|Five Ways that Devil's Trap Didn't Happen
Author: BlueIris08 PM
A series of twists on the Winchester boys' demonic encounter.Rated: Fiction M - English - Sam W. & Dean W. - Chapters: 5 - Words: 8,563 - Reviews: 16 - Favs: 8 - Follows: 11 - Updated: 10-31-06 - Published: 06-21-06 - Status: Complete - id: 3002148
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Title: "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest" ("Five Ways that Devil's Trap Didn't Happen," 1/4)
Spoilers: "Devil's Trap"
Warning: Character Death.
This is the first in a set of five stories in a series entitled "Five Ways that Devil's Trap Didn't Happen." I'll be posting a total of four here at FanFictionNet. The last one (not yet written) will be posted only at my website because it will contain graphic sexual content.
"So. How are we going to do this?" Dean chanced a glance at Sam, who had finally chosen the wrong time to have a violent psychic episode. The weight of the weapon hidden under Dean's jacket was small comfort when he couldn't draw it without his hands shaking.
"With dull cliches, I guess." The demon wearing his father's body flicked his eyes over to Dean before returning to watch Sam brace himself against the wall, struggling against whatever sights or sensations were bombarding him. "You know, I have something you want, you have something I want, I'm here to trade."
"It's the twenty-first century, man. Move past the barter economy." Dean stepped sideways toward his brother, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on his father. "We got sick of the goddamned Colt and threw it into the river."
His father's face creased into faint lines of contempt. "It was getting as tired as your sense of humor," he agreed, "but I came for that." He jerked his head towards Sam.
Dean's hand was almost steady after all as he yanked the revolver from its holster. Almost. "Huh. Guess we didn't throw it away," he said.
"Imagine that." His father tossed him another dismissive glance.
Sam groaned sharply, throwing his head so far back that the tendons in his neck strained. Dean started as a chair slid across the room to slam against the back wall, and the corner of his mind that was always on the hunt noted that it was highly unlikely they'd taken refuge in a poltergeist's residence. He kept the weapon trained on his father as he moved toward Sam. It bothered him that the demon wasn't trying to stop him.
The demon tilted his head as if in thought, and then nodded, smirking, like he'd come to a decision. The shadows the firelight cast on his face were so picturesquely sinister that it wouldn't have surprised Dean if he'd chosen to stand there just for that.
"Do you really think you can kill him?" he asked, gesturing to John's body. "John trusts you not to."
Sam let out a sudden gasp and went limp, sliding down to the floor. Dean knelt next to him. "Sammy?"
Sam shook his head. "Something's wrong," he gritted out. "With me."
"Well," the demon said, "that depends on your point of view."
Sam arched into another wave of pain, clenching his teeth. Dean cocked the gun. "Stop it."
The demon smirked again. "What makes you think I'm doing it?"
Dean didn't bother to answer. "Sam?"
Sam's flailing hand grabbed at Dean's wrist. Maybe it was reassuring that he recognized Dean's voice, but his hand was too warm, and something was wrong as hell if his brother didn't know better than to pin his arm during a confrontation.
Dean carefully put on his poker face, his tell-free bluffing face, before he looked his father straight in the eye and got down to business. The demon had to be here for the Colt; he could have taken Sammy before if he'd wanted, and rule number one of bargaining was to start high, come down to what you wanted. It was a mistake for Dean to have let himself be goaded into showing he had the gun, and he wasn't about to be the one to suggest making the swap. Except he didn't have a particularly plausible high alternative.
"Here's the trade," he said anyway. "You let my dad go and leave, and we'll give you a three-day head start before we come after you."
Another smirk. "Quick lesson in the barter economy, son. You have to offer something the other party wants."
Sam's shaking grew worse; his fingers clawed painfully into Dean's arm, and he dug the nails of his other hand into the floorboards. Then a window blew out, and fuck, that was disconcerting.
"Always was a late bloomer," their father said nonsensically. He lifted his eyebrows, still worrisomely indifferent to the weapon pointed at him. "You know, Dean, I could have taken you boys any time in the last six months. Did you wonder why I waited until tonight?"
That couldn't be good. "Not really." Don't ask. Don't take the bait. Dean freed his arm as Sam's body relaxed. "Hold it together, Sammy," he whispered. His brother nodded shakily, panting, his eyes closed.
"It's because tonight," the demon continued, ignoring him, "little Sammy comes of age. Those are just growing pains."
Speaking to Dean but looking at Sam, he went on, "This is the deal: I let go of Johnny here—good riddance—and take Sam." Again, an odd emphasis on Sam's name. "And if you put the gun down and get out of the way, I won't rip you to shreds right here in front of them."
"Do it, Dean. Move," Sam muttered, trying to slide away from him.
His father looked pained at Sam's offered sacrifice. "He'll outgrow that."
"Uh-huh," Dean answered. Don't get pulled into his game.
The gun was getting heavy.
"We all know you're not going to shoot your daddy," the demon said matter-of-factly. "So just step aside."
Dean steadied the weapon as his gut twisted. Think of Sam, pale and drained next to him. Concentrate on the one thing that he and his father would agree was worth sacrificing their lives for.
