Then...
The sun had set a good hour earlier and the fire had burnt down. The last of the dying embers were still warm enough to be the only source of light in the room. As the fire slowly began to flicker and die it cast long shadows that danced across the room. Not that it mattered, the fireplace‘s only audience had fallen asleep hours ago. A book sat open across his chest and his glasses had slipped almost completely from his nose. A half empty bottle of whiskey sat on the table beside him and an empty glass sat beside that.
Bernard Smythe M.D., retired, had come out to the frontier to live with his daughter and live out the rest of his days in the peaceful open expanses that the frontier rumored to hold. The reality of the place had somewhat differed to the tales he had heard from his practice in Boston. Both he and his daughter kept relatively to themselves, avoiding the drunken revelry and shootings of the nearby town. Therefore when a fist clamored hard enough against the door to rattle the hinges, Bernard woke with a start, the book falling to the floor.
“All right all right, hold your horses. I’m coming.” It took the old man a few moments of grumbling and fumbling. But he was eventually able to get himself up out of his chair and make his way to the door. The banging continued with such a racket that Clara, the good Doctor’s daughter, stepped from the hallway, tugging her shawl closer around her shoulders as she frowned in question and looked at the clock above the mantel.
Two men stood in the doorway. Bernard couldn’t see their faces under the broad brimmed cowboy hats they both wore but it didn’t matter. The thing that held Bernard’s attention and drew a gasp of surprise from Clara was the blood soaked shirt that the taller man was wearing. Both men were hunched together, an arm around each other to shore up the wounded man, and both were breathing heavily.
“You the doc?” the uninjured man asked, his voice gruff and intimidating as he raised his head enough to flash a pair of bright hazel eyes imploringly at Bernard.
“Yes, But I’m retired,” Bernard explained. He hadn’t treated a patient in more than five years.
The two men didn’t seem to care. The hazel eyed man practically dragging the wounded man through the door and into the room. Clara moved and led them through to Bernard’s room so that the injured man could lie down. Bernard grabbed the bottle of whiskey from the table and followed the trail of blood the two men had left on his daughter’s floor as they passed through the house.
It didn’t take a medical degree to see that the wound the young man lying in the bed had received was fatal. He looked the lad over; his eyes were already fever bright and his skin cold to the touch. The bullet did not seem to have nicked any major arteries but it had still done enough damage to cause severe blood loss. Now it was just a matter of which would run out first, the young man’s grit or his blood. Bernard had very little in the way of medicinal supplies.
“I’m very sorry, there isn’t anything I can do for him,” Bernard admitted, hoping that the gunman would see reason. He could try and operate but his hands weren’t as steady as they had once been and the boy would likely die faster if Bernard attempted to cut into him.
“What do you mean you can’t do anything?” The hazel eyed man snapped, recoiling from Bernard. He pulled the gun from the holster at his hip and pointed it at Bernard like threats would make any difference. “You fix him Doc. You fix him or I will shoot you!”
“Dean…?”
The hazel eyed man lowered his gun and rushed to sit beside the dying man on the bed. “I’m here Sam, I’m right here brother.”
“Did I get him?” Sam asked, at almost a whisper. Bernard was fairly certain that Sam was delirious and most likely not even aware of where he was. It wouldn’t be much longer till the young man slipped away. Bernard still figured he could help comfort him and perhaps take the edge off the pain.
“Yeah Sammy you got him good. He won’t be badmouthing anyone ever again,” Dean reassured him softly. Bernard was fairly certain that the younger man had won the duel by killing the other man. He was also fairly certain that if he hadn’t, his brother would have made sure that the man was dead shortly after Sam died. Just as much as Bernard got the impression that if he just let the boy die he would earn a bullet too.
Bernard got Clara to fetch one of the linen sheets and she dutifully tore it into strips whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. Bernard rummaged through the kitchen and the sewing basket to add to the few medical supplies that were in the house. Before long he was sitting by the boy, sewing at the wound while Clara held the lamp. Dean sat on the other side of the bed, the unconscious boy’s hand in his own. To the casual onlooker Dean was watching his brother. But only a fool would not realize that Dean was watching Bernard and the man’s hands like a hawk with those hazel eyes.
