[FIC] Father's Gun (83/?)
Title: Father's Gun
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Sam opens his mouth, closes it, and doesn’t say anything through the rest of Tennessee and most of Alabama.
“Come on, man, say something already,” Dean finally demands when the silence finally gets too much.
“Pull over.”
Dean nods tightly, jaw clenched as he guides his girl to the shoulder and mutely follows Sammy’s lead, cuts the engine and slips out of the driver’s seat, the only sounds the slow settling of the Impala’s fans and the rattle of orphaned cartridges as Sammy rummages around in the trunk, shoulders hunched and bangs falling forward to shadow his eyes.
The way Dean figures it, he’s more than earned any licks Sammy decides to dish out. If he wants to gild the fucking lily by digging out the brass knucks to deliver ‘em, then, as the gay-crushed-upon-by-my-brother party, he’s probably earned that, too.
The best Dean can hope for is that Sammy’s got his head screwed on tight enough to avoid the face, considering they may have to sweet talk some civvies to get the Intel on this newest family Yellow Eyes is zeroing in on, and people are generally less liable to talk if their interviewer just looks like he went twelve rounds with Tyson.
Worse case scenario, Sam’s finally figured out just how fucked up his big brother really is here, and Dean loses some teeth on top of the only family he’s got in this world which, put up against those stakes, who the fuck cares about a few molars?
“Spray paint?” Sam bites out, shoving their weapons duffel at Dean without looking up from where he’s rooting around in the trunk, pawing through a tangled knot of rosaries and gris-gris until he digs out what looks like their fake-id cigar box, dented and so caked in road dust that Dean can barely make out the Tampa Imperial logo on the top.
He gets as far as a confused “Wha-” before Sam flips open the lid of the box, rifling quickly through the contents, and Dean’d have to be a lot dumber than he is not to know black cat bones and graveyard dirt, burned-out yarrow, and hot foot powder and Sammy, scrubbed clean and spelled out in his own sprawling, spiky handwriting. The black to the core and the land of the dead and the yellow blossoming to call it and the stinging powder to chase it away and Sammy, sunny and smiling and surrounded by it all.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me!” Dean explodes. “Seriously? Seriously?!”
“I don’t want to hear it, Dean,” Sam snaps, cracking open their copy of the Key of Soloman and starting in on the long, lethal lines of the trap.
“Tough,” Dean fires back. “‘Cause you’ve been tryin to get me talkin’ all day, and you know what, Sammy? You got your goddamn wish. Here I am, gums flappin’ ‘cause you must be outside of your damn mind if you think I’m gonna let you summon another goddamn groupie to figure out-”
“To figure out what, Dean? The goddamn hunt? Yellow Eyes’ plan? Where this family is? All the shit we don’t know, but need to if we want a snowball’s chance in hell of coming out the other end of this hunt alive?! He knows we’re coming, Dean! He knows we’ve got the Colt, that we had Ash on the other kids, everything! If he’s got any sense in the world, that town’s crawling with demons, all prepped and ready to kill you and do God knows what to me, so yeah, Dean, I’m gonna figure out everything I can about who and what and where he’s got his yellow goddamn fingers in that town and around that kid. Because if we go in to something like this half cocked and guns blazing, we’re gonna both bite it, and I’m not gonna get the chance to tear you a goddamn new one for not telling me any of this! I should’ve- should’ve-”
“Sam, you couldn’tve.”
“Don’t, Dean!” Sam tosses the can of spray paint back into the trunk with a hollow, metallic rattle. “Just don’t. I’ve only got- I can only handle so much right now, and the clock’s ticking so if we can just- just not until we figure out what the hell it is we’re goddamn doing, I would really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, sure.” Dean nods, handing Sam the cigar box with a tight nod as they trudge out to the middle of the crossroads. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”
Sam buries the box efficiently, his eyes fixed resolutely on the ground. Dean watches him silently, his hands shoved in his pockets. There’s a lump in his throat, so many things he wants to say, needs to say, but even if Sam hadn’t made it clear that he didn’t want to talk right now, Dean doesn’t think he could put them into words.
When Sam finishes shoveling dirt on top of the box, Dean follows him back out of the circle. They wait silently for several crawling minutes.
“Look,” Dean starts gruffly, not sure what he’s about to say.
“Well, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a voice drawls.
