the windows one by one until I was called out for being the damned Squirrel I was by /him/. He sat there watching me. He’d shown up. Uninvited. I didn’t call him. My twelve year old brother was dead and I was gonna lay him to rest. I wasn’t going to the Crossroads. I wasn’t going to make some ill-conceived deal. I was figuring out how to deal with my brother’s death. Logistically. I was gearing up to salt and burn his bones.” He looks pointedly at Fred. “Alone. Because that’s what our lives looked like. I signed a contract in my own blood. Alone. I screamed Sam’s name into the fog-filled night. Alone. There wasn’t anyone to call. Ever. And there hasn’t been for the better part of two decades.”

“So yeah, I get it. You had a raw deal. But if you’d known it was coming? If you’d known what would happen ten years before--you’d have had the pleasure of suffering twice. If you’d done it for one of the extreme few people you love, the number of which you can count on less than one hand, to save them from it, to keep them safe because you know you’ve done way worse than they possibly could have? If you’d done it and ensured they had enough time to grow up before you were gone because you knew you were the only sense of stability in their life?” His head shakes. “You don’t get to waltz in here and critique me. You don’t know me. You don’t know anything. You don’t know what it is to reject someone you care about because you’re marked. You don’t know what it is to almost bring this up with your supposed parent,” his eyebrows lift at that, “over the course of years and realize they really don’t care. And never have.” His throat clears, “You don’t know what it is to be four years old and see your mother dead on the ceiling. To be handed your baby brother to the smell of sulphur and fire. To be haunted by that image your entire life,” a memory he stills has nightmares about, “and then to be told you have one job and one job only. You don’t know what it is to fail at that one job. So no. You don’t get to tell me what’s what. I can handle myself. I look after myself. I fucking raised myself.”

He emits a huff of breath, a near scoff, but there’s no words attached to it. He has so much more he could say. The things he’s been holding too long are pushed down more.

He shudders beneath his brother’s hand. He sniffs hard, cutting of the emotions at their knees. And, with a weird kind of revelation, something seems to finally make sense to him. There’s a strange twist to his lips and his voice actually cracks, “Moose. I finally get it,” involuntarily his lips curve upwards but there’s no other markings of the smile on his face. He presses a hand to his forehead to bid away his most base emotions. He longs to cry. And to Sam’s apology, he frowns. “...Wh.. Why do you think I kept it a secret so long? I’m not stupid. And I don’t want an apology from you.”

And instead of staying there, he takes a step back, rather purposively shrugging the hand off his shoulder. “/Which/ demon Sam?” he asks, a little too quietly. “The one trying to make you his hellspawn or the one that holds my contract?” And the moment he’s said it he regrets it. He’s said way too much. His eyes flit between them.

And in saying too much he has one response--it’s one learned through years of exposure. He shuts down and it happens over the course of seconds. Even his posture changes. Sam’s plea sees his head ducking back to the car. “I gotta go.” And the tone Dean uses sounds all too final.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
When Sam puts his hand on Fred’s shoulder, he can feel the tension there. It practically radiates off of her. There’s more fight in her, but his request to stop it cuts off any more of those words. She pauses, gathering control of what she was going to say and rethinking it. Instead, she waits till both Sam and Dean have said their piece.

When she does speak, there’s no apology, no taking back of what she said, she doesn’t regret any of it. But, recounting all her memories of Pylea has left her shaking just slightly. “I’m not trying to critique you,” she says. “I’m trying to help you. I’m not saying I’d’ve done that first deal any differently. You were alone and didn’t have any options. I’m sorry you had to go through all that. But, you’ve got us now and you don’t have to do it yourself. You coulda gone out here alone, but you brought us along. Maybe it’s ‘cause deep down you wanted us to try and stop you.”

The plea from Sam is heard and she looks at him for a moment, but doesn’t add anything else. She’s not going to follow him if he says he has to go. From what he’s said she knows she wouldn’t be welcome. Instead, she looks to Sam, seeing if he’ll try to stop Dean from leaving.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Grim determination on his face says that Sam is briefly considering grabbing Dean, decking him much as Dean decked him the other night, and sitting on him until he sees sense.