“I’m afraid that’s all I can do for him sir,” Bernard admitted, wiping a bloody hand on Clara’s kitchen apron as she wrapped the last of the makeshift bandage around Sam’s waist. Dean was holding Sam’s shoulders to keep the boy up in a sitting position as she did so. “If you’re a praying man then I would advise doing so.”
“I ain’t a praying man,” Dean admitted.
“With your permission sir, I would like to pray for the boy, and yourself if you’ll permit me?” Clara asked after they had settled Sam back against the bed and pulled the covers up over his chest.
“I’m no sir neither. But that would be mighty fine of you ma’am, if you’d pray for my brother Sam.”
Clara knelt by the side of the bed and placed her elbows on the mattress. She took Sam’s hand in her own and held it between her clasped hands in front of her as she closed her eyes and began to pray. Dean picked his hat up and stood there for a moment with his head bowed, fingers tracing along the brim. After a moment he straightened and placed the hat on his head before he strode out of the room. Bernard followed the man out into the living room.
“He isn’t going to make it is he doc?” Dean asked, those hazel eyes burning brightly under the brim of his hat even though his face was mostly in shadow.
“Your brother’s all tore up inside. I’ve done my best but given the fever and the blood loss, even if he does not get sepsis I don’t hold out much hope I’m afraid,” Bernard admitted to the man. Bernard grabbed another glass, setting it on the table beside his own and pouring himself and Dean a drink. He took the two glasses offering one to Dean, his hands, shaking more now than before.
Dean raised an eyebrow at the tremor in Bernard’s hand before he took the glass. Bernard wiped his hand on the apron he was still wearing and shrugged slightly. “These old hands aren’t as steady as they once were. It’s why I retired.”
“There must be something. He’s all I have in the world.” Dean let out a long sad sigh, downing the shot of whiskey in one gulp. He placed the glass on the table and scrubbed a hand over his face. “He’s only twenty.”
“I’m sorry. I can keep his fever down and give him something for the pain but I can’t fix him,” Bernard admitted. He knew it wasn’t much but it was the best he could do. Even if he had been still practicing medicine and had a fully stocked medical bag. It would be all he could do for the lad. “If I were you I would say my goodbyes before it’s too late.”
Dean growled and kicked over one of the dining chairs. He took to pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, wringing his fists in front of himself. The worry on his face was clear in the lamp light. Bernard just stayed in his seat. He felt for the poor man he did. He wouldn’t wish having to watch his brother die from a wound like that. It was one of the reasons that Bernard didn’t carry a gun himself.
The man stopped in front of the fire and stared into the flickering flame. Bernard wondered if the man would actually pray. He didn’t look like the other backward drunkard cowboys from the nearby town, but then again Bernard had learnt that you should never judge a man on looks alone. He had such an intensity in his gaze and Bernard found himself wondering just what it was that Dean was looking at in the flickering flames of the fire. He seemed to be contemplating and Bernard could see the shift in how he held himself when his discussion was reached.
“Can you sit with him doc? I have to ride out,” Dean asked, scrubbing his hand over his face as he turned to look at Bernard.
“You’re leaving?” Bernard asked, surprised. The man narrowed his eyes and Bernard would have taken a step back if he had been standing. He had read in a penny dreadful about a cowboy who could weigh the sum of a man with a single glance and Bernard fancied that it would have been a look just like that one. “I can do that."
Dean turned and strode out the door. Bernard frowned, not exactly sure if he should ask Dean to stay for the sake of his brother of it was worth the risk of Dean perhaps shooting him. He was fairly certain that Dean was thinking about going out to do something foolish like getting himself shot too. That was why he stood and followed the man outside. Dean was seeing to the horses. One was a black beast of at least seventeen hands. All sleek and muscle and Bernard didn’t know enough about horses to say it was a specific breed, but it certainly had the look of a fine specimen.
The other was like the painted horses owned by the Indians with one exception. It was also the biggest horse he had ever seen. It stood at maybe a foot taller than the black one. It looked much more solid and stockier. It was obvious that this horse was Sam’s. Dean stood for a moment and patted the withers of the larger horse, then he proceeded to remove the horse’s tack. He pulled a short length of rope from one of the saddle bags and looped it around the animal’s neck, tying the other end to the hitching post and hanging the tack over the same.