Dean doesn’t flinch, but just barely. He could swear he never took his eyes off the circle, but he must have blinked, because there’s a figure standing there in the middle of the crossroads. His hand strays to the Colt in an unconscious gesture.
The demon - or at least, the body he’s wearing - is tall and broad, with close-cropped blonde hair and a lightly freckled face. He's not what Dean expected at all. He's wearing a pastel pink button-down and khaki shorts, for Christ's sake. Still, no matter how innocuously he’s dressed or how friendly-faced his meatsuit is, there’s something dark and hungry in his gaze that’s all predator. It makes Dean’s skin crawl, not the least because that look is fixed on his baby brother with worrying intensity.
“Can the small talk, asshat,” Dean snaps. “What’s your boss up to?”
The demon doesn’t spare him a glance. He cocks an eyebrow at Sam. “Brooding for the ages, if I’m any judge. Heavy is the head, I suppose.”
Sam’s eyes flicker toward Dean so fast he almost misses it. His eyes are back on the demon’s face just as fast, his face set hard.
“How do I know it’s you?”
“You don’t recognize me, your first and most faithful?” The demon pouts, predator’s grin sneaking in at the edges. “I know I’m wrapped in Pi Kappa Alpha Male here and not that delicious brunette from Minnesota, but honestly, after all that time I spent waiting for your call...”
“What was the last thing you said to me in Blue Earth?” Sam bites out impatiently.
“All hail the Boy King,” the demon answers answers, that same slow, shark toothed smirk sneaking across his face as he gives a low bow, and from the look on his brother’s face, if Sam had any doubts, any at all, that would have erased them. “As true then as it is now, especially after that impressive show in Blue Earth. I knew you had it in you, Sammy.”
“Don’t call me that,” Sam snaps. “We need information. Is our deal still good?”
“If you’re about to do what I think you’re about to do, yes,” Sharky purrs. “Emphatically so.”
“Deal?” Dean demands.
“Only in the informal sense, I’m afraid.” The demon sighs. “Your darling brother is distressingly resistant to the idea of a - a-hem - long term commitment.”
“Because it’s not going to happen,” Sam says tersely.
“Whatever you say,” the demon as good as dismisses. “Now, you said you needed information? Would that be about the demonic powers you don’t have or the underworld coup you aren’t planning?”
“We just need Yellow Eyes’ setup in Tuscaloosa,” Sam forces out. “Where he’s got the family, how many bodies he’s got on the ground, if he’s expecting us, whatever you’ve got.”
“Oh, I was hoping that’s what this is was about,” Sharky all but purrs, stepping in close to Sam and sending every protective instinct Dean’s got going haywire. “There’s nothing sexier than sheer, bloody-minded ambition. Tell me Blue Earth was just your opening act, handsome, that you’re about to show the world what you can really do.”
“How about you tell me you got more to offer than cheap lines and ass-kissing, dirtbag?” Dean snaps, dragging the Colt from his jacket pocket. The demon looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time. The sight of the gun seems to have sobered him. He’s gone very still, staring down his nose at the Colt, his face a mask. “Guy as smart as you, I bet you know all about what I did to the last sleazeball I caught coming on to my little brother, and he was human as they come. So I’m gonna ask you once: You wanna talk, or you wanna see me get creative with this demon killing son of a bitch?”
“Dean, you’ll kill the guy he’s in,” Sam warns.
“Not if I aim real careful,” he grits out, hammer cocked and gun level.
The demon glances between them. The tension bleeds from his shoulders, and he smiles slowly.
“Then I’ll be dead, you’ll be left with a bleeding frat boy, and none the wiser for it,” he all but sings.
Dean’s finger flexes on the trigger. “Hey, the longer you talk the less that seems like a raw deal.”
“Dean,” Sam snaps. “Don’t.”
Dean holds the gun on the demon a beat longer, then drops it with a huff. “You’re not worth the ammunition.”
The demon sneers at him. “The legend of your charm is not exaggerated. Though I must admit, upon a face-to-face meeting, you do have a certain... rugged unpleasantness that’s not altogether displeasing. And those eyes...”
Sharky suddenly stiffens up, almost flinching as he turns back to Sam with a quick whirl.
“But I digress. Tuscaloosa. You’re right to be worried, of course. He knows you’re coming, and he’s got eyes on the ground looking out for you. That Stygian monstrosity,” he nods his head at Dean’s baby, waiting a safe distance away at the edge of the devil’s trap, “is on everyone’s watch list, as are new faces in the family’s vicinity. Luckily for you, though, topside tickets are hard to come by, even at this level, so while you’ll still be egregiously outnumbered, with my help and that clever little toy of yours, you might just stand a chance.”