There’s a time limit on the deal, Dean said, so all he has to do is keep Dean out for...how many more hours?

So yes, he does try to stop him. He grabs for Dean’s shoulder with the most apologetic look in all the world, and attempts to spin him around and deck him in the face.

Because this is how healthy families solve problems!

Dean Winchester has posed:
Fred’s words fall on deaf ears determined to maintain their course. The hand at Dean’s shoulder successfully has him spin around, but the punch only makes half-purchase, connecting with a piece of Dean’s jaw thanks to Dean’s relatively quick reflexes that have him stepping out of the punch.

He counters just as hard with a mean right hook that he’d used only a week earlier to force Sam to the ground. “Dammit Sam! Can’t you see I’m doing this for you?! I have one job! Let me just do it, man!”

Winifred Burkle has posed:
It’s not like she was expecting her words to have Dean turn in his tracks and admit his wrongdoings, but a part of Fred did hope he’d listen to her. When she looks to Sam to see if he’s going to follow, she is unsurprised that he does. What does surprise her is that he doesn’t put a hand on Dean’s shoulder for comfort, but to deck Dean across the face.

“Sam!” she shouts, moving forward. However, what does she do in this situation? She’s not a brawler by any sense of the word. As much as she hates the idea of being the woman who stands on the sidelines of a fight wringing her hands, that’s pretty much what she does for the time being.

Sam Winchester has posed:
This time Sam is ready for that right hook. He raises his arm in a simple block to take the punch, and grimly tries to deck Dean right back in the solar plexus, pulling it a bit. He’s only trying to wind his brother and knock him out, not seriously hurt him.

“I know you’re doing it for me,” he says, with the grimmest determination. “That’s why I can’t let you do it.”

He’s got a few advantages in this fight. Reach and, if he’d use it, superior strength among them. But Dean has ferocity on his side, superior skill, and the warrior’s spirit that Sam, for all his training, frankly doesn’t share. Sam is a scholar first and a fighter second. These things might be the deciding factor yet again, but this doesn’t stop him from trying with all his might to do what he thinks is right in this situation...just as, ironically, Dean is.

He sounds so sorry, but so maddeningly /calm/ too. He’s not angry. He’s not doing this because he’s pissed. He’s doing this because Dean wouldn’t listen to words, and fists is what’s left.

So he grunts, “It’s okay, Fred. This is kind of our thing.”

Poor Fred.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The hit to Dean’s solar plexus catches his shoulder instead as he twists into it, knowing well enough to protect those sensitive spots. He follows the block up with a sharp jab towards Sam’s nose and a cross to his brother’s chin. He’s far more comfortable fighting than talking and it has the bonus of being far more fulfilling.

His lips twitch into a frown. “You need me. I can’t just die and leave you to figure this out! That son of a bitch killed mom, he’s not getting his dirty claws on you too!”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam whips his head out of the way of the jab to the nose, only to take it right on the chin. He staggers back a few steps, feeling that one all the way to his teeth. His anger slips, and he just goes to bear tackle Dean instead of trying to punch him.

“So we enslave you to a different son of a bitch who makes you do dozens of terrible things? How can that be right?”

Granted, tackling isn’t a very great strategy for the nimble Dean; Sam momentarily leaves himself wide open as he goes to try to take advantage of his size. He’s relatively new to having size to take advantage of, really, having sprouted up mostly within the past year, but he’s enjoyed the benefits. He just forgets how much experience Dean has fighting all sorts of things that are bigger and stronger.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The opening granted strikes as an opportunity. Dean has a mean uppercut and his brother gets the full force of it. He actually ducks back to the car immediately following, seeing full well intention at the opportunity he’s taken. His hand presses against the car and he trails around it before getting to the driver’s side to slide in.

“We don’t have a choice. There isn’t enough time,” he hisses again. “And it’s not our choice anyways. It’s mine.”