"Rosie won't know what to do with herself will you girl?" Dean asked the painted horse, patting across her shoulder. Then Dean made his way around to the black horse and mounted her in one smooth movement. Taking the reins he pulled her away from the post and she snickered, stamping her hooves and shaking her head. Dean leaned forward and whispered something in the horse’s ear trailing his hand down her neck as he did so. "She likes apples and a good brush down, you give her those and she’ll be the best horse you ever rode. She don’t scare easy neither."
"What do you want me to tell him if he asks for you?” Bernard asks when he realizes that the man is leaving and not intending on coming back. Sam’s horse being left behind just like Dean was leaving behind his brother. Dean glared at him for the longest moment before he sighed and his gaze shifted to the horizon. Bernard could see the way Dean was slumped in his saddle. He looked deflated and small, like if he stayed to see his brother die he just might shatter into a million pieces.
“Tell him,” Dean sighed and it made him look so much younger than he had appeared when he’d been just running on grit and showing a brave face for his brother. “Tell him I’ll be back by sunrise.”
Dean wasn’t exactly sure where he was going. So he just let Impala have her head. He trusted the horse to just gallop toward the horizon and he wouldn’t have to look back. Wouldn’t have to stay and watch his only family die because some idiot wanted to test his mettle against the tall stranger. The rhythm of the hoof strikes wasn’t loud enough to drown out each cursed thump as his heart screamed ‘traitor‘ at him. But it wasn’t like he’d just abandoned Sam. Bernard and his daughter Miss Clara were good people. Dean knew he could count on them to give his brother the burial that Dean couldn’t.
His mind raced, not paying attention to where the steady hoof beats took him. He just tried not to think about the fact that there wasn’t anything he could do to save Sam. There wasn’t another doctor for miles and Dean had known that Sam wouldn’t survive the ride to Abilene or Dodge. Dean shook his head. No his decision had been a good one. But knowing that he had done the right thing and feeling good about it were never in the same ball park.
It had always been Dean’s job to look out for his little brother. Ever since their ma died and their pa had become an alcoholic. Their father had hardly been around for most of the time they were growing up. He’d sign up for cattle runs to make money and leave the boys where he’d signed on to the drive. But the cattle runs always ended in a railroad town and most of the money would go on booze before their father remembered to come back for them.
So it had been up to Dean to look after his brother. He’d learned to help in whatever way he could. He’d cut wood for a day just to get food for his brother. Once Sammy had been old enough to learn to ride Dean had taught him and earned enough money to buy them both horses so that he could follow the cattle drive and make sure that they could at least keep an eye on their pa. The cowboys had taught them to shoot and hunt and ride better and by the age of twelve Dean was earning his own wages riding as a wrangler on the same cattle runs with his pa.
Sammy would ride with Cookie, the muster’s cook who drove the chuck wagon. Helping him set up and prepare the meals when the cowboys stopped for an evening. Pa was still a drunk and Dean and Sam would sometimes steal his liquor and face the consequences of doing so rather than risk him getting fired before the job was over. Which happened more often than not.
By the time Dean was sixteen their pa had fallen out with pretty much all of the trail bosses and work was harder to find. That was when their pa fell in with a bad crowd and started rustling cattle. Dean and Sam kept working the trail. The pay was good even though the work was hard. One night after a head count revealed them to be a few hundred head short from the previous count, Dean had the misfortune to come across his Pa and his band of cattle rustlers. A fight ensued and a number of cattle were lost as well as one of the hands and three of the rustlers. The next morning the trail boss sent Sam and Dean on their way, not wanting the sons of a cattle rustler working his herd.
After that they were not able to find work anywhere. Word had passed from one trail boss to another till no one wanted to work with a Winchester. Dean was eighteen when he tracked their father down to confront him. He was angry, even more so when he found that the man had a home and a new family. If he hadn’t seen the woman with the small child he might have shot his father. Instead he turned and rode away, hoping that the rumors of his father being sober were true and that the child would have a better father than he and Sam had had.
Dean contemplated riding through the approaching town, if that was what you could call it. There were only two buildings. One of which had a large sign along the front porch that read Saloon. It was a big wooden structure with a second story that was probably a flop house or a hotel. The other looked more like an outhouse than anything else, although there were signs that it may have at one point been a barn with a farrier attached to the side of it.