“And you’re totally fine with helping us kill your boss, just like that?” Dean demands.
“More like my boss’s boss’s boss, darling.” Sharky smirks. “And as I told your brother the last time we met, I’m in sales. We’re all about upward mobility, and nothing says upwardly mobile like facilitating a number of vacant positions located right at the top.”
“And when people start asking how we knew as much as we did when it came down to icing Yellow Eyes?”
“What are you going to do, name names? Tell them that dapper red-eyed gentleman at the crossroads sent you?” He grins. “I’m one of a million, dear, and with no Deal on the books and no name to give them, I’m a ghost in all of this. There’s just you and him and a debt to be repaid when our boy here reaches his full potential.”
“Never going to happen,” Sam snaps.
“There’s a ruin of a church in Minnesota that says otherwise,” the demon drawls, damn cat-got-the-canary smile spreading across his stolen face.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Sam demands. “He knows you’re coming, don’t bring the car? Anyone could have figured that out.”
“What do you think that figures, as far as ‘debts to be repaid’ go, Sammy?” Dean sneers, arching an eyebrow at his brother. “A couple of coupons to Sizzler?”
“If that,” Sam snorts, cracking the first smile Dean’s seen from him all day, for all that it’s got a razor edge.
“He can’t touch the family,” Sharky breaks in, predator’s grin gone from his face. “They’re good for ten years, as long as they don’t try and slip their end of the bargain.”
“You mean as long as they let Yellow Eyes make their kid a monster,” Sam grounds out. “As long as he gets another soldier for his army, right?”
“Well, you and I know that, yes. The family?” The demon shrugs. “They might not be so aware. Regardless, you move on them three months before their deal comes due, you can kiss them and their sweet, bouncing baby boy goodbye. It’ll be Blue Earth all over again.”
Sam bites his lip and lets out a long, soft breath out through his nose.
“No,” the demon continues breezily, “I’m afraid to save the little potato and his demon-dealing Mama and Daddy, you’re going to need something a little more... of the inside track. Like, say, the location of Yellow Eye’s base of operations in Daddy dearest’s hometown.”
“You know where he’s at, don’t you?” Sam breathes. “You could put us on him tonight.”
“Worth a little bit more than dinner at Sizzler, wouldn’t you say?” The demon smirks, smug satisfaction seeping from him once more.
“You’re not getting a Deal,” Sam snaps.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sharky steps close to the edge of the trap, setting every hair on the back of Dean’s neck on end. “I just want a taste.”
“Of what?” Dean demands, edging subtly in front of Sam.
“Power,” the demon answers, his eye locked on the pulse in Sam’s throat. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about Downstairs, what the Boy King can do.”
“I’m not your King.” Sam shakes his head. “I’m never going to be.”
“But you’re the first round draft pick, Sammy,” he says, setting Dean’s teeth on edge. “Everyone’s favorite, and after what happened in that church-”
“How did they get in?” Sam demands, edging back from Sharky, towards Dean, just a little. “It was on holy ground.”
“Doesn’t matter if you’re big enough, strong enough. Yellow Eyes can cross it. His second. Some others.”
“And the Roadhouse,” Sam presses. “Are there any more coordinated attacks coming?”
“Wasn’t us.” Sharky waves a hand dismissively. “Probably some bored schmuck on shore leave who got lucky with his timing.”
“What?” Sam looks as shocked as Dean feels.
“There’s actually some talk about it,” Sharky says. “Some think it might be a political thing, some think solidarity, some are with you and think it was a black ops move from up top. All I know is what I hear: no one got orders to take the place out.”
“And every order goes through you, huh?” Dean challenges.
“You’d be surprised how much you pick up, ear to the ground, just listening at the veil for someone to let their tragic flaw get the best of them. To dial up a demon and make their last, greatest mistake.”
“Yellow Eye’s location,” Sam says tightly. “You said you knew.”
“Payment first,” the demon says, eyes tracing the blue at Sam’s wrist, dark and vital beneath the long, cruel white scar on the inside of his arm.
“H-How much?” Sam grinds out, voice shaky at first, then surer, steadier.
