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amberdreams) wrote2014-08-01 11:08 pm
amberdreams) wrote2014-08-01 11:08 pm
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Allotropes of Sulphur - a Demon!Dean ficlet 3/3
This could probably be better, more polished - but here it is, hopefully a rough diamond and worth something.
Back to Part 2
Allotropes of Sulphur 3: Here with the stars and the junker cars
“If Dean doesn’t want to be found, you are never going to find him.” Crowley said, smiling. There were flecks of dried blood caught in Crowley’s teeth, like red parsley.
Sam glared at the head where it sat on, appropriately enough, a chopping board. They were in the Men of Letters bunker because Sam didn’t know what else to do with the King of Hell’s severed head. This seemed the safest option, especially as Sam really didn’t fancy driving around the USA with any part of Crowley in his trunk, even though he knew Dean had done just that not so long ago. So he’d brought what was left of the demon back to the Bunker, cleaned it up and had eventually removed the ball gag Dean had inserted, probably as a joke. Crowley hadn’t found it very amusing, but then Crowley was naturally rather pissed at having been deprived of a body, so Sam guessed the demon’s sense of humour was somewhat impaired right now.
Before removing the gag, Sam had examined Crowley’s head thoroughly, albeit with some reluctance. Handling the grisly object that Crowley had become was not the most pleasant of experiences, but Sam needed to know why Crowley was still in there. Why hadn’t the demon smoked out of the meat-suit the moment Dean had wielded the Blade to separate Crowley’s head from his torso? Sam deduced Dean had used the Blade as there were teeth marks in the raggedy edges of the flesh and scratches visible in the remaining vertebrae when Sam used his magnifying glass – very CSI, Sammy, I thought you hated police procedurals…
Somehow Dean had trapped Crowley’s essence inside the skull, and Sam had to be sure it would stay there. He couldn’t have Crowley on the loose again. He had enough to worry about with Dean causing havoc wherever he appeared.
Now Crowley was being obnoxious and annoying, and Sam had had enough.
“I think Dean had the right idea, gagging you.” Sam picked up the tomato-red ball and stood up, shaking the leather straps in Crowley’s face. He watched with satisfaction as Crowley’s smile vanished and he started sputtering.
“No! Wait, I can help you!”
“Really? I doubt that. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stick this back in your lying mouth, package you up in a nice dark hex box and put you on a shelf in one of these vaults.”
“Look, I can’t find Dean for you, but I can help you find the one person on this earth who will know where Dean is.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Sam put the gag down on the surface next to the head. Crowley eyed it nervously before continuing.
“Cain’s your man. He’s borne the Mark, he knows how to find it again. And the Blade calls to him, constantly. Once you wield it, the bone sings to your blood, you can’t shake it.”
“Fine, so why do I need you? I can go find Cain and persuade him to help me without any assistance from you.”
“If Cain doesn’t want to be found, you will never track him down. You need a spell, and I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
“A spell. Right.”
Sam thought, that figures. The Dean in his head commented, predictably, witches, man. Fucking skeevy.
0x0x0x0
As spells went, this one was mild. The ingredients were mostly common herbs, a sprinkling of powdered beetle carapaces and the obligatory blood. The bowl was balanced on top of one of the beehives in Cain’s garden, which didn’t seem to be occupied so Sam just hoped this was going to work.
Sam dropped the lit match into the bowl and watched the flames flare up.
For a full sixty seconds or more, nothing happened. It meant Sam had time to run through all the cruel and unusual punishments one could inflict on a disembodied head. Fortunately for Crowley, the moment Sam was ready to leave and reached to collect the bowl, a faint humming set up vibrations through the wooden walls of the hive. Sam stepped back with alacrity. He wouldn’t put it past Crowley to have given him a spell that merely made bees angry, just to mess with him.
The queen emerged first, the rest, the workers, swiftly followed. As the mass of bees coalesced into a dark buzzing cloud, Sam hoped this was going work, because chasing a flying swarm over hill and dale wasn’t his idea of a good time.
Sam didn’t know if it was luck or the power of Crowley’s spell, but the swarm didn’t take long to reveal Cain’s hiding place. It seemed Cain was adept at hiding in plain sight, and hadn’t moved far from his Missouri agricultural idyll.
So bee wrangling turned out to be easy. Getting Cain to help him? Now that was the hard part. But Sam had one weapon that could pierce Cain’s defences and his anger – the only weapon that could work.
“Dean told me what happened to you, that you said Dean was like you. Please, if you believe that, help me find him. Help me save him, like Collette saved you.”
Cain closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he nodded.
“Very well,” he said.
0x0x0x0
It was eighty-five degrees and humid in South Dakota. It made Dean’s palms sweaty so the wrench kept slipping in his hand as he worked at tightening the bolts on the engine of the cherry-red 1965 Mustang he was restoring. He thought it might have been the one that had belonged to War, back in the day.
