FIC: I Am the Very Model...
Title: I Am the Very Model...
Pairings/Rating: Gen, PG-13 for language
Characters: Sam, Dean, assorted OCs, and demons we are all familiar with
Word Count: 5,630
Warnings: AU after ep. 3.02 (because Kripke is a jerk who ruins my fic), spoilers for 3.05 in A/N at the end
Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine, no money made, blah blah.
Summary: Jake killed Sam, but Sam came back. Sam killed Jake, and Jake stayed dead. That means Sam won, and to the victor goes the spoils, right? Yeah, that’s what the rest of Hell thought too.
Written for baileytc for Sweet Charity. I REALLY hope you like it.
It has to be paranoia. He has demons on the brain, that's all. It's the only explanation as to why he keeps seeing them wherever. Especially since Dean never sees it too.
That elderly waitress in Duluth who gave him the free piece of pie? It was just a trick of light that made her eyes look black when she pinched his cheek.
And there's no way he smelled sulfur in that convenience store when he stopped to ask for directions to the nearest motel. Just rancid hotdogs, that's all. After all, why would a possessed clerk not only call ahead to the best place in town to get him a deal, but also toss in a bag of M&Ms for the impatient-looking guy sitting in the driver's seat out there?
It just has to be paranoia.
*****
Eight hours on the road without a bathroom break is never a smart plan. Sam's squirming in his seat before Dean gets the hint and pulls into the next rest stop, then it's a mad dash out of the car and into the men's room.
Two urinals, and the one on the left is occupied by a short guy with slightly greasy black hair. Sam unzips at the one on the right and gets down to business. The other guy seems fidgety, possibly the close quarters, but Sam keeps his head down. "Avoid eye contact in the big boy's room, Sammy," Dean once told him when they were kids, and he's always kept that lesson to heart.
Still, head down doesn't equal completely blind, and Sam starts when he catches a glimpse of floating darkness out of the corner of his eye. He looks up just in time to watch the guy swallow the last of a black smoke cloud, and then a knife clatters to the floor, dropped from the man's left fist where it had been hidden out of sight.
The guy turns his head and flashes a brilliant smile that reaches all the way to his eyes shining onyx. "Sam Winchester!" There's an indiscernible accent flavoring the man's voice, and he sounds way too excited. "It's an absolute honor." Then he thrusts out his right hand, clearly intent to shake Sam's.
As Sam recoils, the fluorescent light bulb above their heads shatters. All goes dark, and Sam rushes out of the room before the demon can grab him. When the rush of adrenaline wears off and he can breathe again, he pulls his flask from his pants pocket, fishes his flashlight from his jacket, and heads back into the restroom. The guy's unconscious on the floor, and a splash of holy water only manages to get the guy wet. No smoke, no steam, no nothing.
The demon's gone, and Sam's really, really confused.
*****
A week later, they're in Onion Creek, Texas-a census town, the welcome sign cheerfully announces-tracking down what they think might be vengeful spirit attacking the cheerleading squad. Dean's eyes had lit up when he first heard about the ghost's choice of victims, until Sam added the dreaded words "high school," and he shut up really quickly.
So now, research, and fortunately there's a decent historical section at the library not eight miles from town. Sam's pulling a decades-old yearbook toward him when someone sits next to him at his table. Maybe in his late fifties, pewter hair, clear blue eyes, a poor man's Paul Newman.
"So let me get this straight," the guy starts right in. "You really left him all high and dry without a single word of thanks?"
And if that didn't come right out of left field… "Excuse me?"
"Rest stop about five hundred miles back? Guy goes out of his way to grab that piece of scum with the knife, and you don't even shake the man's hand afterwards. I guess good Samaritans only get acknowledged when they're human, right?" He blinks, and there are those black eyes that Sam's getting far too familiar with.
Sam pushes away from the desk, upending his chair and unsettling his table, earning himself a couple shushes from other nearby patrons.
"Down, boy," the demon whispers, and the tiny smile on his face looks amused. "'m flying solo, and I'm not here to hurt you. Or your brother, if that's what's got you bothered. Last I saw, Dean's out back with the assistant librarian. Lady's got a weakness for leather jackets."
