Dean Winchester: Being Grateful
Hey guys. So, I haven't written anything new for yonks...and this hellatus is grating somewhat. Tell me what you think and I shall reward you with the rest of it...or not, if it truly sucks, kinda thing. ;) I'll leave you to decide.
Title: Dean Winchester: Being Grateful
Length: 1/?
Genre: Gen H/C
Rating: R
Summary: Sam had left. That’s what he’d told Lisa and Ben. They only asked once. And for that, he had been grateful...
Chapter 1
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It wasn’t the first time he’d seen him.
That guy in the diner. That was him. But that had been over a year ago, and he wasn’t quite...right...just after Sam left. So, he’d dismissed it as a visual disturbance brought on by stress and probably grief, he’d supposed.
Sam had left. That’s what he’d told Lisa and Ben. They only asked once.
And for that, he had been grateful.
Clouds of cold air obscured his view for a beat, the still night air forcing a silence he felt he had to maintain. He’d slipped into the old coat of his former job surprisingly easily. Years gone by would have seen him waiting just like this. Waiting for his mark...a vampire, shape shifter, ghoul. This time it was the bastard that was wearing his brother.
Lisa had watched him silently tooling up for it. Watched him dusting down the Impala. Heard the growl of her exhaust, and never said a word.
And for that, he had also been grateful.
The shack was a...well, it was a shack. Set in the middle of a dark, deserted woodland. No one could possibly live there.
Still, three guys had stumbled towards it over an hour ago. Skunk- high on alcohol and other, non branded substances no doubt. If they were human, they were about to ‘partay’ with a demon. If they were already demons then they had already displayed typical behaviours. Ride your vessels hard and put ‘em up wet. Dead meat suits never cared that much.
One of the inhabitants of the shack had ridden Sam out of the cage, though. He didn’t know whether to be thankful or angry about that.
It wasn’t long before the fight had started - as expected. Inflated egos would never stand the close confines of a dilapidated hunter’s shack for long and it had been highly entertaining in its ferocity. Dean had flinched as one of them had been catapulted out of the broken window, splinters and wood planks flying.
Then the gunshots had rung out. Then two of them had crashed through the half-hung door and split off in opposite directions. Dean curled his hand around the Colt and drew in a cleansing breath.
Lord knows, he’d never wanted to go back to this.
He’d made his peace. Mostly with himself.
He knew what he had to do, and it had been unbelievably hard. Near impossible at times. There had been times, over the past twelve months that he’d listened to Lisa telling him he wasn’t going out of his mind, and he’d wanted to call her a God damned liar. But he’d persevered. Despite the vivid nightmares of Sam making eye contact for the last time. Of Lucifer’s fist, jack hammering through cartilage and bone. Of John asking him where Sam was. And in his dreams, he could never say it. His mouth would open, but nothing would come.
And now, he was here. Or his likeness was. Dean didn’t care, he just wanted it dead and gone.
And yet, before that, he wanted to see him again. It hadn’t taken a split second for him to come to that decision either. Just to see Sam once more.
For that, he would be grateful.
He let the silence return before moving off, his feline-smooth movements returning to him like some freakish form of muscle memory.
Inside, it looked like a crack den. He’d only ever been in one before, and this place ticked all the boxes. Litter strewn chaos. Old, ancient furniture, tipped and burned; a last semblance of someone’s life. No water. No electricity. The pungent stench of piss and shit, always sealed the deal. Just in case you were in any doubt about how bad it was.
He clung to walls and slid around corners. His senses on fire, his eyes darting, waiting for the familiar. How long would he get before he could blast it dead? He didn’t care. He wanted the confrontation, right here and right now - and with every fibre of his being.
As it turned out, Sam wasn’t even waiting for him.
Hadn’t even seen him.
He sat on the filthy floor, legs bent, and shifted awkwardly, his back against a wall.
He favoured his right arm, while his left hand tipped the last of the whiskey from a half bottle. He dragged a bloodied hand across his mouth before he even caught Dean’s image at the edge of his sight and even then there had been no reaction.
They stared at each other for a beat.
Sam’s half lidded eyes opened further to take this man in. Dean’s expression a mixture of pain and rage. He opened his mouth...but nothing came.
Sam dropped the bottle at his feet. Then he sighed.
“You another one?” he said.
Dean remained still. It was Sam’s face. His body, despite the state it was in. His voice. How some low life, belly-to -the -ground demon could have managed to snag his brother for a meat suit was beyond Dean. Of course the other option was that Lucifer was on some lost weekend sabbatical, and Dean was about to die an excruciating and horrible death.
Sam drew up his legs some more and maintained his gaze on Dean.
“What do you want?” A faint whisper this time. Like a plea. An admission of weakness, almost.
It deserved an answer to that one.
“I...I came to get you.” May as well be honest, he thought. Demons respect that. Usually.
Hooded eyes studied him through the alcohol haze. Lank, greasy hair fell across his face. Blackened finger nails hovered over his stubbled chin.
“Why?” he asked plainly. His eyes resting on the colt, steady and true in Dean’s hand.
Dean frowned. This was stupid. Any self disrespecting demon would recognise Dean Winchester by scent, and certainly Lucifer wouldn’t have passed up the opportunity to rile him with some sarcastic retort before now.
“Because you’re wearing my brother. And he wouldn’t want that.”
Sam snorted a muffled response, and let his head fall back against the wall, his gaze still locked on Dean.
“Whatever you’re on, dude...share it out...” and for a moment, his eyes rolled up into his head.
Dean moved forward, his eyes darting over his brother’s thin frame. Dark shadows fell over boney wrists and bare ankles. And then a darker shade...pooling out from under him. Slick and shining.
Blood.
“Well...you’re late.” Sam added quietly. “Someone got here before you. But you can finish me off...if it’ll make you feel better.”
It could have been the tone of his voice. Or the hopeless resignation in his words, that made Dean’s mouth dry over like he’d been sucking on a cotton ball. No hint of spite or revenge. No hate filled rage or pent up ranting. This wasn’t normal.
He opened his mouth to speak.
“What’s your name?” Not his brother’s name. His demon name. ‘Cos he was one. A near dead one, it seemed, but still.
His eyes rolled forward again, his left arm suddenly sliding into his jacket, to produce a gun which he levelled at Dean. He licked his lips and swallowed.
“You ...first.” He rasped.
But, he didn’t wait for an answer. His head tilted back his eyes slid up underneath his lids and the gun slid gracefully out of his hand and onto the dirt laden floor.
And for that, Dean was grateful...
TBC
Here lies Chapter 2