"If my dad was really in there, you'd know that I'll die before I let you hurt my brother. And so would he."
"Your brother," the demon said softly as Sam suddenly groaned and thrashed again, slamming his head against the wall. The dishes in the small kitchenette were the next casualty.
Dean reached for his arm and jerked back at the heat. Still training the Colt on his father, he brushed his hand against Sam's forehead, found that he was running so hot that if they were anywhere else, Dean would think the convulsions were febrile seizures.
The demon watched with faint distaste. "Let me tell you something about your brother before you kill your father for him."
"If I listen, will you wrap this up?" Dean asked, trying to match his sneer. Sam collapsed, wheezing, and it didn't matter if it was the demon's attacks or something else—he had to stop whatever was happening to Sam. Now.
"Before you dropped out of school, Dean..." The demon paused and cocked his head thoughtfully. "By the way, that wasn't really about hunting full-time. John knew you weren't smart enough to finish, wanted to spare you the embarrassment of flunking out. His idea of good parenting."
"Get to the fucking point," Sam hissed.
"Watch how you talk to your father, boy." The demon looked Sam up and down, curling his lip. Dean had never before appreciated the range of derisive expressions his father possessed. "And speaking of embarrassments..."
"What, he was disappointed in me?" Sam choked out a weak laugh. "You want to hurt me, tell me something I don't know."
The demon narrowed John's eyes and Sam threw back his head as whatever that was hit him once more. He still managed to reach into the bratty depths of his soul—or shallows, it's not like Sam's brattiness had ever been hidden—to pull out his own mocking grin as he fought it. That was a Winchester for you.
"Getting there," his father said before looking back to Dean. "The mothers always know—we have to get rid of them. And the fathers can usually tell something is off. But you never guessed. Never had a clue. Always protected him, always took care of him." He shook his head with disdain, and his eyes glowed yellow again.
"The fucking point?" Dean prompted, but suddenly it came to him, a prescient inkling of what his father was saying. Of the lie the demon was spinning to make him give up Sam.
"Before you dropped out of school," the demon repeated with quiet relish, "did you learn how cuckoos raise their young?"
He let the question hang in the air, softly self-satisfied. Sam's breath rattled as the latest fit passed.
Dean stood and stepped fully in front of Sam. "C'mon, man. Can't you come up with something better than that?"
The demon shrugged. "Explains a lot, doesn't it?" He nodded toward the wreckage across the room. "It's not natural, what Sam can do. He's a freak, you've said it yourself."
Dean shook his head, tamping down every reservation he'd ever had about Sam's bizarre...abilities. "Doesn't make your story any less crap."
"You think?" The demon glanced toward the small table across the room, which slid neatly over to join the chair Sam had broken against the wall. "Don't you see the family resemblance?"
"You're gonna have to do better than that," Dean snapped, getting pulled in in spite of himself.
"Seen too much weird stuff to be thrown by that, huh? Then think closer to home." His father's tone was just right—John's sincerity urging him to believe, and demonic glee, Yeah, maybe I'm yanking your chain. "Has Sam ever fit into your family? It explains why he and John never liked each other. Why Sam left as soon as he could. Tell me, Dean, how eager was he to rescue your father when we took him?"
He paused to let it sink it. Sam's gasps were weaker and he didn't speak—maybe he was too out of it to hear or understand.
"Your father always knew, deep down, that something was wrong with Sammy. He always left you to look out for him because he couldn't make himself do it. Then, as soon as Sam could leave the nest"—the demon's lips quirked—"John let him go. Hell, he threw him out, knowing exactly what's out there. And yeah, Dean, Daddy is still in here, and no, he wouldn't die for Sam. He believes me."
His tone shifted: still a touch of malice—why would you believe me?—but more steady conviction. More like Dad. "Think about Sam. How many times has he left you? How ready is he to do it again? Sam thinks he loves you, but you know what love really is, and you know he doesn't.
"It's not because of you," he added with false kindness. "It's just not in his nature."
Exploding light bulbs signaled the beginning of Sam's next convulsion. Dean looked down at his brother's contorted face. Just the firelight, it was just the firelight, or maybe his own imagination that made Sam's eyes glint yellow.
"That's not your brother," the demon finished, nothing but honesty in his voice now. "It never was. You carried the wrong baby out of the fire."
He stepped forward, and Dean settled into his stance, raised his other hand to brace the weapon. "I'll do it," he said, heart beating off-rhythm, feeling ice and steel clawing through his gut.
"It's all right, son," the demon said in precise mimicry—it had to be mimicry—of his father's soft but implacable command. "Step aside."
"No." He sighted down the barrel.
No hint, no warning—Dean was just flung across the cabin. Only luck and instinct kept the Colt in his hand as he crashed against the wall. "Stop," he grunted, aiming from his prone position as the demon kept moving.
"You sure, Dean? Sure enough to kill your own father?" His father took another step toward Sam, still thrashing helplessly on the floor.
For the first time in twenty years, Dean closed his eyes as he fired a weapon.