"What do you want?" Sam hisses, cutting to the chase.
The demon just quirks an eyebrow as his eyes fade back to blue. "What's that, Sam? Oh, my name? So nice of you to ask. You can call me Richard, since my real name's a bitch to pronounce with a human tongue. As to what I want," and now his face falls and he goes completely sincere. "I want to serve my general."
Sam snorts. "Well, I never took the job, so you can get lost. But leave that body here when you go back to Hell."
Richard furrowed his brow. "Okay, first of all, don't get your panties in a twist over this meatsuit. He was a serious pedophile before I took up residence, and he's actually been better behaved since I came around. I may be a demon, but even I have limits. And as for never taking the job, I think you're missing the bigger picture here."
So Richard explains, and it's incredibly logical. Jake killed Sam, but Sam came back. Sam killed Jake, and Jake stayed dead. That means Sam won, and to the victor goes the spoils, right? Yeah, that’s what the rest of Hell thought too.
And when you consider it, Pride was probably not the best person (demon, sin, whatever) to consult when it came to taking orders. No big surprise that he wasn’t too thrilled about following Sam Winchester into battle. But the majority of Legion…well, they weren’t too concerned about it. As long as they’re following somebody.
"So the crown's yours, Big Kahuna, whether you like it or not. Though, truth be told, it'd be a lot easy for you if you did like it. Easier for us too."
"Go away."
"Fine." Richard pulls himself to his feet slowly, never taking his eyes off Sam. "But get used to seeing us around. There're a lot of demons out there just waiting for you to give the order."
Sam glares, sick of this whole thing already. "Oh really? So what if I gave the order for you all to do good things from now on?"
"What, curbing the activities of a serial child molester isn't good enough for you?" Richard rolls his eyes, shrugs his shoulders. "You'd probably lose a couple followers. After all, mayhem's one of the chief forms of entertainment up here. But seriously, if that's what you want, it'll be done."
That stops Sam cold. Altruistic demons, at a single word from him.
Richard starts to leave, but after a few steps he turns back toward the table. "By the way, if you're working the high school ghost, you want the 1972 yearbook." He points at the bookcase a few feet behind Sam. "That one, right there."
Sam looks around until he finds the book in question, "1972" in gold leaf on the spine. When he focuses on it, the book jiggles in its spot on the shelf, slides free, and starts floating toward him unsteadily. He snatches the book from the air, looks around to see if there were any witnesses, and then whirls around back to Richard. "Stop it!"
"Wasn't me, sluggo." Richard walks off, whistling. He winks at Sam as he steps out the door, and then he's gone.
Sam's still very shell-shocked and clutching the yearbook around the edges like a lifeline when Dean comes back in, hair mussed and shirt untucked in the back. "Dude, so what'd you find out?"
Oh, how Sam doesn't want to answer that one.
*****
He can't blame it on paranoia anymore. Not after that talk, and certainly not after the reports start coming in. It's just rumors at first, so-and-so heard from what's-his-name who was drunk at the time, but then Bobby calls them.
"And she's sure?" Sam's catching the one-sided conversation while Dean speaks with Bobby on his cell. "Well, what does it mean?" Dean closes his eyes, runs his hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah, I'll tell him. You too, Bobby."
When Dean hangs up, Sam's practically on pins and needles. "What happened?"
"Tamara. You remember her? Turns out she was working a haunting in Idaho, trying to get back up on the horse. Ghost trapped her in the house and tried to torch the whole place."
"But she got out? She's okay?"
"Yeah, that's the kicker. A goddamn demon punched through the door just as the fire's getting to be too much and dragged her out. Black eyes and everything, pulled her clear then took off." Dean starts fidgeting with his necklace, alternating between his amulet and the anti-possession charm Bobby gave him, a gesture he's picked up in the last month. "They have to be planning something. I mean, demons don't just start helping hunters unless they have a reason, right?"
Sam swallows hard. "Right," and if his voice sounds a little tight, Dean doesn't seem to notice.