“Sam!” Dean snaps, eyes narrowing as he shoves his way between the demon and his brother, locks unsteady hands around unevenly scarred wrists and holds on, tight, as sudden, hot-cold panic sweeps his body. “You can’t be serious!”
“It’ll give us Yellow Eyes, Dean.” Sam’s eye narrow, Mom and Jess and their whole damn lives in his voice. “We can end this all tonight, before anyone else gets hurt.”
“Sam...” Dean forces out, swallowing hard and holding on tight, his eyes, fingers, everything tracing the unbroken expanse of neck, wrist, elbow, hidden beneath canvas and plaid. Whole, unmarked, unbroken. No blood, no bruises, no digging, knowing teeth or cruel, dragging pulls or awful, icy chill, creeping up and forcing him down, down as he slumps against cold, unforgiving iron.
“Just a taste,” Sharky breathes from behind him. “Just enough to feel what’s buried in you, sleeping. You won’t even miss it.”
“And this isn’t a deal?” Sam clarifies, never looking away. “No contracts, no soul swaps?”
His eyes never leave Dean’s as his right hand moves, twists in his brother’s grip, thick line of scar skimming beneath the callous of Dean’s fingers as Sam brings both their hands up to slip just beneath the collar of Dean’s jacket, to rest, warm and whole, against the scything, sliver slices of scar over his jugular, before gently, firmly using their entwined fingers to shift Dean from his place between Sam and the demon.
“What’s in your veins for what’s in my head,” the demon promises from behind Dean. “No kisses, no strings...”
Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s for a long moment, and there are regrets and apologies, ‘I have to’s and ‘I wish you didn’t’s and a long, fervent string of ‘God, please let this all be worth it’s before their fingers over Dean’s pulse shift, fall away as Sam loosens his grip to pull the knife from his sleeve.
He breaks Dean’s gaze to step to the edge of the devil’s trap, pricking his left index finger with a quick, steady twist as every muscle in Dean’s body tenses, his grip on the Colt white knuckled and steady as the day is long as he sights along the barrel.
This asshole makes one move, one move...
“The address?” Sam hisses, squeezing his finger to make the blood rise and well at the edge of the trap.
“We said-” Sharky protests, but Sam holds firm, stands tall, kicks his chin back that little bit that lets Dean know he has this one beat.
“Maybe we did.” He smirks, holding his hand just this side of the spray painted line, watching as a single, lurid drop wells, runs down scar and callous, and falls, wasted in the dust of the road. “But I’m clotting here, and you’re stuck over there. Address, please.”
“Come on!” the demon exclaims, eyes watching the blood welling up on Sam’s finger with something like desperation.
“Address.”
“2020 Kingsgate Drive!” Sharky cries before the last drop falls.
Sam shoves his hand across the line to smear the bright, sticky liquid across Sharky’s lips. His finger darts between the demon’s parted lips and back out again in a heartbeat before he hauls back for a vicious, cracking backhand that sends the demon sprawling.
“Thanks,” Sam says, mouth twisting as he scrubs his hand across the rough denim of his jeans. “Don’t ever ask me for that again.”
The demon exhales a delirious sounding laugh from his place in the dirt.
“Are we done here?” Dean demands, squashing the urge to snatch up Sam’s hand and douse it in whisky from the flask in his back pocket. Or holy water. Or both.
“Very.” Sam scowls. “Exortiamus te, omni spiritus potesta....”
Sharky forces himself up onto his elbows, stumbles to his feet, his body clenching under the first wave of Sam’s exorcism. He smiles, his teeth stained crimson.
“I bet you could send me back without the Latin, if you tried,” he gasps, a hint of laugher making its way through the pain as he runs his tongue over the bright red stain on his lips. “I bet you could get anything you wanted, if you really put your mind to it.”
“You know what I really want right now?” Sam grits out between slow, steady reams of Latin.
“I have an inkling.” Sharky grins, his eyes flicking to Dean for one hot, heady second. “‘Til next time, Highness.”
He executes a rough bow as his body is wracked, clenches, and vomits up hot black smoke that whirls off into the mid afternoon haze, leaving Dean tense and Sam terse and a very confused brother of the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity dazed and dizzy in the center of the crossroads.
Authors: diana_lucifera & tersichore
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: Mature
Warnings: minor character death, mentions of torture, the slowest of burns, and excessive bed-sharing
Summary: After the events of "Brother's Blood," Sam and Dean are faced with teaming up with John to hunt the Yellow-Eyed Demon, all while keeping Sam's powers a secret and dodging their dad's questions about just why things between them are so... different.
