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amberdreamsOk so this seems to be turning into a possible 3 chapter ficlet now. Back to Part 1
Still unbeta'd so please excuse any run on sentences...
Words in this part: c1240
Allotropes of Sulphur 2: Losing my head over you
Sam was hunting him, of course.Dean knew it, but it didn’t bother him. It was easy enough to avoid his little brother, so Dean did just that. Sometimes he’d let Sam get real close though. He’d linger in a bar or diner or pool hall until Sam was within earshot – Dean could always hear the low roar of the Impala’s engine from at least a block away – before he’d leave, either strolling out of there by mundane, human means, or twisting the fabric of the world to move himself out of Sam’s reach. In the first few weeks after he broke out of the Bunker, Dean got a lot of enjoyment out of imagining Sam’s frustration at finding Dean gone, over and over again.
Sometimes, Dean would leave Sam gifts - a little something to welcome Sam on his arrival to wherever Dean had just been. It was the least he could do for his brother, knowing that otherwise Sam would be facing yet another wasted trip. He hoped Sam was wearing his FBI suit for tracking Dean, especially for the gift of hearts. Dean had been kind of proud of the hearts. It was a gesture that said a lot, he thought. And besides, Dean liked Sam in a suit. Those jackets always seemed to be straining to cover those broad shoulders, and Sam always stood taller when dressed formally, as if it gave him a confidence that his own more comfortable clothing couldn’t manage.
Crowley had turned up once or twice, harassing Dean about Hell and politics – some crap about a power vacuum and taking Dean back with him to help consolidate Crowley’s power base – but Dean wasn’t interested in joining Crowley’s pack and becoming just another Hell Hound. No way was Dean being put on a leash again, not now he’d gotten a taste of how fucking sweet true freedom really was.
When Crowley came the next time, Dean was ready for him.
0x0x0x0
A warehouse rendezvous was unusual. Dean seemed to gravitate towards brighter lights and places with a bit of a buzz to them - that is until Dean passed through, after which most venues were left full of blood and wailing and Sam was heartily sick of being the one left trying to console the trauma victims. His FBI badge was starting to look a little frayed round the edges, though not as frayed as Sam himself. His hair was getting long, even for him, and the only reason he was still shaving was to keep up a semblance of credibility as a G-man. The pony-tail was stretching it as far as he could go and it was only the grimness of his expression that prevented people from questioning him to his face.
Sam knew how he looked. He’d seen it himself, when he caught occasional glimpses of his reflection in shiny surfaces – not in the mirror, never in the mirror. Even while shaving he managed to avoid looking himself in the eye. But he knew from the accidental glances that he looked fucking dangerous, and he could see the fear and wariness in the eyes of the people when he questioned them about his brother.
His brother the demon - who was possibly still here, in this deserted warehouse on the North Shore of the Ohio River in Pittsburgh. Sam entered with caution, not knowing what to expect, or what he wanted to get out of this. He’d been searching for Dean for so long now, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he finally caught up with him.
The space was cavernous. Even in the dim light that shone through the high up, mostly broken windows from the streetlights outside, Sam could see the place was empty except for the usual detritus of abandoned places. It smelt faintly of gasoline and a chemical residue, maybe sulphur, maybe not, it’s hard to say. Chunks of concrete, a twisted, rusted girder, broken packing crates that were never filled or collected. Nothing large enough to conceal even a child, let alone a six-foot plus guy.
Reassured but obscurely disappointed, Sam flicked the switch on his flashlight and played the white beam around the dark corners of the building to confirm his initial assessment. Yeah. Empty. He kept his gun in his hand though. Sam was always wary, always alert.
Sam turned to leave, then paused. Something (as Dean, his Dean, would have said) had gotten his spidey sense tingling. He swung around, moving the light more slowly this time and there it was, over to his right, about a hundred yards away on the concrete floor. An anomaly. A roughly spherical object that didn’t look like anything else left behind here. It seemed to glisten a little at the touch of his flashlight, its edges roughened and slightly spiky.