*****
A couple months pass, and the stories keep coming. A few more hunters get some demonic help during especially difficult jobs, statements appear in the paper describing certain rescuers as wearing those creepy contacts that cover their entire eye. No one knows what to make of it, especially since there are still reports of the usual demonic activity, murder and mayhem of apocalyptic quality.
Sam's not about to clue them all in.
When they're holed up in Piscataway, New Jersey, just a couple days downtime while Sam deals with a pulled shoulder muscle, Ruby stops in for a visit. Dean's at the bar a few blocks off, having hit it off with the bartender the previous night and hoping to seal the deal before they leave, and Sam's too tired to argue with her, so he brushes away the salt line under the door.
"So Sam, heard you've had a couple visitors lately. Are you having fun being king of the mountain?"
"I don't know what's going on. I never gave an order or anything."
"But I bet you gave the suggestion of one, and that's close enough for government work." She brushes the hair out of her eyes and leans in real close. "You need to be careful what demons you play nice-nice with, Sam. Not all of us have your best intentions at heart."
She's gone for ten minutes before someone else knocks at the door. Sam looks through the peephole and is only half surprised to see Richard standing on the other side.
"Open the door, Sam. I know you're there, and it's important."
Sam cracks the door but leaves the renewed salt line right where it is. His tone is cold when he asks, "What do you want?"
Richard seems a little taken aback at first. "You and that question, I swear. Is that always the first thing out of your mouth?"
A shutting door will drive anyone to get to the point, and Richard yells out "wait" just before the latch catches. Sam pulls it open again, scowl firmly in place. "Please can I come in? I promise I'm house trained. Won't piddle on the carpet or anything."
"No. You say your piece now before I grab a whole bucket of holy water."
"You're getting good at this whole 'giving orders' thing, aren't ya?" Wrong thing to say, because Sam's about to slam the door shut now. That is, until Richard follows up with, "It's about your blonde friend. Ruby, or whatever she's calling herself. You can't trust her."
"And I should trust you instead?"
"Hey, I'm not the one who's screwed you over countless times before. That bitch isn't good for you; she's just out for revenge."
Almost without thinking, Sam wrenches the door open, scattering the salt in the process, and yanks Richard clear into the room. "Please tell me you're not saying what I think you are."
"Whoa, calm down. It's not your fault. No one's taught you how to identify demons in hosts, so I could probably tell you my real name is Millicent and you won't know any better. Look, odds are she wants to prove how much smarter than you she is and has given you clues from the get-go. I mean, do you really think all of us demons have such smart-ass mouths? You need natural, inborn wit to pull off some of her one-liners, and I'll be blessed if some of the boys down below aren't regular sticks in the mud. Take Velcarus over in HR. Guy's got the personality of squash, for crying out loud."
What the… "HR? You have human resources in Hell?"
"No, human refuse. Eighth circle, nasty stuff. Vel doesn't get invited to too many parties. My point is, Sam, with that attitude of hers, hell, she even dresses the same, you should have recognized her from the start. All she's been talking about in recent years is getting back at those damn Winchesters, and let's face it, you guys didn't exactly send her back after her last go-around. It was only a matter of time before she found a new host to use to torment you. And dangling Dean's salvation in front of your face like a carrot? Building you up with hope until she pulls the rug out from under you? Yeah, she's good."
"You're serious about this, aren't you?"
Richard smiles, and it's more relaxed than amused. "Serious as Cerberus, and believe me that puppy is high-strung. Test it next time she comes around, set up one of those traps or something. Just, for the sake of your sanity or whatever, don't do anything she tells you."
Feeling a little weak in the knees, overwhelmed by just how blind he's been, Sam collapses onto his bed, flat on his back. He tips his head back, stares straight at the ceiling, unblinking. "Why are you telling me this? Why are you helping?"
There's a soft scrape of wood on carpet as Richard pulls a chair to the bed's edge. "For you, mon capitaine. A loyal soldier looks out for his CO. It's just good manners." He gives Sam a hard, assessing look. "You want anything? Something to drink or eat? You look a little peaked."
What Sam needs is about half a bottle of Tylenol and maybe a six pack. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose, and nearly jumps a mile high when something small slaps into his open palm with a tell-tale rattle. He knows when he opens his eyes, he'll find the bottle of pain meds he keeps stashed in the med kit resting in his hand.