Demons were neither emotional nor sentimental so obviously it was neither of those that brought Dean back to Singer Salvage time after time when he was seeking down-time from his new demonic career. Nope. Dean just liked doing the same stuff he’d always liked doing, that’s all – such as fixing up old junkers. Nobody had bothered taking over Bobby’s old yard when the house had burned down, and then Bobby had died, so there was nobody there to bother Dean when he opened up Bobby’s sheds and brought out the old man’s tools. His new demonhood was handy though. It meant he didn’t have to draw attention to his presence by starting up any of the heavy lifting machinery, he could simply float the wreck he wanted to work on right into the workshop like it was made of polystyrene instead of Detroit steel.
He slid the trolley out from under the chassis and wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his left hand, which was marginally cleaner than his right. He smelled of engine oil and fresh sweat and warm skin, and it was easy to forget he was dead.
It was still too fucking hot, but the sun was kissing the top of the low fence now, and there was just the hope of a night breeze starting up, setting the leaves rustling in the hickory bushes. Dean wiped some of the oil off his hands with a rag that wasn’t clean to start with, so it didn’t have much effect. He held out one hand and a bottle of beer appeared in it, perfectly chilled, the top already popped. He climbed up onto the hood of the 1970 Buick he’d finished off last time he was here and takes a swig of the cold beer. He belched loudly, then closed his eyes. He told himself it was the perfect end to a perfect day.
A little voice inside his head said – perfect? Call yourself a demon? You just spent a whole day tinkering with an old car when you could have been out there with your hand inside some squealing human’s innards. You could have been creating a whole symphony of pain instead of listening to a V-8 engine being tuned. Dean ignored it. He was good at ignoring stuff, especially when he had a cold one in his hand. Mind empty, Dean watched as the sky turned to gold and green and finally took on the shades of a deep bruise as the stars began to appear.
He heard the footsteps approaching but kept his eyes closed, feeling the press of the residual heat of the day on his eyelids. He took another mouthful of beer, let it slide down his throat slowly, savouring the flavour of hops. The Buick dipped and its axle creaked with the additional weight as Sam settled in beside him on the hood. Eyes still closed, Dean summoned another beer. Dean felt the warmth of Sam’s fingers as he took the bottle off him, and listened as Sam drank, seeing in his mind’s eye the stretch of Sam’s long throat, imagining how his Adam’s apple would be working as he swallowed.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, and waited for the knife that never came.
x0x0x0x
Fin.
Back to Part 2
Allotropes of Sulphur 3: Here with the stars and the junker cars
“If Dean doesn’t want to be found, you are never going to find him.” Crowley said, smiling. There were flecks of dried blood caught in Crowley’s teeth, like red parsley.
Sam glared at the head where it sat on, appropriately enough, a chopping board. They were in the Men of Letters bunker because Sam didn’t know what else to do with the King of Hell’s severed head. This seemed the safest option, especially as Sam really didn’t fancy driving around the USA with any part of Crowley in his trunk, even though he knew Dean had done just that not so long ago. So he’d brought what was left of the demon back to the Bunker, cleaned it up and had eventually removed the ball gag Dean had inserted, probably as a joke. Crowley hadn’t found it very amusing, but then Crowley was naturally rather pissed at having been deprived of a body, so Sam guessed the demon’s sense of humour was somewhat impaired right now.
Before removing the gag, Sam had examined Crowley’s head thoroughly, albeit with some reluctance. Handling the grisly object that Crowley had become was not the most pleasant of experiences, but Sam needed to know why Crowley was still in there. Why hadn’t the demon smoked out of the meat-suit the moment Dean had wielded the Blade to separate Crowley’s head from his torso? Sam deduced Dean had used the Blade as there were teeth marks in the raggedy edges of the flesh and scratches visible in the remaining vertebrae when Sam used his magnifying glass – very CSI, Sammy, I thought you hated police procedurals…
Somehow Dean had trapped Crowley’s essence inside the skull, and Sam had to be sure it would stay there. He couldn’t have Crowley on the loose again. He had enough to worry about with Dean causing havoc wherever he appeared.
Now Crowley was being obnoxious and annoying, and Sam had had enough.
“I think Dean had the right idea, gagging you.” Sam picked up the tomato-red ball and stood up, shaking the leather straps in Crowley’s face. He watched with satisfaction as Crowley’s smile vanished and he started sputtering.
“No! Wait, I can help you!”
“Really? I doubt that. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t stick this back in your lying mouth, package you up in a nice dark hex box and put you on a shelf in one of these vaults.”
“Look, I can’t find Dean for you, but I can help you find the one person on this earth who will know where Dean is.”
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Sam put the gag down on the surface next to the head. Crowley eyed it nervously before continuing.
