The Apotheosis of Wile E. Coyote, SPN S3, part 48/?
Title: The Apotheosis of Wile E. Coyote
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R (probable)
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis
Previous parts are here.
The spaghetti claw clatters to the floor, flipping a clammy strand of pasta against Dean's leg.
"Dean. Jesus, what -- did they find something when you were in the hospital?"
"No, it's not --" He rakes a hand through his hair. "I guess it's not accurate to say I'm dying. It's not my health. I'm going to die, though, and I don't have that long."
Pulling up a chair close to him, she drops into it and takes his hand. "I don't understand."
"I'm not surprised. It's --" He lets out a breath. "It's pretty fucked-up, I guess." Both her hands are curved around his, but he can't give in to this comforting pressure, can't return it. She's going to let go. She always does. "I made this deal."
"Deal?"
"Sammy --" Breathe, Dean. "Sam died. Not quite a year ago. I'd already lost -- I guess you didn't know this, but Dad died a few months before that. I couldn't lose Sam too. I made a deal. My life for his."
She tightens her hands around his. "Dean, it doesn't work that way.'
"It does when you're dealing with a crossroads demon," he snaps. "I didn't bargain with God, Cassie. I didn't say, 'I'll never curse or get drunk or look at porn again if you just give me Sammy back.' I sold my soul, and I got a year."
Watching her expression, Dean pulls his hands out of hers. Better to be the one to pull away first. A flash of fierce crosses her face, and she leans in to grab his hand again.
"How long do you have?"
"I'm not even sure," Dean says. "I lost time. It's weeks, I think."
"What happens then?" she asks.
He scratches at his neck with his free hand. "Hellhounds get a new chew toy."
Irritation flashes across her face. "Why do you always do this?"
"What, exactly, am I doing?"
"That thing where you're talking about something serious, and suddenly it's a big joke."
Again he pulls his hand away. "Well, that's how it's done in my world, Cassie. Something knocks you down, you rub a little dirt on the hurt places, get up and go on. Because people need you, and being emo about it isn't going to get you shit." Something tells him to let it drop there, but fuck it. He's been nursing this for a long damn time. "It's especially how it's done when you try it the other way and you get shot down in flames. I told you something serious a few years back, and you gave me the boot. You were the first woman I ever told who I really was, and you can be damn well sure you were the last."
"You know I thought --"
"I know what you thought. Well, it's easy believing in someone who tells you something believable, isn't it? Believing in someone who's telling you something that sounds crazy, but they're being as straightforward as they know how to be -- that's the definition of 'something serious,' sweetheart, and I thought we had that."
Her eyes glitter. "I hate it when you call me sweetheart. You use sweetheart for every waitress who brings you a piece of pie."
True enough. He'd called her that the night they first met, and when he was packing up his shit to leave, but not in between, not when he thought she was the one he'd love like Dad had loved his mom. "Yeah, well." Picking the cold piece of spaghetti off his jeans leg, he drops it onto the table, a silent, pointed reminder that at least a waitress can be counted on to bring him food when she promises it.
Any fucking time now, he thinks to his passenger. I don't know why you dragged me here in the first place.
Standing up and stepping away from the table, he announces, "I have to go." He realizes how that sounds. "Leave. I'm leaving." Just his fucking luck that this is when his passenger decides he's had it with the comings and goings, and leaves him standing there looking like a jackass. "Now."
You can't tell me the fucking Trickster isn't behind this. Because this is just a step below getting splatted by a desk.
"You're a little better dressed for it, but you still don't have any shoes," Cassie points out.
In response, he holds out his hand. "Let me borrow your phone again."
Before she can comply or argue, Glowerpuss Angel makes an abrupt appearance in the kitchen.
"I hate people who drop in at dinnertime," Dean says.
The stranger walks around Dean, making a full 360 as he sizes him up. Dean keeps his eyes on Castiel's, flexing his hands, waiting for the asshole to make a move.
By the time Cassie yelps, "Hey, what are you doing?" and Dean sees the flask, it's too late. Castiel has poured some kind of oil in a circle around Dean. Just as Cassie yanks on his sleeve, he turns and gently touches his fingertips to her forehead, and she slips to the floor as noiselessly as the blanket had fallen to Dean's feet.
"What the fuck did you do to her?" Dean makes a move for Castiel, but before he can cross the circle of oil, the bastard drops a match onto it. As a low flame springs up, Dean slams against some kind of invisible barrier.
Putting up a hand to push at the barrier, he finds it extends all the way around him, as if there's a glass wall circling him. "Great," he mutters. "It's not bad enough I'm a cartoon, now I'm a mime. This is the goddamn limit."
Then this Castiel starts to glow like he's going all Chernobyl, and Dean falls to his knees, burying his face in his hands.