There was only the one hitching post in front of the Saloon, which struck Dean as odd. The place obviously didn’t do a roaring enough trade to need space for more than a few horses. Impala whinnied and tossed her head, her mane flicking Dean and making him chuckle before he walked up the wooden steps and across the porch. He stopped at the doors with a frown.
At first glance the place seemed empty. From where Dean stood at the doorway he could just make out the closest tables and the end of the bar. The rest of the place was shrouded by the long shadows that reached across the floor. There was an unerring sense that someone was watching him, but the place was as quiet and about inviting as the grave.
“You sure look like you could use a drink.”
The voice was cloaked in darkness. He could hear the clink of glass against glass and the slosh of something being poured, before a glass of amber liquid was pushed across the surface of the old poker table where it all but appeared out of the inky shadows. It worked to keep secret whoever was hidden on the far side of the table. Dean couldn’t make out the source of it even as he peered in its direction.
Dean pushed open the doors and stepped inside as he continued to squint into the shadows. It was so quiet he could hear his spurs jangling as he made his way across the bar. The only other sound, the swish back and forth of the door as it settled back to its proper place. The room resounded with the sharp snap of fingers and every single light in the place suddenly flared to life with a roar of flame. Dean stopped in his tracks and glanced warily around the room. It had to be some kind of trick, maybe one of those newfangled gas lights that he’d heard a guy from New York talk about once. It was a little surprising because he hadn’t thought that they had that out here in the sticks yet.
“No harm in joining me for a drink son.” The man smiled, something serpentine-like in the upward curl of his lips.
The man gestured to the empty chair in front of the glass he’d just poured and proceeded to pour himself another glass. Dean hadn’t actually planned to ride here and drown his sorrows while his brother’s candle slowly guttered and went out. He hadn’t had any destination at all in mind. There was no hesitation as he slid into the empty chair, sighing heavily as he tried to push all thoughts of his brother out of his mind. He hadn’t noticed the chill in the air but he took notice of the way his breath bloomed visibly and hung in the air in front of his face.
“You’re Dean Winchester aren’t you?” the man asked before lifting his glass to his mouth and downing the shot.
“What?” Dean asked, brow furrowing into a frown. He’d taken his hat off and placed it on the table before raising the glass to his lips, but the question makes him pause before it reaches them.
The man continued to smile like he was in on some universal secret that only he knew. Dean eyed the man over, sizing him up. He didn’t look like a law man, he wore no visible star or other such official badge. There was no hint of a gun belt at his waist or suggestion that he was pointing a weapon at Dean under the table. The man even placed both his hands where Dean could see them as he poured himself another drink.
If anything the guy looked more like a snake oil salesman. His suit is finely tailored, like black silk with a matching shirt and tie. He certainly looks like he should be spruiking for Barnum and Bailey. But there is something else there. Something Dean can’t quite put his finger on. He was a little shorter than Dean but broader across the shoulders. His look gives Dean the impression of his being slippery like he’d had success using his own snake oil product and was smug about it
“I’ve seen you ride,” the snake oil sales man explains. “And shoot. You’re very talented Dean.”
Dean hesitated, lowering the glass back to the bar as he looked closer at the stranger. He looks more like a snake oil salesman than a cowpoke.
“I would like very much for you, Dean Winchester, to ride for me,” the man offered.
It wasn’t like there was anything unusual in the offer. The Winchester boys were famous in a number of places. Outlaws in quite a few more. Of course they hadn’t rustled any cattle since their pa had passed. But then Dean had done a lot of things since then to keep him and his brother safe.
“You run some kind of show?” Dean asks with a smirk before he downs the liquor in the shot glass.
“Greatest show on earth,” the man in black exclaims with a broad gesture, although Dean isn’t exactly sure what the gesture encompasses; whether the man means the bar or something else entirely. The man smiles again, his eyebrows raised in amusement.
“I didn’t catch your name,” Dean asks eyeing the man again.
“Lots of power in knowing someone’s name,” the snake oil man offered with a quirk of his eyebrow. Then he held up the bottle, swirling the amber liquid around inside the bottle and Dean nodded absently. The snake oil salesman refilled Dean’s glass with a smile. “But you can call me Crowley.”