“Cain’s your man. He’s borne the Mark, he knows how to find it again. And the Blade calls to him, constantly. Once you wield it, the bone sings to your blood, you can’t shake it.”
“Fine, so why do I need you? I can go find Cain and persuade him to help me without any assistance from you.”
“If Cain doesn’t want to be found, you will never track him down. You need a spell, and I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
“A spell. Right.”
Sam thought, that figures. The Dean in his head commented, predictably, witches, man. Fucking skeevy.
0x0x0x0
As spells went, this one was mild. The ingredients were mostly common herbs, a sprinkling of powdered beetle carapaces and the obligatory blood. The bowl was balanced on top of one of the beehives in Cain’s garden, which didn’t seem to be occupied so Sam just hoped this was going to work.
Sam dropped the lit match into the bowl and watched the flames flare up.
For a full sixty seconds or more, nothing happened. It meant Sam had time to run through all the cruel and unusual punishments one could inflict on a disembodied head. Fortunately for Crowley, the moment Sam was ready to leave and reached to collect the bowl, a faint humming set up vibrations through the wooden walls of the hive. Sam stepped back with alacrity. He wouldn’t put it past Crowley to have given him a spell that merely made bees angry, just to mess with him.
The queen emerged first, the rest, the workers, swiftly followed. As the mass of bees coalesced into a dark buzzing cloud, Sam hoped this was going work, because chasing a flying swarm over hill and dale wasn’t his idea of a good time.
Sam didn’t know if it was luck or the power of Crowley’s spell, but the swarm didn’t take long to reveal Cain’s hiding place. It seemed Cain was adept at hiding in plain sight, and hadn’t moved far from his Missouri agricultural idyll.
So bee wrangling turned out to be easy. Getting Cain to help him? Now that was the hard part. But Sam had one weapon that could pierce Cain’s defences and his anger – the only weapon that could work.
“Dean told me what happened to you, that you said Dean was like you. Please, if you believe that, help me find him. Help me save him, like Collette saved you.”
Cain closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, he nodded.
“Very well,” he said.
0x0x0x0
It was eighty-five degrees and humid in South Dakota. It made Dean’s palms sweaty so the wrench kept slipping in his hand as he worked at tightening the bolts on the engine of the cherry-red 1965 Mustang he was restoring. He thought it might have been the one that had belonged to War, back in the day.
Demons were neither emotional nor sentimental so obviously it was neither of those that brought Dean back to Singer Salvage time after time when he was seeking down-time from his new demonic career. Nope. Dean just liked doing the same stuff he’d always liked doing, that’s all – such as fixing up old junkers. Nobody had bothered taking over Bobby’s old yard when the house had burned down, and then Bobby had died, so there was nobody there to bother Dean when he opened up Bobby’s sheds and brought out the old man’s tools. His new demonhood was handy though. It meant he didn’t have to draw attention to his presence by starting up any of the heavy lifting machinery, he could simply float the wreck he wanted to work on right into the workshop like it was made of polystyrene instead of Detroit steel.
He slid the trolley out from under the chassis and wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his left hand, which was marginally cleaner than his right. He smelled of engine oil and fresh sweat and warm skin, and it was easy to forget he was dead.
It was still too fucking hot, but the sun was kissing the top of the low fence now, and there was just the hope of a night breeze starting up, setting the leaves rustling in the hickory bushes. Dean wiped some of the oil off his hands with a rag that wasn’t clean to start with, so it didn’t have much effect. He held out one hand and a bottle of beer appeared in it, perfectly chilled, the top already popped. He climbed up onto the hood of the 1970 Buick he’d finished off last time he was here and takes a swig of the cold beer. He belched loudly, then closed his eyes. He told himself it was the perfect end to a perfect day.
A little voice inside his head said – perfect? Call yourself a demon? You just spent a whole day tinkering with an old car when you could have been out there with your hand inside some squealing human’s innards. You could have been creating a whole symphony of pain instead of listening to a V-8 engine being tuned. Dean ignored it. He was good at ignoring stuff, especially when he had a cold one in his hand. Mind empty, Dean watched as the sky turned to gold and green and finally took on the shades of a deep bruise as the stars began to appear.
He heard the footsteps approaching but kept his eyes closed, feeling the press of the residual heat of the day on his eyelids. He took another mouthful of beer, let it slide down his throat slowly, savouring the flavour of hops. The Buick dipped and its axle creaked with the additional weight as Sam settled in beside him on the hood. Eyes still closed, Dean summoned another beer. Dean felt the warmth of Sam’s fingers as he took the bottle off him, and listened as Sam drank, seeing in his mind’s eye the stretch of Sam’s long throat, imagining how his Adam’s apple would be working as he swallowed.
“Hey, Sammy,” Dean said, and waited for the knife that never came.
x0x0x0x
Fin.