[giver;
Title: Giver
Rating: PG-13
Series: xxxHolic, Supernatural
Summary: Dean makes a deal with someone else, whose price might just be steeper.
Notes: Thank you's go to pspgm for editing everything into something that is in fact prose, and krystalfaerie for being an excellent Yuko.
The bedroom door, as far as Dean knows, has always led to the kitchen. Yes, he's seen some weird shit in his life, but this has always been pretty consistent. Tonight, however, it does not. He's drunker than he's been in a long time - maybe ever - and there's another beer in his hand and four more in the six-pack on the kitchen table, but he doesn't think he's far gone enough to be hallucinating this. Especially when Sam's body is still on the bed behind him.
"...Fuckin' whiskey." Dean rubs his eyes, and then looks again. It's got to be the alcohol or his grief that's playing tricks on him. Because there's no way in hell he's standing on some lawn looking at some quaint little Chinese place, squeezed between chunks of concrete jungle. He turns, about to go back to Sammy (corpse cold, eyes closed, blood on his back don't think don't think) but there's no door. And that? Freaks him out more than anything. No weapon on him but a little knife in the middle of nowhere. The sun's bright here and he shades his eyes, used to the dark of the room behind him.
He turns away from where the door should be at the sound of rustling cloth, ready to go for the knife (not that he thinks he could do much considering he's seeing two bonsai trees by the door where there should be one). A woman in a long, flowing, lacy dress with deep black hair leans lazily on the doorframe leading into the house. Dean's not much of one for metaphor, especially this soused, but to him she gives off the impression of a butterfly alighting on your finger - briefly entertaining you on a whim before her fancy carries her somewhere else.
She speaks. "Good evening, Dean Winchester. My, that's quite an impressive level of inebriation."
Dean turns, immediately suspicious. He sways slightly, but his eyes narrow. Witch; has to be. He gives her a grim smile and replies with as much steel as he can muster, which isn't much, "Yeah, well, that's whiskey for you, babe." Jesus, is she moving? "Where the hell am I? I ain't got time for any witch games, so you can go on and send me home, Hermione."
Her smile says it all. She knows what you did last summer, and knows exactly what you would give to make amends for it. "I don't sell games, Mr. Winchester. You have found your way into my shop; you must have need of my services." She gives a sweeping bow. "Everyone has wishes. Some want them more desperately than others. Tell me, Mr. Winchester, what would you pay to see your wish granted?"
Dean feels something cold go up his spine, like he's suddenly looking at the damn demon again. This bitch isn't playing and before he can stop himself he replies, without hesitating: "Anything." It hurts, but he means it. But he chuckles, too. He remembers the Crossroads Demon, knows what his dad taught him. You're not supposed to mess with this. You're not. But... if... "Could you bring him back? Could you bring Sammy back?"
Her eyes are serious, utterly confident. The sparkle of mirth that danced in them when Dean first appeared is gone. "Anything, mmm? That's a dangerous declaration to make. I must warn you, the price of reversing death is steep."
Dean resists the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, but he goes along with it. He's got nothing to lose, right? "That's real funny, but how the hell can a dead person pay you?"
The witch smiles, raising an admonishing finger. "That's for me to know!" Then her tone returns to one of seriousness. "Bringing him back to life is no easy feat. I will require something very precious from you. Consider this: I shall return him to life, but the bond you share will be gone. Not the bond of blood, but the bond of friendship, of trust, of love. It will be as if you never existed, as if he had no brother." She looks at him, looks into him. "Is this price one you are willing to pay?"
Dean inhales sharply. He'd be lying if he said that it doesn't come as a shock, a big one. He feels bile come up his throat, but he swallows it down. A breathing Sammy is better than a dead Sammy, isn't it? But it still it takes him a moment before he's able to muster up a hoarse "Yes. I'll pay it."
She smiles. "Very well. That leaves Sam Winchester's price, which he will pay when the time comes. Bring the body to me, and come here in one week. I promise you, he will be alive and well upon your return."
The door behind him opens wider with a creak. Warily, he walks back inside, back into the room that smells of death and stale whiskey, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up the entire time. Sam's body is heavy as he carries it out to her, but the lack of movement, bitching or otherwise, makes it worse.
He walks all the way up to her porch with Sam over his shoulder, eyes steely. He'll believe her utterly only when he sees Sam alive, but until then he'll take the chance.
Out the front door bounce two little girls, one with a short pink bob, the other with long, fluffy blue pigtails. The witch nods at the body, and they hoist it up onto their shoulders, bringing it inside with enough care to keep it safe. She looks at Dean. "Remember, one week. The door will re-open whenever you have need of it."
Dean nods stiffly and steps back, off the porch. "One week." With that he turns, and after a moment, walks back through the door, empty-handed but with dreams and hopes that he didn't have before. He tries to think of a lie to tell Bobby as the door shuts behind him.
The Space-Time Witch sighs, sliding the door shut. Those two boys have been through much, she knows, and still more lies ahead of them. For now, though, she has a difficult task ahead of her - but one that can wait until tomorrow. She will need to be fully rested before she begins.
Dean looks at the bottle, half-full on the bedside table, and grins crookedly before he swipes it against the wall and collapses on the bed, where Sam's body would have been keeping the bed warm five minutes ago had he had any warmth to do it with.
He's going to need to sleep if he's gonna look good for his little brother in a week.
