Cass knew what was going to happen. He should warn them, he should say something, but he just can't bring himself to. Because what can he say to them now
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This wasn't easy. Not even close to being easy. Cass may have fixed him when he'd come back, but Sam remembered. He remembered Lucifer standing off in the corner talking to him, telling him that this wasn't real
( ... )
Dean might have been amused at the idea of finding out what sort of poor sap it is this time that wants to barter away his soul for wealth, or beauty, or whatever small consideration it is. Humans just don't understand the power of souls. Not like he does, not like how he can feel the pulse of it when he kisses them and seals the deal, the way he can feel the weight and power of the contract like titanium shackles slipping into place around all that power. He was, however, not at all amused when he found himself in a run-down house standing in the center of a devil's trap. His eyes flashed red, a slow wash of blood-scarlet that colored the whites all the way until it touched the pupils, and then faded back to hazel-green. He frowned, full, pouty lips thinning.
Hunters. He could see it in their eyes.
He sighed, straightening the lapels of a jacket that might as well have had 'Crowley-King-of-Hell-Fuck-You-Very-Much' embroidered up the arms for just how clearly it was his fashion taste. The careful combination of colors, the
( ... )
By rights, he should have reacted faster, but he couldn't react at all. Not now, not staring into the eyes of a demon that was wearing his brother's face. To fuck with him, right? This wasn't really Dean... Dean hadn't become a...
He hadn't, right?
His mind was reeling over that question, he was desperately trying to convince himself it wasn't Dean. But it looked like Dean and there was no question he was a demon, the way the eyes flashed red. It had to be Crowley, pulling this stunt just to hurt him.
But there was a gun. He focused on that, stupidly, staring at it. That's something Dean would do, carry a gun when he could command the forces around him, when a gun was pointless. And it was Dean's gun.
So, yeah, he didn't duck until it was too late, and he caught that bullet in his shoulder as he went down. He didn't know what Bobby was doing because the moment was a roar and silence all at once, it was pulsing in the air around him like a heartbeat as he went down.
He should have been able to prevent this, but Cass didn't know Dean carried a gun. Truth be told, he mostly stays away when Dean walks the earth because it hurts too much to see him like this, eyes flashing red as he talks someone out of their soul. He's never lingered long enough to see a confrontation, and so it's his fault that Sam takes a bullet now. From the time Dean pulled the weapon to when it discharged was hardly a split second, no hesitation, no recognition, as though Dean didn't live there anymore. As though it was just a shell of something that was once named Dean, hollowed of memories and compassion and everything that made him the man he had been.
He was moving before he realized he was, lunging forwards out of concealment and into visibility with a cry, "No!" And there was a flash of light, for Sam and Bobby at least, and the two men would find themselves a day away from this place in the Impala, no bullets, no blood, no books of Latin or torture implements laid out before them. Just two men displaced from danger,
( ... )
There was a commotion, and Dean's second shot bit into the wood of Bobby's bookcase, instead of into the flesh of the older Hunter as Dean had intended. There was a lull, silence and stillness as they faced each other. Blue eyes searching through hazel-greens, and Cass might catch the flicker there. Not recognition; it was nothing quite so transparently hopeful. But, it was a tremor of something. A feeling that clearly discomforted the demon, made him jerk his gaze away from those intent blue eyes. And then he was shoving it down, bottling it up and swallowing it. It took effort; there was something there, even if it wasn't as clear-cut as the angel wanted it to be
( ... )
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Hunters. He could see it in their eyes.
He sighed, straightening the lapels of a jacket that might as well have had 'Crowley-King-of-Hell-Fuck-You-Very-Much' embroidered up the arms for just how clearly it was his fashion taste. The careful combination of colors, the ( ... )
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He hadn't, right?
His mind was reeling over that question, he was desperately trying to convince himself it wasn't Dean. But it looked like Dean and there was no question he was a demon, the way the eyes flashed red. It had to be Crowley, pulling this stunt just to hurt him.
But there was a gun. He focused on that, stupidly, staring at it. That's something Dean would do, carry a gun when he could command the forces around him, when a gun was pointless. And it was Dean's gun.
So, yeah, he didn't duck until it was too late, and he caught that bullet in his shoulder as he went down. He didn't know what Bobby was doing because the moment was a roar and silence all at once, it was pulsing in the air around him like a heartbeat as he went down.
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He was moving before he realized he was, lunging forwards out of concealment and into visibility with a cry, "No!" And there was a flash of light, for Sam and Bobby at least, and the two men would find themselves a day away from this place in the Impala, no bullets, no blood, no books of Latin or torture implements laid out before them. Just two men displaced from danger, ( ... )
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