Author: nwhepcat
Fandom: Supernatural, gen;
Rating R (probable)
Spoilers: Set shortly after S3 "Mystery Spot," but spoilery for S4 "Heaven and Hell"
Summary: Even with the clock ticking toward death and hell, Dean insists on taking on a routine job. It's anything but routine when he finds something he's not meant to discover, and things get a great deal more complicated.
Disclaimer: So not mine, and it is a sadness.
Warnings: Language, h/c, psychosis
Previous parts are here.
The spaghetti claw clatters to the floor, flipping a clammy strand of pasta against Dean's leg.
"Dean. Jesus, what -- did they find something when you were in the hospital?"
"No, it's not --" He rakes a hand through his hair. "I guess it's not accurate to say I'm dying. It's not my health. I'm going to die, though, and I don't have that long."
Pulling up a chair close to him, she drops into it and takes his hand. "I don't understand."
"I'm not surprised. It's --" He lets out a breath. "It's pretty fucked-up, I guess." Both her hands are curved around his, but he can't give in to this comforting pressure, can't return it. She's going to let go. She always does. "I made this deal."
"Deal?"
"Sammy --" Breathe, Dean. "Sam died. Not quite a year ago. I'd already lost -- I guess you didn't know this, but Dad died a few months before that. I couldn't lose Sam too. I made a deal. My life for his."
She tightens her hands around his. "Dean, it doesn't work that way.'
"It does when you're dealing with a crossroads demon," he snaps. "I didn't bargain with God, Cassie. I didn't say, 'I'll never curse or get drunk or look at porn again if you just give me Sammy back.' I sold my soul, and I got a year."
Watching her expression, Dean pulls his hands out of hers. Better to be the one to pull away first. A flash of fierce crosses her face, and she leans in to grab his hand again.
"How long do you have?"
"I'm not even sure," Dean says. "I lost time. It's weeks, I think."
"What happens then?" she asks.
He scratches at his neck with his free hand. "Hellhounds get a new chew toy."
Irritation flashes across her face. "Why do you always do this?"
"What, exactly, am I doing?"
"That thing where you're talking about something serious, and suddenly it's a big joke."
Again he pulls his hand away. "Well, that's how it's done in my world, Cassie. Something knocks you down, you rub a little dirt on the hurt places, get up and go on. Because people need you, and being emo about it isn't going to get you shit." Something tells him to let it drop there, but fuck it. He's been nursing this for a long damn time. "It's especially how it's done when you try it the other way and you get shot down in flames. I told you something serious a few years back, and you gave me the boot. You were the first woman I ever told who I really was, and you can be damn well sure you were the last."
"You know I thought --"
"I know what you thought. Well, it's easy believing in someone who tells you something believable, isn't it? Believing in someone who's telling you something that sounds crazy, but they're being as straightforward as they know how to be -- that's the definition of 'something serious,' sweetheart, and I thought we had that."
Her eyes glitter. "I hate it when you call me sweetheart. You use sweetheart for every waitress who brings you a piece of pie."
True enough. He'd called her that the night they first met, and when he was packing up his shit to leave, but not in between, not when he thought she was the one he'd love like Dad had loved his mom. "Yeah, well." Picking the cold piece of spaghetti off his jeans leg, he drops it onto the table, a silent, pointed reminder that at least a waitress can be counted on to bring him food when she promises it.
Any fucking time now, he thinks to his passenger. I don't know why you dragged me here in the first place.
Standing up and stepping away from the table, he announces, "I have to go." He realizes how that sounds. "Leave. I'm leaving." Just his fucking luck that this is when his passenger decides he's had it with the comings and goings, and leaves him standing there looking like a jackass. "Now."
You can't tell me the fucking Trickster isn't behind this. Because this is just a step below getting splatted by a desk.
"You're a little better dressed for it, but you still don't have any shoes," Cassie points out.
In response, he holds out his hand. "Let me borrow your phone again."
Before she can comply or argue, Glowerpuss Angel makes an abrupt appearance in the kitchen.
"I hate people who drop in at dinnertime," Dean says.
The stranger walks around Dean, making a full 360 as he sizes him up. Dean keeps his eyes on Castiel's, flexing his hands, waiting for the asshole to make a move.
By the time Cassie yelps, "Hey, what are you doing?" and Dean sees the flask, it's too late. Castiel has poured some kind of oil in a circle around Dean. Just as Cassie yanks on his sleeve, he turns and gently touches his fingertips to her forehead, and she slips to the floor as noiselessly as the blanket had fallen to Dean's feet.
"What the fuck did you do to her?" Dean makes a move for Castiel, but before he can cross the circle of oil, the bastard drops a match onto it. As a low flame springs up, Dean slams against some kind of invisible barrier.
Putting up a hand to push at the barrier, he finds it extends all the way around him, as if there's a glass wall circling him. "Great," he mutters. "It's not bad enough I'm a cartoon, now I'm a mime. This is the goddamn limit."
Then this Castiel starts to glow like he's going all Chernobyl, and Dean falls to his knees, burying his face in his hands.