Rating: PG-13
Series: xxxHolic, Supernatural
Summary: Dean makes a deal with someone else, whose price might just be steeper.
Notes: Thank you's go to pspgm for editing everything into something that is in fact prose, and krystalfaerie for being an excellent Yuko.
The bedroom door, as far as Dean knows, has always led to the kitchen. Yes, he's seen some weird shit in his life, but this has always been pretty consistent. Tonight, however, it does not. He's drunker than he's been in a long time - maybe ever - and there's another beer in his hand and four more in the six-pack on the kitchen table, but he doesn't think he's far gone enough to be hallucinating this. Especially when Sam's body is still on the bed behind him.
"...Fuckin' whiskey." Dean rubs his eyes, and then looks again. It's got to be the alcohol or his grief that's playing tricks on him. Because there's no way in hell he's standing on some lawn looking at some quaint little Chinese place, squeezed between chunks of concrete jungle. He turns, about to go back to Sammy (corpse cold, eyes closed, blood on his back don't think don't think) but there's no door. And that? Freaks him out more than anything. No weapon on him but a little knife in the middle of nowhere. The sun's bright here and he shades his eyes, used to the dark of the room behind him.
He turns away from where the door should be at the sound of rustling cloth, ready to go for the knife (not that he thinks he could do much considering he's seeing two bonsai trees by the door where there should be one). A woman in a long, flowing, lacy dress with deep black hair leans lazily on the doorframe leading into the house. Dean's not much of one for metaphor, especially this soused, but to him she gives off the impression of a butterfly alighting on your finger - briefly entertaining you on a whim before her fancy carries her somewhere else.
She speaks. "Good evening, Dean Winchester. My, that's quite an impressive level of inebriation."
Dean turns, immediately suspicious. He sways slightly, but his eyes narrow. Witch; has to be. He gives her a grim smile and replies with as much steel as he can muster, which isn't much, "Yeah, well, that's whiskey for you, babe." Jesus, is she moving? "Where the hell am I? I ain't got time for any witch games, so you can go on and send me home, Hermione."
Her smile says it all. She knows what you did last summer, and knows exactly what you would give to make amends for it. "I don't sell games, Mr. Winchester. You have found your way into my shop; you must have need of my services." She gives a sweeping bow. "Everyone has wishes. Some want them more desperately than others. Tell me, Mr. Winchester, what would you pay to see your wish granted?"
Dean feels something cold go up his spine, like he's suddenly looking at the damn demon again. This bitch isn't playing and before he can stop himself he replies, without hesitating: "Anything." It hurts, but he means it. But he chuckles, too. He remembers the Crossroads Demon, knows what his dad taught him. You're not supposed to mess with this. You're not. But... if... "Could you bring him back? Could you bring Sammy back?"
Her eyes are serious, utterly confident. The sparkle of mirth that danced in them when Dean first appeared is gone. "Anything, mmm? That's a dangerous declaration to make. I must warn you, the price of reversing death is steep."
Dean resists the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, but he goes along with it. He's got nothing to lose, right? "That's real funny, but how the hell can a dead person pay you?"
The witch smiles, raising an admonishing finger. "That's for me to know!" Then her tone returns to one of seriousness. "Bringing him back to life is no easy feat. I will require something very precious from you. Consider this: I shall return him to life, but the bond you share will be gone. Not the bond of blood, but the bond of friendship, of trust, of love. It will be as if you never existed, as if he had no brother." She looks at him, looks into him. "Is this price one you are willing to pay?"
Dean inhales sharply. He'd be lying if he said that it doesn't come as a shock, a big one. He feels bile come up his throat, but he swallows it down. A breathing Sammy is better than a dead Sammy, isn't it? But it still it takes him a moment before he's able to muster up a hoarse "Yes. I'll pay it."
She smiles. "Very well. That leaves Sam Winchester's price, which he will pay when the time comes. Bring the body to me, and come here in one week. I promise you, he will be alive and well upon your return."
The door behind him opens wider with a creak. Warily, he walks back inside, back into the room that smells of death and stale whiskey, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up the entire time. Sam's body is heavy as he carries it out to her, but the lack of movement, bitching or otherwise, makes it worse.
He walks all the way up to her porch with Sam over his shoulder, eyes steely. He'll believe her utterly only when he sees Sam alive, but until then he'll take the chance.
Out the front door bounce two little girls, one with a short pink bob, the other with long, fluffy blue pigtails. The witch nods at the body, and they hoist it up onto their shoulders, bringing it inside with enough care to keep it safe. She looks at Dean. "Remember, one week. The door will re-open whenever you have need of it."
Dean nods stiffly and steps back, off the porch. "One week." With that he turns, and after a moment, walks back through the door, empty-handed but with dreams and hopes that he didn't have before. He tries to think of a lie to tell Bobby as the door shuts behind him.
The Space-Time Witch sighs, sliding the door shut. Those two boys have been through much, she knows, and still more lies ahead of them. For now, though, she has a difficult task ahead of her - but one that can wait until tomorrow. She will need to be fully rested before she begins.
Dean looks at the bottle, half-full on the bedside table, and grins crookedly before he swipes it against the wall and collapses on the bed, where Sam's body would have been keeping the bed warm five minutes ago had he had any warmth to do it with.
He's going to need to sleep if he's gonna look good for his little brother in a week.