"You did that, right?" he asks Richard, a slight hint of pleading in his voice.
"Sorry, chief, but that was all you. It's about time too, because from what I gather, you should have had the whole telekinesis thing pegged years ago. Precognition, telekinesis, and puppy eyes strong enough to make even Margaret Thatcher swoon. That was the Sam Winchester cocktail for success."
Eyes now open, Sam props himself up on his elbows and glares at Richard head on. "I haven't had a vision since Dean killed the yellow-eyed demon. It was over."
"Why do I feel like the exposition fairy here?" The demon sighs, arches hard in the chair until his back pops, then settles back down. "It was never over, Sam. Hate to tell you, but these gifts are part of you, no matter if Old Yellow's here or not. Same with those other kids. But they didn't have your upbringing, where the paranormal was just plain normal. They didn't think it was inherently a bad thing. Instead, they were curious about what was happening to them, and they poked at it. And the more they explored their powers, the better they got, the more natural it became. Now you, you fought it, tooth and nail. So you know what happened? Your powers only manifested when one of us was in proximity. All those death visions you were having? Nine times out of ten they happened when Azazel was checking up on you. They became less like abilities and more an early warning system, if you want to think about it that way."
"So why the kinesis now? Why not visions like before?"
"Because it's easier for your brain to go 'hey, I'd like that shiny thing over there' than to say 'hey, I'd like to see the future now.' Azzy's not pulling your strings anymore, you can make of your gifts what you will."
With a short grunt, Richard pulls himself to his feet. "Look, I've said my piece, like you commanded, oh fearless leader, and I have the crazy suspicion that your brother's going to strike out tonight. I'm gonna get out of your hair before he gets back. Take your brain candy, get some sleep, and for hellfire's sake, figure out something to do about your gal pal."
Sam has an hour of peace, time to mull things over, before Dean comes sweeping in like a whirlwind. "Pack up. Undercover five-oh at the bar, and I think one of them recognized me."
*****
After Jersey, Sam adds a new element to their usual motel room defenses-a Key of Solomon chalked just inside the doorway, hidden beneath a towel-and Dean doesn't think twice about it. "We should have been doing that from the get-go," is all he says on the matter.
It's worth the extra effort the next time Ruby walks in without knocking. Dean's off questioning the latest victim's family, Sam's working research detail, and he knows she's nearby when the pen he needs jumps across the table and into his hand. When he looks up, she's just walking through the door, and he lets himself smile when she gets stuck fast.
"Howdy, Meg." Oh yeah, that look on her face makes it all worth it.
Ruby's-Meg's-eyes go black, and pissed off doesn't even begin to explain her expression.
Sam rises from his chair, gets right up in her face, satisfied grin on the entire time. "Do yourself a favor. Stay down there this time."
No binding curse on the host this time, and the exorcism's over in a blink. When Dean gets back, there's an unconscious girl asleep in his bed, and Sam shrugs his shoulders. "She had it coming."
*****
It's not like he's willingly trying to keep the truth from Dean. It's just hard to bring up in normal conversation. "By the way, it turns out a demon army is waiting for my command and that floating spatula over there is a heads-up that someone here is possessed. Mind passing the ketchup?"
Yeah, it's just easier to keep quiet about it.
Four months left in Dean's deal, and Sam's no closer to finding a solution. Time wasted trusting "Ruby" is months he'll never get back, and he's repeatedly kicking himself for putting all of his eggs in one basket.
And Dean isn't helping, throwing them into hunt after hunt so that every last minute is spent saving everyone except the one person that matters.
The hunt du jour is a black dog that's been prowling the friendly neighborhood of Five Mile Prairie in Spokane, Washington. Five teens mauled already, and they catch up to it just as it's going after number six.
Number six is on the track team though, and it's probably the only thing keeping her alive. She tears across the well manicured lawns, a black shadow on four legs hot on her heels, and neither he nor Dean can get a clean shot. Instead, they join the chase, hoping to get close enough to maybe tackle the dog and give the girl time to get clear.