“Well Mr. Crowley, I never had no gentleman admirer with power issues before.” Dean smirks slightly at his own joke even though Crowley doesn’t seem any amused by it. Dean had seen a circus once when he was a kid and he really wasn’t interested in signing up to be no clown. “Sorry but I’m going to have to decline your offer.”
“I know you are worried about your brother,” Crowley tells him, quirking an eyebrow as he traced a fingertip around the top of his glass.
“How in the hell?”
“Well other than the fact it’s written all over your face,” Crowley explains. “we got word of the gunfight from a cowpoke that passed through earlier this evening.”
It hadn’t occurred to Dean that his brother getting shot would be considered big news. Although thinking about it, it was probably a big deal in the backwater town. Sure it was a few miles in the opposite direction from the farm house to this out of the way saloon, but it made sense that one of the locals that drank here had been in the town earlier and seen the fight. It wasn’t like it was some big secret that the Winchester’s had been in the town or that Sam had been shot in the duel.
“What if I could help him?”
“How?” Dean asked, sarcasm heavier than the taste of whiskey on his tongue. “You some kinda doctor with a miracle?”
“How is not important,” Crowley dismissed with a wave of his hand. “What if I could make him better? What if I could give him back his health? Would you be willing to make a deal?”
Dean didn’t believe for one second that Crowley could do anything to save his brother. Sam had already been so pale and close to death that there was nothing that Doc Smythe could do for him. Something about the fact that Dean just couldn’t let Sam die stirred in him though.
“Name your price.”
“Oh I’ll take …” Crowley gazes at Dean, looking him over before glancing out the window to where Impala is just visible through the glass. A slight smile crosses his lips but then his gaze returns to Dean and his expression turns serious. “Your soul.”
“You’re not serious?” Dean laughed.
“By sunrise tomorrow your brother will be fine. Healthy as a horse.” Crowley reaches inside his jacket and produces a scroll. “All you have to do is sign.”
Dean is impressed that Crowley has a scroll on him. He’d been expecting that it was a joke or something but perhaps Crowley’s idea of a joke involved taking it the step further of producing the scroll. He figured that it wouldn’t hurt to look at the scroll. It was probably blank anyway. Dean held out his hand and took the scroll.
It was velvet backed and the paper as he unrolled it, he saw it was faded and yellow like it was old. Only the thing was Dean could see where his name was written in at least two different places in the long lines of writing on the page. The title at the top read ‘Pactum Pactorum’ and the rest of it was gibberish. Dean tilted his head to the side and then turned the scroll the other way as he tried to decipher what the writing was.
Something sharp hidden inside the scroll caught on his finger and Dean pulls his hand away with a gasp. As he did so, a single drop of blood fell from the cut on his finger and lands in a crimson splatter on the signatory line of the contract.
“Oh that will do just fine.” Crowley almost purrs with satisfaction as he reaches over and takes the scroll.
“What did it say?” Dean asked.
“Never you mind about that,” Crowley informs Dean as he slides the scroll back inside his suit jacket. Crowley stands, brushing the wrinkles from his suit and tugging at his sleeves. “You should be getting back to your brother. Don’t want him to think you were too scared to stay with him while he was dying.”
Crowley heads towards the door and Dean hesitates. The whole situation is strange and he isn’t exactly sure what just happened. By the time he has grabbed his hat and pushed away from the table the saloon doors were swinging and Crowley had stepped outside. It was only a few steps across the room for Dean to be outside but once he stepped out onto the veranda there was no sign of Crowley.
There is smoke on the horizon like a snake that writhes its way up to the sky. Thick and black against the purple haze of dawn. Impala’s hoof beats are steady as they ring out with each strike. But to Dean it’s like riding through Molasses and he spurs for her to ride faster. Something like fear twists in Dean’s belly. It doesn’t seem to matter how fast Impala gallops, the horizon seems to stay the same distance away until the racing of his blood through his heart is as thunderous as the sound of Impala’s hooves.
By the time Dean reaches the crest of the hill, Impala is coated in a lather of sweat. She whinnies, rearing up and they are racing down the other side toward the roaring fire that is consuming the doc’s farm house. It belches smoke that obscures stars and Dean can hear the sound of horses screaming. A quick glance in the direction of the barn reveals it engulfed in flame also. The cry of the animals ceases as the charred flaming skeleton of the barn collapses in on them.