Previous Chapter | Master Post
Sam opens his mouth, closes it, and doesn’t say anything through the rest of Tennessee and most of Alabama.
“Come on, man, say something already,” Dean finally demands when the silence finally gets too much.
“Pull over.”
Dean nods tightly, jaw clenched as he guides his girl to the shoulder and mutely follows Sammy’s lead, cuts the engine and slips out of the driver’s seat, the only sounds the slow settling of the Impala’s fans and the rattle of orphaned cartridges as Sammy rummages around in the trunk, shoulders hunched and bangs falling forward to shadow his eyes.
The way Dean figures it, he’s more than earned any licks Sammy decides to dish out. If he wants to gild the fucking lily by digging out the brass knucks to deliver ‘em, then, as the gay-crushed-upon-by-my-brother party, he’s probably earned that, too.
The best Dean can hope for is that Sammy’s got his head screwed on tight enough to avoid the face, considering they may have to sweet talk some civvies to get the Intel on this newest family Yellow Eyes is zeroing in on, and people are generally less liable to talk if their interviewer just looks like he went twelve rounds with Tyson.
Worse case scenario, Sam’s finally figured out just how fucked up his big brother really is here, and Dean loses some teeth on top of the only family he’s got in this world which, put up against those stakes, who the fuck cares about a few molars?
“Spray paint?” Sam bites out, shoving their weapons duffel at Dean without looking up from where he’s rooting around in the trunk, pawing through a tangled knot of rosaries and gris-gris until he digs out what looks like their fake-id cigar box, dented and so caked in road dust that Dean can barely make out the Tampa Imperial logo on the top.
He gets as far as a confused “Wha-” before Sam flips open the lid of the box, rifling quickly through the contents, and Dean’d have to be a lot dumber than he is not to know black cat bones and graveyard dirt, burned-out yarrow, and hot foot powder and Sammy, scrubbed clean and spelled out in his own sprawling, spiky handwriting. The black to the core and the land of the dead and the yellow blossoming to call it and the stinging powder to chase it away and Sammy, sunny and smiling and surrounded by it all.
“You gotta be fucking kidding me!” Dean explodes. “Seriously? Seriously?!”
“I don’t want to hear it, Dean,” Sam snaps, cracking open their copy of the Key of Soloman and starting in on the long, lethal lines of the trap.
“Tough,” Dean fires back. “‘Cause you’ve been tryin to get me talkin’ all day, and you know what, Sammy? You got your goddamn wish. Here I am, gums flappin’ ‘cause you must be outside of your damn mind if you think I’m gonna let you summon another goddamn groupie to figure out-”
“To figure out what, Dean? The goddamn hunt? Yellow Eyes’ plan? Where this family is? All the shit we don’t know, but need to if we want a snowball’s chance in hell of coming out the other end of this hunt alive?! He knows we’re coming, Dean! He knows we’ve got the Colt, that we had Ash on the other kids, everything! If he’s got any sense in the world, that town’s crawling with demons, all prepped and ready to kill you and do God knows what to me, so yeah, Dean, I’m gonna figure out everything I can about who and what and where he’s got his yellow goddamn fingers in that town and around that kid. Because if we go in to something like this half cocked and guns blazing, we’re gonna both bite it, and I’m not gonna get the chance to tear you a goddamn new one for not telling me any of this! I should’ve- should’ve-”
“Sam, you couldn’tve.”
“Don’t, Dean!” Sam tosses the can of spray paint back into the trunk with a hollow, metallic rattle. “Just don’t. I’ve only got- I can only handle so much right now, and the clock’s ticking so if we can just- just not until we figure out what the hell it is we’re goddamn doing, I would really appreciate it.”
“Yeah, sure.” Dean nods, handing Sam the cigar box with a tight nod as they trudge out to the middle of the crossroads. “Whatever you say, Sammy.”
Sam buries the box efficiently, his eyes fixed resolutely on the ground. Dean watches him silently, his hands shoved in his pockets. There’s a lump in his throat, so many things he wants to say, needs to say, but even if Sam hadn’t made it clear that he didn’t want to talk right now, Dean doesn’t think he could put them into words.
When Sam finishes shoveling dirt on top of the box, Dean follows him back out of the circle. They wait silently for several crawling minutes.
