At The Crossroads
When two roads diverge, in a yellow wood or else where, you can take the one less traveled by, the high road or the low road, whatever path you choose, and it may make all the difference, and you may get to Scotland first, or wherever it is you're trying to get
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Everything is very still.
Dean grips the steering wheel hard, white-knuckled, eyes red-rimmed and tired. His brother has been --
Sam's been --
It's been three days, and that's too damn long. (Hell, the first five seconds aged him a hundred years, and ain't nobody ever lived that long in the first place.)
It's tempting to just sit here, lean his head back, close his eyes, and just wait until everything gets better. Maybe he'll get lucky and wake up and it'll all be a shitty dream.
But every second wasted is another second Sam's body is rotting away, and one thing Dean cannot handle is letting more damage happen to his little brother.
So he gets out of the car, slamming the door like that'll do anything, like he's even frustrated at all (that's not his goddamn problem, he's just so tired), and opening the trunk.
There's a box.
He fills it.
And then he buries it at the center of the crossroads, dirt under his nails like the grave dirt he's not gonna have to deal with for Sammy. Not now.
Not ever.
He's ready to stake a lot more than his life on it.
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And Dean, as he has been for days now, is alone with his thoughts and his failures and the sound of his (but no one else's) breath and the night.
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A thought he hasn't let himself have (on top of the thoughts about what a shitty, shitty idea this is -- because that voice sounds like Dad, sounds like Sam, and if they fucking want to take him to task for this they can goddamn well be here or they're just gonna have to suck it up and deal) is what if this doesn't work?
God knows maybe he'll be a fuckup at this, too. Nothing else he's turned his hand to has ever worked.
Why did Dad save me, anyway? Sam's the one --
Sam --
Oh God, I can't do this alone.
"Where the hell are you, bitch!"
Yelling doesn't make him feel better, but the pain in his throat from that scream is at least a start on what he deserves.
A pathetic, shitty one, but that's par for the course in his pathetic, shitty life to date.
"It's like a frickin' free meal! Don't tell me you're gonna come over all hesitant on me now."
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"No such thing as a free meal, darling."
When he turns, he'll see a woman in a black dress, with dark hair and grey eyes, that shift over to red for no more than a second or two.
Just so that he knows who he's dealing with.
"But if you want my attention all that badly, well . . ."
She's never exactly been accused of being coy.
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It makes it easier to bite back his first response.
And his second one.
He can feel his skin tightening, fingers clenched tight enough that the stubs of his nails dig into his palms.
But he knows what he's doing.
God, Dad, who the fuck ever, just let this work. I've gotta get Sam back. I've just --
I have to.
It just goes against the grain, letting her walk around without doing anything.
Giving her what she wants.
But if she gives him what he wants, too, then --
"I should send you back to Hell right now."
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"Dean. Manners."
She takes a couple of steps closer to him.
"It is so good to see you. It's been too long, darling. But Sammy told me to stay away from you. Guess he didn't trust you to know how to take care of yourself. Which, given that you haven't exactly managed to take care of anyone else lately, well . . . he did get the brains in the family, didn't he?
"I mean, you've gotten your whole family killed."
She's inches close enough now that when she leans in, her mouth is inches from his.
"It's too sweet. Sorry, you're going to have to give me a moment, here."
She inhales, breathing in desperation and bravado and pain.
"Sometimes a girl needs to stop and smell the roses."
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With the way things are going, Sam was right not to trust Dean. Not about anything.
Look what trusting Dean got him.
Dead.
Dean grits his teeth, forcing himself to stay stock-still as the demon hellbitch leans closer.
He can almost smell the sulfur in the air.
(He can almost hear the hellhounds, but he's not thinking of what the others looked like when the dogs were done, he's not -- )
"You ain't no girl, sweetheart. I hate to break it to you."
What Dean wants to do is get on with it. But showing his hand too soon (and it's a shitty fucking hand, there's no way he's leaving here without making a deal and they both know it, everyone knows it, Meg down in hell is probably laughing her goddamn ass off about it, and oh but that was not a thought to have, not when she's gonna get to visit him up close and personal sooner rather than later. Fuck.) --
Showing his hand too soon is just not how he wants to go out.
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If he didn't do it last time he's sure as hell not going to do it now.
(And nothing, but nothing, is surer about this conversation than hell.)
"Cut the crap, Dean," she says, moving away from him now. "You won't, and we both know it. And we both know why."
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"Oh yeah? You think so?"
Nothing about this is going to be easy, even if Dean has to dig in the knife himself.
Sammy, I'm sorry.
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"No, you wanna follow in Daddy's footsteps."
And really, when has he ever done anything else?
"You wanna make a deal.
"Little Sammy back from the dead.
"In exchange for what?
"Your soul?"
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"Plenty of demons'd shit their pants to get their hands on it. You're telling me you don't want it?"
Why wouldn't she? He's never seen a demon be picky before; it's all a numbers game.
Right?
"Last time you just couldn't wait to snatch it up."
What else is he gonna do with it? He let Dad down, he let Sam down, he's let plenty of other people die --
Seems like he was destined for Hell anyway -- 95% chance on the outside.
This is just --
Sealing the deal.
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The bottom drops out of his stomach.
"Uh huh. Right. You're gonna have to deal with the fact that I don't believe you. So come on, let's get this show on the road. You bring Sam back, and ten years down the line you come for me. No muss, no fuss, no fighting. I'm all yours."
Ten years is enough time.
It's got to be.
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"Ten years?"
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Everybody he's ever talked to, anyway.
Except Dad.
But he's not thinking about that. Hell no. Not now.
"It's not like you don't have enough time on your hands, a little waiting isn't gonna kill you. I bet you don't even break a sweat."
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She comes forward again.
"Why would I want to give you anything?
"Without Sam, you probably won't last ten months, never mind ten years. And if I'm wrong about that, well, as you said, a little waiting won't kill me."
Why would they pay for something even he thinks they're going to get when he's done with it, free of charge?
She leans in close.
"Keep your gutter soul. It's too tarnished, anyway."
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