“SAM!”
Impala’s ears are flung back in fear and she’s skittish. Dean has to tug hard to rein her in as she dances and sidles in an attempt to retreat from the nearby flames. He knows that his own fear is making her fear worse. Dean can barely contain the shock and horror at seeing the farm house he had been at only a few hours earlier reduced to a raging inferno.
“Sam!”
Dean can barely hear his own voice over the roar of the fire. Impala paws at the ground and then rears up again. Rather than fighting her, Dean slips out of the saddle with the ease of one who was born to ride, landing on his feet beside her. The moment his feet touch the ground though, Dean staggers at the sight of yellow and gold belching toward the sky. The flames danced so bright in the darkness that it sent their shadows flaring across the yard.
“Sam! Oh god, Sam!”
Dean wills his body to move and makes his way to the well but the bucket has been cut free and lost to the depths. Whoever lit this wanted to be certain it burnt to the ground. There’s no sign of hoof prints other than his own horse and Dean is fairly certain that the only foot prints are his own. Sam is still in there. Probably along with the good doctor and his daughter.
The thought of losing Sam like this brings him crumbling to his knees. There’s nothing that can be done but watch as the remains are reduced to ash. Hopelessness and despair fill him and for a moment Dean imagines he can hear screaming as his vision blurs with tears. But the sound of it fades to hoarseness with the scratch of ash in his throat.
The snake oil man found him like that. Slumped in the dirt and staring at the pile of ash and cinders. Burns on his hands from where he had tried to find Sam in the blaze. But the fire had raged so fiercely that he couldn’t even get close. He’d watched the smoke from the farm house blot out the morning sun. Dean had watched as the fire burnt down to ashes and the sun had sunk in the west. He was black with soot and his face smudged with tears.
“Oh, did I miss the barbeque?”
“What?” Dean jumped with surprise to find that the snake oil salesman was standing a few feet from him. He stood and turned to face him, his brow furrowing because for him to be here he must have followed “What are you doing here?”
“Now, Now is that any way to talk to an old friend?” Crowley feigned being offended.
“We are not friend’s Crowley.” Dean watched him closely as he walked closer to the charred husk of the farm house.
“No, no, quite right. Business partners then.” Crowley rocked on his heels and poked a piece of the debris before brushing his fingers clean of the soot. “We do have a contract after all.”
“I never signed your contract.”
“Oh but you did, Dean.” Crowley curls his hand like a magician and the scroll appears. Falling open to reveal the smear of blood where his signature should go. “You signed in blood.”
Dean stared wide eyed at Crowley and the contract. He hadn’t meant to sign it. Not that it mattered. Sam was dead and Crowley had not held up his end of the bargain and so Dean did not have to give Crowley his soul.
“There is no deal!” Dean smirked at the man. “Sam’s dead. You didn’t hold up your end.”
“Oh but I did. Our deal was that he wouldn’t die from the gunshot.” Crowley clicked his wrist again and the scroll disappeared. He sighed sympathetically, it sounded as false as the smile on his face. “What happens after that is out of my hands I’m afraid. But I still get to collect.”
“You son of a bitch!” Dean’s revolver is in his hand before he even has to think about it. The bang echoing off the distant hills and Dean smirks at the neat little hole that he’s blown in the vest of Crowley’s suit. It’s right over the snake oil salesman’s heart. It was his fault that Sam had died in the fire and there was no way that Dean was going to let him take his soul.
“That was my best suit!” Crowley snaps and his face turns the color of a tomato.
The fact that the man just seemed angry and not actually hurt should have been a sign for Dean. But he is still surprised when Crowley flicks his hand and the gun is wrenched from his fingers by some invisible force that sends it flying out of his reach. Dean gasps in surprise and pain, clutching his hand to his chest. His fingers were already burnt and now he’s fairly certain that some of them may even be broken.
“We had a deal, you impudent little whelp,” Crowley growls, low and menacing as all the red drains out of his features. Crowley steps forward and the shadows around them shift and move. Dean gets the impression of things moving in the darkness. He tries to step back from Crowley and his monster like shadow, but he can’t move. It’s like he is frozen to the spot. “Let me explain to you how this works in simple terms so your puerile mind can comprehend it.”
