A/N: Written quickly and unbeta'd, so the fault is mine, all mine. BTW: This takes place after "The Culling of the Herd."
Summary: Dean's emotional issues are getting in the way of the big bad demonic master plan. Yup, this is just as crack-filled as "Culling" was. What, ya were expectin' "Masterpiece Theatre"?
Disclaimer: I don't own John, Dean, Sam, Meg.
"I need you sharp for this, son," John Winchester put his hand on his eldest son's shoulder. Dean swayed a little on his feet. He kept his head down and he wouldn't look at his father.
John's yellow eyes glowed softly as he shook his head sadly at his son's non-reaction. Dean's eyes were a pale hazel, not the fiery yellow he'd woken up with a month ago, when he turned darkside along with his brother Sam.
"Ace." John tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder a little as he leaned in. By Hades, it broke his damn heart to see Dean like that. Broken down. Dispirited. "You're no good to me conflicted like this."
"M'not conflicted." Dean mumbled softly.
"You're not? You drink coffee with whiskey shots all the time now. When was the last time you had a good night's sleep? Spent some quality time with Casey? It's got to stop, Dean. The constant bickering with Meg, the fires, the failed assassination attempts on her life."
Dean looked up sharply. John nodded. "Thought I didn't notice? You're slipping, son. I'd known the time you would've smoked her and nobody would have even known it was you. And the minions," John shook his head, partly in awe. "You've incinerated four hundred of them already. It's gotten so nobody wants to work with you but Sam, and you snap and snarl at him all the time."
Dean's shoulders slumped.
"Dean," John rumbled slowly. "Will you do this for me? I can't fight this war without you, son."
"Yessir," Dean whispered hoarsely. "I'll do it."
"Now, you gotta promise me something." DemonJohn put one hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean raised his head and made direct eye contact. "Dr. Thompson is…useful to me. To us. I don't want you making a move on him, you hear me, Dean? You've booked for five one hour sessions this week, nine to ten a.m., Monday through Friday."
"Dad," Dean said in a small voice. He sounded like he was four years old instead of twenty eight. "You're making me go see a shrink? Like Dr. Phil?"
John just stared at him. "You're going to do whatever work he tells you to do. You're going to do whatever it takes to get better and you are not going to flame him." John's grip on Dean's shoulder tightened again for emphasis. " Am I making myself clear, Ace?"
"All right." John nodded in approval. "Your brother's going to drive you in the morning. He'll wait for you until your appointment is over and drive you back."
"I can drive myself," Dean muttered stubbornly.
"Dean," John said warningly. The yellow fire in his eyes flashed a little brighter.
Dean's shoulders slumped in submission. "Yes sir."
"That's my man," John said proudly. He left in a burst of yellow hellfire.
Dean spent the night sitting in the driveway in front of the townhouse hugging the grill and right front bumper of his beloved Impala. He gripped the metal so hard it left marks in his skin. He rocked back and forth and sometimes moaned softly to himself.
Normally Dr. Phillip Thompson didn't pay his dreams that much attention. He occasionally had some pretty wild ones, but he didn't stress too much over it. Dreams were the mind's way of getting rid of the junk it accumulated during waking hours. When Thompson opened his eyes this time it was the same old scene.
Giant four-poster bed? Check.
He lay spreadeagled on the bed. CHeck.
His wrists and ankles were loosely tied to the four posts by red silk ribbons. Check.
So far, so good.
Well, there was one difference. A big one.
Victoria Thompson was nowhere to be seen.
Instead a petite blonde in this tight red leather jacket and blue jeans sat on the edge of the bed. Thompson had never seen her before, but it was no big deal. She was just a figment of his imagination. Yeah, sure, that was it.
He was pretty sure it was all a dream because her eyes went pitch black for a moment. She leaned over and smiled at him, and that smile held a promise of indescribable delights.
If only he said yes.
"O-oh…oh-kay." Thompson stuttered. It was only a dream, right? If he said yes, what was the harm?
Meg smiled brightly, leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips. She was still smiling as she pulled back and patted him on the top of his head. "You won't regret this, Doc. This is the beginning of a beautiful relationship."
They pulled up in front of the office building ten minutes early. Sam tried not to bounce up and down with excitement, but his pitch black eyes shone and he couldn't help grinning like a fucking maniac. It was unseemly for a prince of darkness to act like that, but…damn! A chick flick moment!
Involving Dean, of all people. An honest to Lucifer chick flick moment, a major league one, five times a freakin' week this week at least! This kind of shit didn't happen when they were on the side of the Greater Good!
