A/N: No spoilers that I can think of. Just something I would have loved to see on the show. Yeah, I'm late with this. Sorry.

Word count each section: 100 on the nose.

Summary: E/O CHALLENGE. Prompt word: Frame. No redeeming qualities here. Nine drabbles in one chapter about Dark!Dean and Evil!Sam, Demon John, out and about, doing what they do best.


Angels are watching over you. That's what Mary used to tell Dean as she tucked him in at night.

They didn't help John hunt down Lillith. Hadn't done anything to prevent the bitch from killing Mary.

They'd ignored him all those years, after the fire.

Until the day Castiel showed up.

His massive dark wings filled the door frame behind him. "You cannot continue down this path, brother."

John smirked a little then. Brother? Hadn't been called that in years.

John's eyes flared dark golden.

"Azazel, you know there is a plan," Castiel gasped as he died.

"Yes. My plan."


Sam walks up to the Impala with the clerk's blood on his skin, his pockets stuffed with cash, and his power singing in his veins. "Dude, why the hell didn't you come inside," Sam mock snarls.

He sees the quiet look on Dean's face and stops short.

Dean puts the picture frame back into the glove compartment. It's a photo of Mom, bright and loving and oh so normal.

Crap.

Dean doesn't say much for the rest of the day. He gets like that sometimes.

Two hours later Sam gets himself arrested, and waits for Dean to play big brother.


"Don't tell me. Let me guess," Sheriff Massey drawls. "This is all a frame. You're an innocent man."

Sam grins, bright and wolfish, as he lies down on the bunk in his cell.

"Like hell. That Hendricksen fella at the FBI is coming out here. They're real interested in you and your lunatic brother."

Dude, this voice rumbles inside Massey's head. You looking for me? I'm right here.

Massey jerks, shakes and finally drops dead as his brain overloads.

Dean walks in through the far wall.

"You got damn sloppy, grasshopper." He looks at Sam, shakes his head. "Let's go."


Dean sits on the Impala's hood and casts his power out with a lazy flick of his right hand.

The house directly across the street crumples like a used paper towel. Tough shit if somebody's still inside; Dean has no sympathy for them.

Dean nods at Sam.

Sam squints for dramatic effect. He raises his hand up, hooks the fingers of his right hand, claw-like.

"Way to go, Carrie," Dean drawls.

The frame house next door trembles, then collapses into a million separate pieces, one by one.

"Show-off." Dean huffs noisily, rolls his eyes. "Dude. You play too damn much."


Dean gathers the balls up in the frame, then prowls around the pool table like a big cat. Thirty minutes, twelve hundred dollars and four dead bikers later he's finally settled down.

Sam nurses a beer while he keeps an eye on the front and rear doors. He's bored. Hendricksen and his SWAT team would be a welcome diversion right now.

"Pop quiz, Poindexter. You're gonna massacre a town." Dean growls as he makes the break. Clean, as usual. "What do you do first?"

Sam huffs. Too easy. "Cut all lines of communication."

Dean grins a little. "That's my boy."


Sam's been in a lousy frame of mind these last few days.

Dean knows why.

You play the hand you're dealt. Normal never was in the equation anyway. Not since November 2nd, 1983.

One night Dean draws sigils with his blood on the deserted playground nearby. He whispers Greek words, barely blinks when the sigils catch fire.

When poor dead Jess appears she's pale, wide-eyed with shock.

"He needs to see you now. You gotta believe me, Jess," Dean says softly as he takes her by the hand. "Sam didn't mean to hurt you."

She doesn't believe him. Never does.


Ellen moans deep in her throat, arches her back as John's nimble mouth and hands roam all over her body.

I hate you, she thinks wildly. I do.

"You killed everyone else. Bobby. Missouri and Pam…"

"Always wanted you, Ellen," John whispers into her skin. "War starts tomorrow, but right now, it's just you and me. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

She drops her arm down to the side, touches the hilt of the knife taped to the bed frame.

John pushes against her, hungry, demanding.

Ellen pulls her hand away.

"Yes," Ellen breathes. "Damn you, you know I do."


Tuesday. Pig in a poke. Dean leans forward in the booth, picks up his fork, and freezes in place as his eyes blaze bright gold. It's a long distance phone call from Dad.

Everyone in the diner looks the other way. Nobody wants to end up as one of Sam's playthings, broken and bloody.

The golden flare in Dean's eyes stutters out after a few seconds. Dean blinks slowly. Those impossibly long lashes make a perfect frame for his bright green eyes.

"Dad's back. " Dean murmurs softly. "He's in Lawrence. It's showtime, Sammy."

Sam tries not to scowl. Damn.


Home.

"Right back where it all started," Dean murmurs softly as he turns the Impala's engine off.

"You okay, Deanna?"

Dean just nods.

"You wanna share and care a little?"

"No, bitch, I don't."

"Okay, jerk."

John smiles proudly as they walk up to him. They're his boys. His weakness and his strength.

Dean steps into John's arms, hugs his father's large frame without hesitation. Sam hangs back, but only for a second or two.

They're stronger as a family. Heaven and Hell won't stand a chance.

"Glad you boys could make it," John drawls. "We got work to do."

-finis-