a/n: these are all one-shots with no chronological order; they take place at various points though deanna's life, so you can pretty much read them any way you want. there won't be any wincest in this fic, possibly some destiel. this one contains spoilers for S2. hope you review!

The crossroads demon is a suit. He's the young professional type, dressed impeccably in dark gray with his patent-leather shoes polished to a reflective sheen. Handsome in a disaffected kind of way. The type of guy that Deanna would veer well away from normally, or maybe tug on his chain a bit if she's working a case. Except this is no human. This is a creature with eyes that flash glaring red underneath the weak light of the moon, who smiles at her like he wants to hurt her.

"Deanna Winchester," he says, words wrapping around her name like silk, "What a treat it is to meet you. You know, I heard you were a pretty thing, but—" the demon steps in closer, his grin wide and predatory— "you're just edible."

She swallows the urge to throw an obscenity in his face.

"I'm not here to play games. I want you to bring him back."

"Big sister running to save little Sammy? I'm not surprised." His eyes shift back to a dark shade of brown, but nothing about his expression is remotely human. "Sorry, Deanna. No can do. I don't make deals with Winchesters."

"No," Deanna rasps out, grabbing the collar of his shirt to keep him from walking away. "No. You – you need to bring him back. It's a fair deal. My soul for Sam's life. You collect in ten years."

The demon puts on a look of false contemplation for a few seconds. "Mm, tempting. But it's still a no from me, sweetheart. Don't get me wrong—I'd love to get my hands on that soul of yours," he smirks at her, their faces only inches apart. "But ten years? Forget it."




"You're wasting my time here."

"Five. Five years or no deal." Her voice is cracking like ice underneath the weight of a heavy boot.

He looks at her, and does she imagine it, or does something like pity flit across his features? She tightens her hold on his collar, lowers her gaze to his jaw. His skin is smooth and unmarred, lips soft, probably belonging to some Wall Street intern who subsists off salads and vitamin water and free-range turkey. Is that a thing? Sam would know. Sam. God. Her throat constricts so tight she can't breathe, can't even think. Her eyes are wet and ready to spill. She can't live with it, doesn't want to live with it, this image of Sam's pallid body laid out on a table, stiff, unmoving, cold.

"Please," she says, and this time there is no pretense, only the raw echo of her grief.

"I can give you one year."

She doesn't have to think about it. Doesn't hesitate, not for a second. She crashes her lips to his, opening like a flower, her last defenses peeled away. The demon's lips are just as soft as they look. His hand comes to grip the back of her neck, tangling into the strands of her blonde hair oh-so-possessively.

When they break apart, his eyes are red again and the air is freezing, but Deanna doesn't care, nothing matters, nothing else matters but Sam, because he'll be back now, he'll be alive and breathing, he's her baby brother and he's alive.