“Look,” Dean starts gruffly, not sure what he’s about to say.
“Well, I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” a voice drawls.
Dean doesn’t flinch, but just barely. He could swear he never took his eyes off the circle, but he must have blinked, because there’s a figure standing there in the middle of the crossroads. His hand strays to the Colt in an unconscious gesture.
The demon - or at least, the body he’s wearing - is tall and broad, with close-cropped blonde hair and a lightly freckled face. He's not what Dean expected at all. He's wearing a pastel pink button-down and khaki shorts, for Christ's sake. Still, no matter how innocuously he’s dressed or how friendly-faced his meatsuit is, there’s something dark and hungry in his gaze that’s all predator. It makes Dean’s skin crawl, not the least because that look is fixed on his baby brother with worrying intensity.
“Can the small talk, asshat,” Dean snaps. “What’s your boss up to?”
The demon doesn’t spare him a glance. He cocks an eyebrow at Sam. “Brooding for the ages, if I’m any judge. Heavy is the head, I suppose.”
Sam’s eyes flicker toward Dean so fast he almost misses it. His eyes are back on the demon’s face just as fast, his face set hard.
“How do I know it’s you?”
“You don’t recognize me, your first and most faithful?” The demon pouts, predator’s grin sneaking in at the edges. “I know I’m wrapped in Pi Kappa Alpha Male here and not that delicious brunette from Minnesota, but honestly, after all that time I spent waiting for your call...”
“What was the last thing you said to me in Blue Earth?” Sam bites out impatiently.
“All hail the Boy King,” the demon answers answers, that same slow, shark toothed smirk sneaking across his face as he gives a low bow, and from the look on his brother’s face, if Sam had any doubts, any at all, that would have erased them. “As true then as it is now, especially after that impressive show in Blue Earth. I knew you had it in you, Sammy.”
“Don’t call me that,” Sam snaps. “We need information. Is our deal still good?”
“If you’re about to do what I think you’re about to do, yes,” Sharky purrs. “Emphatically so.”
“Deal?” Dean demands.
“Only in the informal sense, I’m afraid.” The demon sighs. “Your darling brother is distressingly resistant to the idea of a - a-hem - long term commitment.”
“Because it’s not going to happen,” Sam says tersely.
“Whatever you say,” the demon as good as dismisses. “Now, you said you needed information? Would that be about the demonic powers you don’t have or the underworld coup you aren’t planning?”
“We just need Yellow Eyes’ setup in Tuscaloosa,” Sam forces out. “Where he’s got the family, how many bodies he’s got on the ground, if he’s expecting us, whatever you’ve got.”
“Oh, I was hoping that’s what this is was about,” Sharky all but purrs, stepping in close to Sam and sending every protective instinct Dean’s got going haywire. “There’s nothing sexier than sheer, bloody-minded ambition. Tell me Blue Earth was just your opening act, handsome, that you’re about to show the world what you can really do.”
“How about you tell me you got more to offer than cheap lines and ass-kissing, dirtbag?” Dean snaps, dragging the Colt from his jacket pocket. The demon looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time. The sight of the gun seems to have sobered him. He’s gone very still, staring down his nose at the Colt, his face a mask. “Guy as smart as you, I bet you know all about what I did to the last sleazeball I caught coming on to my little brother, and he was human as they come. So I’m gonna ask you once: You wanna talk, or you wanna see me get creative with this demon killing son of a bitch?”
“Dean, you’ll kill the guy he’s in,” Sam warns.
“Not if I aim real careful,” he grits out, hammer cocked and gun level.
The demon glances between them. The tension bleeds from his shoulders, and he smiles slowly.
“Then I’ll be dead, you’ll be left with a bleeding frat boy, and none the wiser for it,” he all but sings.
Dean’s finger flexes on the trigger. “Hey, the longer you talk the less that seems like a raw deal.”
“Dean,” Sam snaps. “Don’t.”
Dean holds the gun on the demon a beat longer, then drops it with a huff. “You’re not worth the ammunition.”
The demon sneers at him. “The legend of your charm is not exaggerated. Though I must admit, upon a face-to-face meeting, you do have a certain... rugged unpleasantness that’s not altogether displeasing. And those eyes...”
Sharky suddenly stiffens up, almost flinching as he turns back to Sam with a quick whirl.