Hell, they all should've turned darkside years ago.
Dean stared at Sam coldly, his yellow eyes hidden by his shades. "Bet you're just lovin' this, aren't ya?"
"Yea-aah." Sam knew he sounded damn goofy but he couldn't help it. He composed himself with a visible effort. "I can sit in on the session if you want me to."
"Yeah, I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Dean's tone was abrupt, harsh. "Hell, no. You sit your ass out in the waiting room and wait for me like Dad told you to."
Sam grinned widely. "Emo bitch."
Dean called him everything but a child of God.
Five minutes later Dean stood in the inner office and found himself shaking hands with his own personal shrink.
How low the mighty have fallen.
Dr. Phillip Thompson was a distingushed looking black dude about John's age. His handshake was firm, even though Dean tried his best to break his friggin' hand. The good doctor didn't even seem to notice.
He wasn't the least bit put off by Dean's defensive swagger, or the yellow fire in Dean's eyes that wasn't quite hidden by those dark shades. Thompson was almost as tall as Sam, and for some reason that irritated the hell out of Dean. He felt his power surge underneath his skin, curl around his fingertips.
Come on, dude, it whispered in his ear. You know you wanna do this. Flame his touchy feely ass.
For a brief wild moment Dean considered it.
Then: If I do, Dad'll be pissed. And anyway, I promised I wouldn't.
Oh, yeah? The darkness inside him answered back. You said you'd save Sammy when he went darkside. You even said you'd rather kill yourself than go dark. Doing a bang up job with those promises, Ace. The score so far? Emo Girly Stuff: Three. Deanna Winchester: Zero. Nada. Zilch. Nyet. A big fat goose egg--
"Shut the fuck up," Dean whispered roughly to himself.
He must've said it out loud, because Thompson looked at him with one raised eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing," Dean replied a little too quickly. His stomach hurt. His head felt fuzzy and his mouth was dry. He needed a drink. Damn, did he need a drink. He kept looking towards the window, at the outside world. He'd rather be anywhere but here…
"Dean -- is it okay with you if I call you Dean?" Thompson said warmly, and Dean nodded. "Make yourself comfortable. You can sit in the chair or lie down on the couch."
Dean stared at him blankly.
"You gonna stand up for the entire session? Either lie down on the couch or sit your ass down, boy."
Dean sat on the edge of the couch gingerly, as if any moment the couch fabric was going to grow teeth and bite him on the ass. He reluctantly slipped his shades off. His eyes faded back into a light green color, the whites of his eyes slightly bloodshot. Thompson nodded. "You took a big step, the right step in coming here today, Dean."
Dean rolled his eyes and looked like he was on his way to his own execution.
"Opinions are like asses, everybody's got one." Thompson continued. "I wanna hear yours."
"My…opinions?" Dean squeaked. What the hell? He cleared his throat, deepened his voice. "Opinions about what?"
Better. More John Winchester, less Mickey Mouse.
"Well, about your life. Your ambitions. I wanna hear about what moves you Dean. I wanna hear your hopes and fears."
Good one, Doc, Meg purred smoothly in Thompson's ear.
"Now your father mentioned that you were having a hard time with some emotional issues. We can talk about anything you want to, but I'd really like to talk about your feelings."
"F-feelings?" Dean stammered. "You mean, like, f-feelings? Emo stuff? We're gonna do chick flick moments for the next hour?"
Thomspon frowned. Chick flick moments? That was a new one. "Well, yeah..."
Dean shook his head wildly from side to side. "I--I thought I could do this, but I can't --I won't--"
Whoever said the fabric on that couch was fireproof lied.
The boys left before the first responders showed up. Thompson sighed, reached behind his desk, and pulled out the fire extinguisher filled with holy water. He whistled as he put out the flames, and then he called John Winchester on his cell.
"He did WHAT?" John bellowed.
Thompson shrugged as his personal assistant opened all the windows to air the place out. "Well, it's not all bad. You told him not to flame me, and he didn't. I still want him back here tomorrow morning at nine sharp."
"He'll be there if I have to drag his ass through the door in chains," John muttered.
"And I'm sending you a bill for the couch," Thompson added serenely.
"Son of a bitch…"
After John hung up, the good doctor just stood there, swaying slightly as Meg's voice echoed inside his head. It's okay, baby, she purred smoothly, and he shuddered as he imagined her slim fingers brushing across his chest. Ol' Deano's coming back tomorrow. You did just fine.
Well, if you've come this far, I guess you better click on the button and go to Part 2.