The engine starts and he puts the car into reverse.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
Slowly, Fred has been making her way toward the car in a wide arc around the brothers attempting to work out their problems through a fist fight. If she can get to her bag, she can get to the sleep bomb she and Mercy constructed in order to try and contain the Winter Soldier. It wasn’t quite as effective on Barnes, but with the Winchesters? She imagines it will knock them out enough for her to figure out what to do next.

Unfortunately, the fighting prowess of Dean versus his brother means she doesn’t have enough time to make it to passenger side of the car and into her bag with the leftover bombs. For a moment, she’s brightly illuminated in the headlights as it’s clear she was making her way toward the other side of the car. She’s not about to toss herself in front of his pathway - especially as he’s reversing instead of driving forward.

“We can figure a way out of this, Dean!” she calls out after him over the engine, staying where she is.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam has hit the dirt square in the middle of the crossroads, and for a moment all he’s seeing is stars. He puts his hand to his head, trying to recover, and by the time he does he’s illuminated in the glare of headlights. Fred is calling after Dean and…

And…

He staggers to his feet, though it’s not going to do any good; there’s no way to fight the Impala. As it is, he also gets out of Dean’s way. The expression on his face is mostly scared now, though he quickly clears it to something grimmer.

Dean Winchester has posed:
The yell over the Impala, the way it hangs in the air only causes Dean to back up further. He reaches for the radio to blare Bon Jovi loudly.

The tune is loud enough that others can hear it outside the vehicle.

//It’s all the same, only the names will change//
//Everyday, it seems we’re wastin’ away//
//Another place where the faces are so cold//
//I drive all night just to get back home//
//I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride//
//I’m wanted dead or alive.//

Dean doesn’t miss his brother’s expression. His own hardens as the car lurches backwards. But it falters momentarily when the other figure enters his periphery. His eyes roll as he turns the car, giving full view of the dark haired passenger with the shit eating grin to those still at the Crossroads. The Impala drives away.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
As the Impala reverses and the Bon Jovi blasts, Fred starts to move toward Sam. There’s nothing she can do now to stop the car, she knows that. Her own expression matches his - grim.

The sudden appearance of the dark haired man in the passenger seat causes Fred to blink, studying that face with her own look of surprise. “Who is that?” she asks. She has a theory, of course, but she wants to know if Sam already knows the person who randomly appeared in Dean’s car.

Sam Winchester has posed:
“No idea, but I aim to find out,” Sam says grimly.

Of course. There’s no way to do that here, and now, and he hasn’t been too successful thus far, all things he’s well aware of as he steps off the road and sits down with his back to a tree. They’re stuck there till Dean remembers he’s basically stranded them. Until he’s done doing what he wants to do.

His adrenaline was pretty high, and he is breathing a bit heavily, but he rests his elbows over his knees and looks down, shaggy long hair concealing his eyes.

“This was,” he adds, “exactly what I wanted to talk to you about, yes.”

He knows very well that he has fucked up. Capital F, capital U.

//In the Impala//

Crowley, King of the Crossroads, sits smugly for a moment as the music blares.

Then he reaches over to simply turn it down again, once they’re well out of sight of the two meddling children. Moose and Waif don’t even realize what they’re meddling with. Don’t even realize that in his way, he’s even trying to help them.

But it’s neither here nor there. He makes a show of checking his Rolex.

“Cut it rather close to the wire, didn’t you, Squirrel?”

Dean Winchester has posed:
Dean’s nostrils flare and his breath rakes his throat. He doesn’t admit anything. He doesn’t give anything. Instead, he hisses through his teeth, “We need to talks terms.” His gaze remains trained on the road, focused on the world in front of him instead of his passenger.

They barrel down the highway back towards Hell’s Kitchen. And then, with a sniff, he asks, “Enjoy the show?” His gaze deadens.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
The pair of them are rather stranded until they can either hitch a ride - unlikely - or Dean returns for them. Following his example, Fred steps out of the road and moves to sit next to him.