Sam approached the object with care, every nerve tingling. As he got closer, he thought he could hear something, a kind of muffled grunting, and a shiver ran down his spine. Glad his gun was loaded with silver bullets, Sam circled round the thing, the horror of recognition gradually dawning on him as his flashlight illuminated the grotesquery. Wide-open and outraged eyes glittered above what looked like a ball gag, and the roughened spikes were revealed as blood-matted hair. The mumbling he had heard earlier was coming from behind the gag, even though the dark wetness on the ground beneath it told Sam that this was, indeed, a severed head. Crowley’s severed head, to be exact. And he was still alive.
Sam swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat. There was no sign of the body.
Crowley’s grumbling from behind the gag grew louder and more agitated as Sam stood there staring, unable to move. The (presumably now ex) King of Hell waggled his eyebrows up and down frantically and Sam was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to giggle. Because, really, how ridiculous was this? He tucked the gun away down the back of his jeans and placed both hands on his hips, contemplating his options.
“You know what?” he said, his tone conversational. Crowley went quiet, looking up at Sam in anticipation. “I’m so tempted to just leave you here.”
Predictably, this remark caused a renewed storm of brow wrinkling and brow furrowing from Crowley, all of which Sam chose to ignore in favour of looking around the warehouse for a suitable container. Because of course Sam couldn’t leave Crowley behind in his current state. Now he just needed to decide whether a disembodied demon head was likely to be of any use to him in tracking down and dealing with Dean, because if not, Crowley’s impersonation of Bran the Blessed was going to be very short-lived.
Seeing what looked like an intact crate large enough, Sam scooped up the severed head using a piece of dirty burlap he’d found in a dusty corner so he didn’t have to touch Crowley’s gore covered neck. He’d had to deal with some grisly things in the course of his life but this had to go down as one of the most distasteful tasks ever. He dumped Crowley’s wrapped up head into the small packing crate and carried it out to the Impala.
“Thanks a lot, Dean,” he said as he placed the crate in the trunk. “Guess we all know what’s in the box now, hey?”
0x0x0x0
On the Part 3 (the final part)
Still unbeta'd so please excuse any run on sentences...
Words in this part: c1240
Allotropes of Sulphur 2: Losing my head over you
Sam was hunting him, of course.Dean knew it, but it didn’t bother him. It was easy enough to avoid his little brother, so Dean did just that. Sometimes he’d let Sam get real close though. He’d linger in a bar or diner or pool hall until Sam was within earshot – Dean could always hear the low roar of the Impala’s engine from at least a block away – before he’d leave, either strolling out of there by mundane, human means, or twisting the fabric of the world to move himself out of Sam’s reach. In the first few weeks after he broke out of the Bunker, Dean got a lot of enjoyment out of imagining Sam’s frustration at finding Dean gone, over and over again.
Sometimes, Dean would leave Sam gifts - a little something to welcome Sam on his arrival to wherever Dean had just been. It was the least he could do for his brother, knowing that otherwise Sam would be facing yet another wasted trip. He hoped Sam was wearing his FBI suit for tracking Dean, especially for the gift of hearts. Dean had been kind of proud of the hearts. It was a gesture that said a lot, he thought. And besides, Dean liked Sam in a suit. Those jackets always seemed to be straining to cover those broad shoulders, and Sam always stood taller when dressed formally, as if it gave him a confidence that his own more comfortable clothing couldn’t manage.
Crowley had turned up once or twice, harassing Dean about Hell and politics – some crap about a power vacuum and taking Dean back with him to help consolidate Crowley’s power base – but Dean wasn’t interested in joining Crowley’s pack and becoming just another Hell Hound. No way was Dean being put on a leash again, not now he’d gotten a taste of how fucking sweet true freedom really was.
When Crowley came the next time, Dean was ready for him.
0x0x0x0
A warehouse rendezvous was unusual. Dean seemed to gravitate towards brighter lights and places with a bit of a buzz to them - that is until Dean passed through, after which most venues were left full of blood and wailing and Sam was heartily sick of being the one left trying to console the trauma victims. His FBI badge was starting to look a little frayed round the edges, though not as frayed as Sam himself. His hair was getting long, even for him, and the only reason he was still shaving was to keep up a semblance of credibility as a G-man. The pony-tail was stretching it as far as he could go and it was only the grimness of his expression that prevented people from questioning him to his face.
Sam knew how he looked. He’d seen it himself, when he caught occasional glimpses of his reflection in shiny surfaces – not in the mirror, never in the mirror. Even while shaving he managed to avoid looking himself in the eye. But he knew from the accidental glances that he looked fucking dangerous, and he could see the fear and wariness in the eyes of the people when he questioned them about his brother.