What they don't expect is for her to run blindly into the road just as headlights crest over the hill. There's no way the car could slow or swerve in time, and Sam can't help but think how unfair it is that the girl avoided a preternatural death only to be killed by something as mundane as being run over by a car. In fact, he's so intent on thinking about how he wishes he was close enough to push her out of the way that he nearly misses it when she's shoved hard enough her feet lift off the ground.
She falls clear of the car by about a foot, and the vehicle instead careens into the black dog at about forty miles an hour. There's a sharp yelp, some very vulgar squishing noises, and the shrill squeal of braking tires.
Sam and Dean just stop. And blink. And stare.
The driver, a grandma-type with her hair in curlers and a plastic housecoat draped over hunched shoulders, gets out of her car and starts with the dramatics. "Oh my goodness, I didn't see you all here. What did I hit? Is that…oh no, did I hit your pet?"
Dean leans over and gives the black dog a quick once-over. Content it's been reduced to road pizza, he rushes across the street to see to the out-of-breath track runner, leaving Sam with the Roadwarrior.
"No ma'am, it wasn't ours." Sam gives her a grin, hoping it does something to calm her down. "The dog was actually rabid. We're from Animal Control, and we've been trying to catch it for a while." Not his best lie ever, but not bad for improv.
"Oh thank goodness, I was so worried. It would be absolutely terrible if I'd hit the family dog or something." Sweet little Grandma then gazes up at Sam, and something in her smile shifts a bit. She's looking him right in the face when she asks, "Is there anything else I can do to help?" and he's almost expecting it when her eyes blink black.
Sam quickly glances over at Dean, who is trying his damnedest to calm the girl down. Distracted, attention elsewhere.
"No, we have it handled here. Just, um," and the old lady has such an expectant expression on her face. "Thank you."
*****
There's no denying it now-they're everywhere Sam looks. And what's worse: they're friendly to him. The gas station attendant in Itasca blinks darkly when he lets Sam fill up the Impala for free. No less than three motel managers put them in the most comfortable rooms in their establishments, and they each give Sam sunny grins as they pass over the keys. He gets cornered in the bathroom again, at a couple diners, even in front of a church as he's about to go in to replenish their holy water supply.
They start getting more numerous as Dean's days dwindle.
With a month left until the big day, Sam's desperate for research time, so he fakes a headache and kicks Dean out of the room. Dean gives him a knowing look on the way out the door but mutters about finding the nearest Happy Hour.
Sam's just popping the spine on Bobby's tome of higher demonology when someone knocks on the door. The face in the peephole is unfamiliar, a short Hispanic man with a receding hairline and a thick mustache. He gives a toothy grin and waves to the still-closed barrier. "Hola, jefe. Mind some company?"
Cracking the door just an inch, Sam peeks out. "Richard?"
The man steps back, arms open wide. "In the new flesh, though I guess it's Ricardo now. Someone recognized my last host from his wanted poster. Nothing like an anonymous tip to ruin one's day."
Sam opens the door a little wider, sweeping the salt away and smudging the Key with his foot. "Is this one a child molester too?" he asks as Richard walks by him.
"No. They're too slimy for me, if you'll believe it. This guy's just aggravated assault and three counts of rape. Might have to switch again soon though, he might be a little high profile."
Sam huffs. "Can't believe I'm going to ask this, but wouldn't it be easier to possess someone without a rap sheet?"
Richard plops into a chair, gives the books a good once-over with a studious eye, then sprawls his legs wide. "Well, yeah, but I can't."
"Can't?"
"Need a couple good healthy sins for me to take up residence. It's the upper management that gets to take over the innocent Regan MacNeils of the world. I'm just a menial fifth circle worker. You know what I do all day? I poke the wrathful with sticks." He makes little jabbing gestures to emphasize his point. "Sounds like fun, but it really loses its appeal after the first millennium or so. But yeah, we lower levels get the dregs."
Richard's attention turns back to the books, squinting as he reads the titles on the spines. "Hell knows I'm not one for segues, but you still looking for a way out of your brother's deal?"
Sam's eyes narrow for a different reason, suspicion all too clear. "You know something?"