“I can see why,” she says softly. It’s hard to tell whether she can see why he concealed all this from her or whether she can see why he wanted to tell her. There’s a sigh, a lot of her earlier anger expended in her recounting of what happened to her on Pylea. There’s still frustration, there, though. There’s fear.

“How long have you known about all this?”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam half shakes his head.

“I got it in pieces. I--”

He tries to figure out how to explain it to her, how to put the timeline together.

“I found out about Dean’s contract, that I died, right before we faced those vengeance demons. But you were so upset that night that I didn’t want to get into it then. The rest...sort of in bits and pieces. I never heard the name Azazel till tonight. I figured out what Hydra was injecting me with, and…”

He lowers his head again. “Fred, all of this gets worse, and every time I tried to figure out how to put it into words I just felt so…”

He shakes his head, but his body language perhaps says it for him, because he looks rather like someone who thinks he’s shit on the shoe of the world.

//Impala//

“Top notch entertainment is one of the perks of the job,” Crowley says, his low-key voice reflecting cheer all the same, the slightest of smiles still lingering there.

Terms, Dean says, and he seems even more amused.

“Spoken like a man who thinks he has some sort of bargaining position, but as I was so fantastically entertained I can’t wait to hear all about them.”

He makes a show of getting comfortable in Sam’s seat, even reaching down to adjust the lever so the back position is a bit more to //his// liking. Or...he tries. When he realizes it’s a bucket seat, set only to the driver’s settings, he scowls a little and settles back as if he hadn’t tried to do a thing.

Dean Winchester has posed:
“Here’s the thing Crowley,” Dean speaks to the road, “something’s bothered me for awhile,” his lips purse weirdly, “but you came to me that night. It’s gnawed at me for years.” His jaw clenches. “I didn’t go to the Crossroads. You. Came. To. Me.”

“And with the horse thing? You came to me.” His eyebrows quirk. “I have no idea what the hell you want with me, but it’s something.” His fingers tap on the wheel absently. “So. Terms.”

His throat clears. “I take this, and you don’t get to talk to Sam. Ever. Even after my death.” He emits a long breath. “I refuse to do something I go to the pit. I die, the contract ends. And… inevitably I go to the pit.”

His teeth worry his bottom lip. “And after I do three of your favours? You help me find Azazel.”

Winifred Burkle has posed:
There’s a delicate line to be walked here. Fred sits next to Sam, looking first to him and then to the empty road in front of them. While she doesn’t lean against him right now, what she does do is reach out a hand, attempting to take his in hers.

For the moment, she doesn’t excuse the concealing. Instead, she pauses. It’s so easy to see that he’s in pain and the last thing she wants to do is add to that. There’s not much she thinks she can say in order to assuage him. So, she simply says, “It’s okay, Sam. You can tell me.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam Winchester takes the hand of the woman he loves, and for a long moment that’s all he can do. He swallows and he looks out into the distance.

“They were injecting me with demon blood, Fred,” he says.

He shivers. “I started looking forward to them. Because they felt good. They washed pain away, they made me feel stronger, they made the hunger not matter as much. Gave me a rush of pleasure, like heroin. And it’s crazy, because that’s not anything demon blood does to people. You inject the average person with demon blood, they just...it’s nothing. It’s just gross and unsanitary. But the Yellow Eyed Demon...Azazel, I guess...did something to me.”

He swallows.

“After you guys got me I still didn’t know, but I started fantasizing about it. I couldn’t stop. And by the end of the week I was trying not to show it, but I was in terrible pain. Like every muscle was cramping up, like a full body migraine, like I was hungry but nauseated at the same time...so I found a demon, went on a hunt, got some and tried it and it...It was what I needed. It was fantastic.”

He squeezes her hand in a way that warns there’s even more.

//Impala//

Crowley strokes his beard.

He cannot, as it happens, tell Dean a thing. If he does, all will be absolutely lost.

But he does smile faintly. “You’ve gotten a bit more savvy in your old age. And here I thought that you were simply a functioning moron at best. But. You can rest assured I have no interest in talking to Sam. And going after Azazel...yes, I think that will do nicely.”

He tilts his finger at Dean.