His brother the demon - who was possibly still here, in this deserted warehouse on the North Shore of the Ohio River in Pittsburgh. Sam entered with caution, not knowing what to expect, or what he wanted to get out of this. He’d been searching for Dean for so long now, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he finally caught up with him.
The space was cavernous. Even in the dim light that shone through the high up, mostly broken windows from the streetlights outside, Sam could see the place was empty except for the usual detritus of abandoned places. It smelt faintly of gasoline and a chemical residue, maybe sulphur, maybe not, it’s hard to say. Chunks of concrete, a twisted, rusted girder, broken packing crates that were never filled or collected. Nothing large enough to conceal even a child, let alone a six-foot plus guy.
Reassured but obscurely disappointed, Sam flicked the switch on his flashlight and played the white beam around the dark corners of the building to confirm his initial assessment. Yeah. Empty. He kept his gun in his hand though. Sam was always wary, always alert.
Sam turned to leave, then paused. Something (as Dean, his Dean, would have said) had gotten his spidey sense tingling. He swung around, moving the light more slowly this time and there it was, over to his right, about a hundred yards away on the concrete floor. An anomaly. A roughly spherical object that didn’t look like anything else left behind here. It seemed to glisten a little at the touch of his flashlight, its edges roughened and slightly spiky.
Sam approached the object with care, every nerve tingling. As he got closer, he thought he could hear something, a kind of muffled grunting, and a shiver ran down his spine. Glad his gun was loaded with silver bullets, Sam circled round the thing, the horror of recognition gradually dawning on him as his flashlight illuminated the grotesquery. Wide-open and outraged eyes glittered above what looked like a ball gag, and the roughened spikes were revealed as blood-matted hair. The mumbling he had heard earlier was coming from behind the gag, even though the dark wetness on the ground beneath it told Sam that this was, indeed, a severed head. Crowley’s severed head, to be exact. And he was still alive.
Sam swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise up in his throat. There was no sign of the body.
Crowley’s grumbling from behind the gag grew louder and more agitated as Sam stood there staring, unable to move. The (presumably now ex) King of Hell waggled his eyebrows up and down frantically and Sam was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to giggle. Because, really, how ridiculous was this? He tucked the gun away down the back of his jeans and placed both hands on his hips, contemplating his options.
“You know what?” he said, his tone conversational. Crowley went quiet, looking up at Sam in anticipation. “I’m so tempted to just leave you here.”
Predictably, this remark caused a renewed storm of brow wrinkling and brow furrowing from Crowley, all of which Sam chose to ignore in favour of looking around the warehouse for a suitable container. Because of course Sam couldn’t leave Crowley behind in his current state. Now he just needed to decide whether a disembodied demon head was likely to be of any use to him in tracking down and dealing with Dean, because if not, Crowley’s impersonation of Bran the Blessed was going to be very short-lived.
Seeing what looked like an intact crate large enough, Sam scooped up the severed head using a piece of dirty burlap he’d found in a dusty corner so he didn’t have to touch Crowley’s gore covered neck. He’d had to deal with some grisly things in the course of his life but this had to go down as one of the most distasteful tasks ever. He dumped Crowley’s wrapped up head into the small packing crate and carried it out to the Impala.
“Thanks a lot, Dean,” he said as he placed the crate in the trunk. “Guess we all know what’s in the box now, hey?”
0x0x0x0
On the Part 3 (the final part)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 01:02 am (UTC)I can see Dean embracing the demon life. Can't wait for the next part!
(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 01:55 am (UTC)What's Sam gonna do with Crowley's head? Hold it in the air and let it smell the traces of sulphur Dean left ? LOL
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 02:55 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 06:18 am (UTC)oor Sam, now he's stuck with a very annoying talking head! I can't wait to see what happens next.
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 09:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 12:37 pm (UTC)I like how he's embracing him demonness, giving Sam hearts as gifts - creepy! And I like how even though he's changed, even though he's a demon, it still seems to be all about Sam for him.
And Crowley's head - love it!
Looking forward to more. Take care, :)
(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 03:09 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-07-31 10:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
From:no subject
Date: 2014-08-02 08:08 am (UTC)