“We have a deal and you owe me your payment.” Crowley brushed at the dust and ash on the lapels of his shirt before continuing to move closer. Dean felt a chill of fear run down his spine when Crowley’s shadow curled around him. “Normally I would just collect and drag your sorry ass down to the tortures of hell. But I have need of your specific skills.”
“So this is what is going to happen. I want you to find a demon for me. His name is Alastair and I want you to kill the bastard.” Crowley was so close now that Dean could smell sulphur on his breath as he spoke. Dean writhed against the invisible bonds but it was useless. He could barely even breathe deep from the way it constricted even his rib cage from moving.
“A… a demon?” Dean wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Stuff like that wasn’t real. It was the kind of thing that only existed in the books Sam had read when they were kids. His mind argued with him even given the evidence to the contrary. “How am I supposed to stop a demon?”
“That’s the easy part.” Crowley smirked at him. Then Crowley reached up and curled a clammy hand across the back of Dean’s neck. Then he pulled Dean close and kissed him.
Dean’s eyes went wide with surprise and revulsion as Crowley pulled him into the kiss. He still couldn’t move and struggling to do so remained futile. He clenched his teeth shut and clamped his mouth closed trying to wish for whatever Crowley was doing to be over. Dean thought he might vomit when he felt the brush of Crowley’s tongue across his lips.
“Eughhh!”
Then something hot and cold at the same time forced its way past his lips. Dean was fairly certain that it was burning him. He fought against it. Struggling and trying to push Crowley away from him. It didn’t do any good. The invisible grip just tightened around him till he couldn’t breathe. Dean wasn’t sure if he would burn to death or if he would burst from the pressure.
He held out as long as he could but Dean had to gasp for air. The flaming thing pressed into his mouth and burned its way down his throat. Dean could feel the thing working its way down inside him. He screamed but the sound just seared away to nothing. Once it reached his stomach Dean could feel it writhing inside him and there was still more of it pouring into him.
Crowley drew away slightly and Dean could see the thing that was forcing itself into him. It was like naked flame. Red and black and angry. It just kept coming and coming. Pouring out of Crowley’s mouth and down Dean’s throat. Every time he tried to gasp for air his lungs filled with flames. He was certain that whatever Crowley was doing was going to kill him.
Tears welled up in Dean’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Then just as quickly as it had started it was over. The fire was still burning inside him but it was no longer pouring out of Crowley’s mouth. Crowley stepped back and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Whatever was gripping at Dean let him go and he collapsed to his knees.
The fire inside him spread out through his body. Dean could see his veins shining beneath his skin as they filled with fire and it burned its way through his entire body. It was excruciating and Dean could only cry out in pain as he watched it work its way through him. The thing burnt its way down to his hands and Dean watched in shock as the burns from earlier flaked and fell away to reveal new pink skin beneath. Then it was over and the pain subsided as the flame went out.
“There now, all done.” Crowley looked down at him from where Dean was on his knees. “That wasn’t so bad now was it?”
“What did you do to me?”
“The details aren’t important. But you should be able to run my errand for me with no trouble.” Crowley smirked and pulled out a little hip flask from his pocket. He held it out to Dean but then seemed to change his mind. Like he knew Dean would never drink from it. “If you take care of this Alastair mess I might even let you stick around longer and do a few more jobs for me.”
“I will never work for you!” Dean coughed out; his lungs still felt like they were seared and burnt.
“Now listen here you little piss ant. You are going to go to San Antonio and find Alastair. And when you do I want you to go up to the bastard and rip his fucking lungs out!” Crowley’s face darkened and the shadows writhed around him again. Crowley growled menacingly and his voice cracked with the weight of his anger. “Do I make myself clear?”
Dean had curled slightly in on himself where he kneeled in the ash in front of Crowley. His arms wrapped around his gut where it still hurt to breathe and it was something like having angry hornets buzzing in his brain. But he heard Crowley. He understood what the son of a bitch was asking him to do. He’d shot men before, but never in cold blood. This twisted thing in front of him, whatever Crowley was had played the worst kind of trick on him and there was nothing Dean could do. Not against a force like that.
“Crystal.”
part II