“But. I have my first little task for you today.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
A mirthless smile extends across Dean’s features. “Thanks. Everyone assumes I’m Daddy’s blond little warrior and nothing else. Nothing going on upstairs. Pretty sure Dad and Sam think that too,” his smile has the edges expected of someone far more sinister. The car continues to barrel back to the Hell’s Kitchen apartment.

“Then you have a deal. Three favours. You help me find Azazel. And if that son of a bitch kills me at least I’ll know there’s nothing else I could’ve done,” to protect Sam. His fingers white knuckle.

“What’s the task?”

He stares straight at the road, never turning to look at Crowley as he drives.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
For a little while, the two of them just sit there, holding hands at a crossroads. When Sam finally does speak, she doesn’t say anything. There’s clearly surprise on her face and then a glimpse of anger returning, then shock.

They injected him with demon blood. It does something to him, meaning whoever Azazel is changed something inside of him. The Winter Soldier not only took Sam, but they experimented on him. The anger returns, this time directed at the man chained up in Mercy’s garage. There will be words. She’s thinking through what can be done with that when Sam drops the last bomb.

The shock is clear on her face as he says that he found a demon and then used its blood. That he is addicted to it. However, the hand doesn’t attempt to pull out of his. Nor does she look disgusted by him or like she is about to run away. When he squeezes her hand, she nods, not trusting herself to speak, but indicating that he should continue.

Sam Winchester has posed:
Sam swallows hard. The fact that she accepts him means more than he can even express. It brings a few tears to his eyes, though they remain unshed. He drops his gaze again after a brief, sick, sad, and loving one in her direction.

He exhales.

“I captured one of those revenge demons instead of banishing it. As far as I know they only shape human bodies out of their magic rather than possessing one-- though my lore sources are fuzzy on that point-- and it seemed ideal. Because that way a human isn’t held captive right along with the demon. She gives me a.” He clears his throat. “Well. A predictable supply. She’s well secured, but…”

But it’s sick, and wrong, and strange, and awful, and dangerous. And Sam knows it. Yet he doesn’t have a better solution, either.

//Impala//

Crowley produces a picture of a dark haired young lady, about Sam’s age. She’s got bouncing black curls and big green eyes. “I need you to seduce her,” he says. Affable as his brand of evil is, there’s still coldness beneath the tone.

And he doesn’t bother to explain why.

“The specific time and place I need you to close the deal are written on the back of the photo.”

Dean Winchester has posed:
And for the first time, Dean’s eyes peel away from the road and his head turns towards Crowley. “...did you just objectify me?” He rubs his forehead and his expression turns grim. Out of all the things he’d envisioned doing for Crowley, seducing some unsuspecting brunette was definitely not one of them.

“Are you seriously having me trade sexual favours to stay out of Hell awhile longer?” he asks the road in front of him as his eyebrows draw together. “...I’m a hooker. A hooker for hell. A hell hooker,” everything in his tone is deadpanned. “I haven’t… I’m not… That’s not something I do anymore. But then, you knew that, didn’t you?”

But objections all die at the thought of finally being able to protect Sam once Azazel is dead. He plucks the photo from Crowley’s fingers.

After doing so, he grabs the cellphone from his pocket. “...Agent May… Sam and Fred need a ride…”

He glances towards Crowley and lifts his eyebrows as he puts the car into park in front of the Hell’s Kitchen apartment.

Winifred Burkle has posed:
The last bombshell that Sam drops is quite the doozy. For a long while Fred doesn’t speak, though she squeezes his hand. The surprise returns. She’d never expect him to do something like that. It’s...so cold and calculated. There’s silence as she tries to figure out what to say.

“Sam…” she sighs, shaking her head. Her other hand reaches out to take his. “We’re going to figure this out.” Her words are a bit halting as she tries to think about what to say before she actually does so. “But...keeping a vengeance demon…” she trails off again, trying to say the right thing. “That’s not the way. You can’t do that. That’s not you.”

Her voice remains soft as she continues, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you were in pain like that for so long. I thought you needed space after everything. I know you’ve told me that you were taught to hide everything, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. You’ve gotta let me in.”