“But I digress. Tuscaloosa. You’re right to be worried, of course. He knows you’re coming, and he’s got eyes on the ground looking out for you. That Stygian monstrosity,” he nods his head at Dean’s baby, waiting a safe distance away at the edge of the devil’s trap, “is on everyone’s watch list, as are new faces in the family’s vicinity. Luckily for you, though, topside tickets are hard to come by, even at this level, so while you’ll still be egregiously outnumbered, with my help and that clever little toy of yours, you might just stand a chance.”
“And you’re totally fine with helping us kill your boss, just like that?” Dean demands.
“More like my boss’s boss’s boss, darling.” Sharky smirks. “And as I told your brother the last time we met, I’m in sales. We’re all about upward mobility, and nothing says upwardly mobile like facilitating a number of vacant positions located right at the top.”
“And when people start asking how we knew as much as we did when it came down to icing Yellow Eyes?”
“What are you going to do, name names? Tell them that dapper red-eyed gentleman at the crossroads sent you?” He grins. “I’m one of a million, dear, and with no Deal on the books and no name to give them, I’m a ghost in all of this. There’s just you and him and a debt to be repaid when our boy here reaches his full potential.”
“Never going to happen,” Sam snaps.
“There’s a ruin of a church in Minnesota that says otherwise,” the demon drawls, damn cat-got-the-canary smile spreading across his stolen face.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Sam demands. “He knows you’re coming, don’t bring the car? Anyone could have figured that out.”
“What do you think that figures, as far as ‘debts to be repaid’ go, Sammy?” Dean sneers, arching an eyebrow at his brother. “A couple of coupons to Sizzler?”
“If that,” Sam snorts, cracking the first smile Dean’s seen from him all day, for all that it’s got a razor edge.
“He can’t touch the family,” Sharky breaks in, predator’s grin gone from his face. “They’re good for ten years, as long as they don’t try and slip their end of the bargain.”
“You mean as long as they let Yellow Eyes make their kid a monster,” Sam grounds out. “As long as he gets another soldier for his army, right?”
“Well, you and I know that, yes. The family?” The demon shrugs. “They might not be so aware. Regardless, you move on them three months before their deal comes due, you can kiss them and their sweet, bouncing baby boy goodbye. It’ll be Blue Earth all over again.”
Sam bites his lip and lets out a long, soft breath out through his nose.
“No,” the demon continues breezily, “I’m afraid to save the little potato and his demon-dealing Mama and Daddy, you’re going to need something a little more... of the inside track. Like, say, the location of Yellow Eye’s base of operations in Daddy dearest’s hometown.”
“You know where he’s at, don’t you?” Sam breathes. “You could put us on him tonight.”
“Worth a little bit more than dinner at Sizzler, wouldn’t you say?” The demon smirks, smug satisfaction seeping from him once more.
“You’re not getting a Deal,” Sam snaps.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Sharky steps close to the edge of the trap, setting every hair on the back of Dean’s neck on end. “I just want a taste.”
“Of what?” Dean demands, edging subtly in front of Sam.
“Power,” the demon answers, his eye locked on the pulse in Sam’s throat. “It’s all anyone’s been talking about Downstairs, what the Boy King can do.”
“I’m not your King.” Sam shakes his head. “I’m never going to be.”
“But you’re the first round draft pick, Sammy,” he says, setting Dean’s teeth on edge. “Everyone’s favorite, and after what happened in that church-”
“How did they get in?” Sam demands, edging back from Sharky, towards Dean, just a little. “It was on holy ground.”
“Doesn’t matter if you’re big enough, strong enough. Yellow Eyes can cross it. His second. Some others.”
“And the Roadhouse,” Sam presses. “Are there any more coordinated attacks coming?”
“Wasn’t us.” Sharky waves a hand dismissively. “Probably some bored schmuck on shore leave who got lucky with his timing.”
“What?” Sam looks as shocked as Dean feels.
“There’s actually some talk about it,” Sharky says. “Some think it might be a political thing, some think solidarity, some are with you and think it was a black ops move from up top. All I know is what I hear: no one got orders to take the place out.”
“And every order goes through you, huh?” Dean challenges.
“You’d be surprised how much you pick up, ear to the ground, just listening at the veil for someone to let their tragic flaw get the best of them. To dial up a demon and make their last, greatest mistake.”
“Yellow Eye’s location,” Sam says tightly. “You said you knew.”
