Payback's a Winchester

a/n This comes after "Dark Side of the Moon", as a follow up to Dean's threat to Walt and Roy about how he's "gonna be pissed" when he comes back.

It shouldn't've been scary.

Hell, Roy and Walt had faced down werewolves and shapeshifters. Even a Wendigo, once. They were hunters. They went looking for the type of stuff that would give a normal man nightmares.

But something about the way the kid had talked… He was Dean Winchester, for God's sake! And then they'd shot his baby brother, right there in front of him. And he hadn't even gone for them. Nah, he'd just gave them that angry smirk, the one that a thousand monsters'd probably seen right before they died ugly, and he'd egged them on. Told them to kill him.

And Walt had. But not before Dean'd made a promise that scared the living daylights out of Roy.

"I'm gonna warn ya; when I come back, I'm gonna be pissed."

Now they sat in a bar three towns over, and they were both finally coming down from the adrenaline rush. They'd killed the Winchester boys. Damn. That alone would be a story to dine out on for months.

And all that fear, all that snarled, dark mess of terror that had been trying to choke them right after, that was all stuffed so far down they could ignore it without even trying.

The bar was one of those dives every little, out-of-the-way place has: all old wood and polished floors that've been walked over a thousand times. Tired pool tables, the fuzz wearing away and the cues replaced every couple of months from being broken in a brawl. The air was musty and smelled like old cigarette smoke and spilled beer, and the lighting left the whole area gloomy and inclusive, like whoever was at a table were the only ones in the building. There was a classic juke box, long past its prime, all the lights dead and the edges covered in sticky fingerprints, old music still playing, quiet and a little off-key, circling through the bar.

That was where the two hunters were, bellied-up to the counter, each with a bottle of beer and a line of shots, boasting about what they'd just done, trying their very hardest to pretend they weren't still expecting Dean Winchester to come bursting in the front door like Almighty God to kill them.

"That Sammy, he begged, like a whiney little bitch. You'd think the jackass who'd jumpstarted the Apocalypse would be tougher then that, but no! He was all shaking and pale and looked like he was gonna cry," Walt sneered, before throwing back one of his drinks.

Roy just sat next to him, chuckling quietly, a proud little smile twisting his mouth.

They should have known to keep on running.

And when Dean Winchester came in to the bar, it wasn't with the crack of thunder and a sudden downpour of rain. Instead, he just strolled casually in, with the two not even noticing until he stood right behind them, a death's head grin on his face.

The bartender and the regular customers had been around long enough to know when it was time to go elsewhere.

Leaning in, still as calm as you please, Dean grabbed one of the shots in front of Roy and drank it down. With a little sigh, and that fearful expression of joy back in place, he good-naturedly scolded, "Really, I would think you two would have been smart enough to just keep going until you drove right off the face of the planet. But, then again, how smart could you be if you thought you could kill Sammy and not have to pay for it."

Both hunters sat frozen on their barstools. Walt was in denial so deep he didn't even think to go for a weapon. Roy, on the other hand, was whimpering like a baby. They were hard men, tough men. But anyone would be thrown for a loop when faced with someone they'd personally shot dead less than five hours ago, coming around to bother them.

"Y'see, boys," the object of their fear kept right on talking, like some kind of teacher explaining a subject a student was having trouble with. "No one gets away with that. Not demons, not tricksters, not angels, not monsters, not humans. You know who the first person I ever killed was? I was thirteen. He was some freak who liked kids, and he thought he could try for my brother. Sam doesn't even remember it. But I do. I think Dad wasn't sure whether to be proud or pissed about coming back from a hunt to find me trying to hide a body.

"Oh, wait. You're probably wondering about how I'm up and moving after you pumped me full of holes. Right? That. Well, see, according to Ash, he's a friend of ours who we happened to cross paths with while we were Upstairs, Sam and me, we keep on dying. But we just don't stay dead. Sometimes it's the angels who bring us back, sometimes it's demons, and sometimes it's a force that everyone's a little hesitant to name "God", but since neither side can claim they were the ones to do it that time around, we really don't know who else to blame. What it all boils down to is that both Heaven and Hell have a revolving door policy in place, specifically for me and Sammy. You might wanna let whoever else happens to be after us know now, before it's your turn to see what Downstairs is like." He caught their eyes in the mirror over the bar and winked. "I'm sure you'll hate it. It is, after all, Hell. And trust someone who knows, it's not all politicians and rock stars partying it up with enough alcohol to drown in. Nope, it's torture 24/7, and it goes on forever."

Walt and Roy never did manage to share all that interesting information with any other hunters. It didn't stop the rumors from spreading though. And the next time a couple of hunters thought about taking down Sammy Winchester, they ended the night puking up their guts following the story of horror and refined torture that spelled the end of the lives of Roy and Walt.

It took a while, but the community learned fast: Payback's not a bitch. It's a Winchester.