Sam Winchester has posed:
“I told you I was fine 600 times, I don’t know why you’d apologize for believing me,” Sam says quietly.

He plucks up some grass and tosses the stems to one side with his free hand, glancing up at the sky. “I’m trying, Fred. I’m letting you in right now. I’ve felt like there was something wrong with me all my life. Getting confirmation hasn’t been...easy.”

He looks off down the road. “What Dean is doing-- it’s-- he shouldn’t have.”

He looks back at her. “I was drunk that night,” he explains. “When I thought to summon the crossroads demon for myself. I was drunk, and all I could think was that all I’ve ever done is ruin everything for Dean, and that I was supposed to have died 9 years ago, and how much better off Dean would be on virtually every level if I were gone. But I was rash, and wrong, and I should have talked things out with you.”

//Hell’s Kitchen//

“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself. Usually deals-- and riders to deals-- are sealed with a kiss,” Crowley says, with a flirtatious lean in that puts his face very close to Dean’s. “But we have an understanding now, so I let you off with a verbal contract. And we both know you’ll whore yourself out, lie, steal, cheat, torture or murder to protect Sammy.”

He leans back and tap taps his mouth thoughtfully. As if something has occurred to him.

“That kind of devotion does deserve some sort of reward, so you should know...he /did/ look. He’d have found you under the ocean within six weeks...if not for a series of cryptic clues, false trails, and strange coordinates that took him on a cross-country wild goose chase, throwing him into hunt after hunt, each hunt seeming to bring you closer while never managing to do so. Shame about that.”

And then he tips his fingers to his forehead in salute.

“Ciao.”

He’s gone.

Melinda May has posed:
// Triskelion//

May answers her phone when it rings. She figured out very quickly that if either of the Winchesters were calling her, it would very likely be a life or death situation. She barely gets her name out when Dean tells her that Sam and Fred need a ride, and she turns to let someone know she’s needed elsewhere she she faintly hears a different voice over the line.

Frowning, she listens more carefully as the voice suddenly becomes much clearer then backs off again, gesturing to her current companion to record the call and process it. Luckily, the silent hand gestures are something the two have long since mastered so she doesn’t have to explain.

Waiting a second or two after the other voice’s last word, she finally speaks up. “Dean. Tell me what’s going on. Now.” She’s on her way to claim a vehicle, and no, she’s not heading to the motor pool.

Dean Winchester has posed:
Crowley earns a sharp knit of Dean’s eyebrows. “Dude. I ain’t kissing you.” Because there’s no way that’s happening. “It’s enough that you’re whoring me out.” He has more to say, more to wax poetic on, but Crowley is gone, and May is on the phone, he can feel the frown creep into his tone, wholly aware she heard so much more than he’d intended. “...May…”

Dean treads through the convenience store under their apartment, pausing at the store to nab a bottle of whiskey from the counter, leaving some bills on the counter. “Look. Sam is hellspawn. I gotta fix it.”

The woman at the counter arches her eyebrows at him as he talks into the phone. “Uh… keep the change,” he turns on his heel and then turns to the stairs with a wince. “When we were kids a demon named Azazel fed him demon blood and killed our mother. Hydra exploited that and he’s doping demon blood.”

It’s been an eventful week. “Look. I bought myself more time to do this, but I need to… I need to go. I need to find a way to kill demons, find Azazel,” he doesn’t add the bit about how Crowley is helping to that end, “all before I bite the dust. So. I need to head to the Roadhouse and…” he frowns. “...Jo.” That horrible sinking feeling enters the pit of his stomach. “Fuuuuuck.” His eyes clamp shut just shy of the door.

He forces them open when he finally needs his keys. “I need you to watch Sam. He’ll be fine. He has Fred. And I gotta--” he proceeds to unlock the latch on the door and it swings open. He drops the phone.

“Dean,” a low familiar voice greets.

Dean stiffens visibly. He stares at the figure sitting at the table. His cheeks puff out irritably, “...Dad.”