“Payment first,” the demon says, eyes tracing the blue at Sam’s wrist, dark and vital beneath the long, cruel white scar on the inside of his arm.
“H-How much?” Sam grinds out, voice shaky at first, then surer, steadier.
“Sam!” Dean snaps, eyes narrowing as he shoves his way between the demon and his brother, locks unsteady hands around unevenly scarred wrists and holds on, tight, as sudden, hot-cold panic sweeps his body. “You can’t be serious!”
“It’ll give us Yellow Eyes, Dean.” Sam’s eye narrow, Mom and Jess and their whole damn lives in his voice. “We can end this all tonight, before anyone else gets hurt.”
“Sam...” Dean forces out, swallowing hard and holding on tight, his eyes, fingers, everything tracing the unbroken expanse of neck, wrist, elbow, hidden beneath canvas and plaid. Whole, unmarked, unbroken. No blood, no bruises, no digging, knowing teeth or cruel, dragging pulls or awful, icy chill, creeping up and forcing him down, down as he slumps against cold, unforgiving iron.
“Just a taste,” Sharky breathes from behind him. “Just enough to feel what’s buried in you, sleeping. You won’t even miss it.”
“And this isn’t a deal?” Sam clarifies, never looking away. “No contracts, no soul swaps?”
His eyes never leave Dean’s as his right hand moves, twists in his brother’s grip, thick line of scar skimming beneath the callous of Dean’s fingers as Sam brings both their hands up to slip just beneath the collar of Dean’s jacket, to rest, warm and whole, against the scything, sliver slices of scar over his jugular, before gently, firmly using their entwined fingers to shift Dean from his place between Sam and the demon.
“What’s in your veins for what’s in my head,” the demon promises from behind Dean. “No kisses, no strings...”
Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s for a long moment, and there are regrets and apologies, ‘I have to’s and ‘I wish you didn’t’s and a long, fervent string of ‘God, please let this all be worth it’s before their fingers over Dean’s pulse shift, fall away as Sam loosens his grip to pull the knife from his sleeve.
He breaks Dean’s gaze to step to the edge of the devil’s trap, pricking his left index finger with a quick, steady twist as every muscle in Dean’s body tenses, his grip on the Colt white knuckled and steady as the day is long as he sights along the barrel.
This asshole makes one move, one move...
“The address?” Sam hisses, squeezing his finger to make the blood rise and well at the edge of the trap.
“We said-” Sharky protests, but Sam holds firm, stands tall, kicks his chin back that little bit that lets Dean know he has this one beat.
“Maybe we did.” He smirks, holding his hand just this side of the spray painted line, watching as a single, lurid drop wells, runs down scar and callous, and falls, wasted in the dust of the road. “But I’m clotting here, and you’re stuck over there. Address, please.”
“Come on!” the demon exclaims, eyes watching the blood welling up on Sam’s finger with something like desperation.
“Address.”
“2020 Kingsgate Drive!” Sharky cries before the last drop falls.
Sam shoves his hand across the line to smear the bright, sticky liquid across Sharky’s lips. His finger darts between the demon’s parted lips and back out again in a heartbeat before he hauls back for a vicious, cracking backhand that sends the demon sprawling.
“Thanks,” Sam says, mouth twisting as he scrubs his hand across the rough denim of his jeans. “Don’t ever ask me for that again.”
The demon exhales a delirious sounding laugh from his place in the dirt.
“Are we done here?” Dean demands, squashing the urge to snatch up Sam’s hand and douse it in whisky from the flask in his back pocket. Or holy water. Or both.
“Very.” Sam scowls. “Exortiamus te, omni spiritus potesta....”
Sharky forces himself up onto his elbows, stumbles to his feet, his body clenching under the first wave of Sam’s exorcism. He smiles, his teeth stained crimson.
“I bet you could send me back without the Latin, if you tried,” he gasps, a hint of laugher making its way through the pain as he runs his tongue over the bright red stain on his lips. “I bet you could get anything you wanted, if you really put your mind to it.”
“You know what I really want right now?” Sam grits out between slow, steady reams of Latin.
“I have an inkling.” Sharky grins, his eyes flicking to Dean for one hot, heady second. “‘Til next time, Highness.”
He executes a rough bow as his body is wracked, clenches, and vomits up hot black smoke that whirls off into the mid afternoon haze, leaving Dean tense and Sam terse and a very confused brother of the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity dazed and dizzy in the center of the crossroads.