"Only that it'll take more than salt and goofer dust to keep the dogs at bay this time. The big wigs downstairs started prepping the welcome wagon the moment Dean even pursed his lips at those crossroads. They're not letting him go without a fight."
A fight. Okay. Sam sighs. "I think I'm going to regret this. I need your help with something."
*****
The first time Sam moved something with his mind, it was a jerk reaction after a vision of his brother being shot in the head. He got a bitch of a headache afterwards, but at least Dean was safe.
The first time Sam purposely moved something with his mind, it was under the careful tutelage of a low-level demon. Sam got a cookie afterwards. Dean was out getting plastered.
*****
They talk afterwards, trying to formulate a plan.
Richard scrubs his hand over his face, brushing his mustache a couple times. "Something like that? With her? You'd need ten, maybe fifteen. But the problem is fetching the actual contract."
"And that'll take more?"
"Another twenty at least."
"Think you can get that?"
"I'll ask around. No worries, boss."
*****
Two weeks later, Dean wakes up screaming. He doesn't tell Sam what his nightmare was about, but he spends the next couple of days looking cross-eyed at every dog they pass. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.
Dean's started giving Sam weird looks too. Mid-conversation, he'll stop and just cringe in Sam's direction. Sometimes, he even startles and has to blink away the nightmare in front of his eyes. Sam's done enough research to know Dean's just hallucinating, but it hurts every time Dean jerks away from him.
With a week to go, Dean just stops. Actually unpacks his duffle and places his clothes in the dresser drawers. "Here's as good a place as any," he tells Sam, then grabs the remote and tunes into some random cable channel. End of discussion.
After running a quick search on Google Maps, Sam steps outside to make a quick phone call.
He gets his answer an hour later.
*****
The next night, Sam's ready. He fakes sleep as well as he can, waits until he hears Dean's soft snores coming from the next bed, then sneaks out. With any luck, he'll be back before the guy in the next room calls the cops to report his stolen car.
His internet search showed three workable crossroads within a fifteen mile radius. Only one of them has yarrow flowers growing nearby, and he heads directly there. There's a crash barrel in each corner, huge drums full of water, preparations handled perfectly, and he says a blessing over each before dropping in a rosary.
Now or never.
One tin box, assorted herbs and bones, and a happy good riddance to the bikini inspector ID, all buried at the dead center of the roads. Just a matter of time now.
She comes as a shorter blonde this time, not even bothering to disguise the red of her eyes as she steps his way. “I have to say, Sam. Begging for your brother’s soul? I was expecting this sort of desperate move way earlier than now.”
He meets her head on, eye narrowed, and clenches his fists at his side. “I’m not begging. I’m demanding. Let him go.”
She quirks an eyebrow, a small smirk twisting her lips. Steps back and brushes her hands down the length of her dress. “Don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m one of your new lackeys that will jump at your every beck and call. I never signed up for the Sam Winchester for President bandwagon.” She starts to back up, defiance in her eyes. “I owe you no allegiance.”
“Last chance. Let him go.”
She blinks once, slowly, letting her lashes rest at half-mast before making that final eye-to-eye contact. “No.”
“Fine.” Sam rolls his eyes upward, and she follows his gaze, just in time to watch the water drum hovering above her head tip. Gallons of blessed water pour over her, and her shrieks tear the night apart as steam rolls off her like a fog.
She looks like a drowned rat once the barrel is empty. She glares at him through drenched bangs, eyes burning like embers, and pulls her lips over her teeth into a snarl.
Sam doesn’t even flinch, just bends down to her height to look her right in the eye. “I have three more barrels. Let. Him. Go.”
The demon spits. “Fuck you, Winchester. I’ll see you both in the pit.” And before he can say another word, she opens her mouth and starts screaming out black smoke.
Perfect.
“Now!” At Sam’s shout, a dozen similar clouds rush forth. They seep out of the earth, drop from the sky, seemingly appear out of nowhere. And they all descend upon the red-eyed bitch.
He never knew smoke could be torn to shreds.
When it’s over, there’s a dark puddle of something staining the crossroad dirt. A few of the smoke clouds are floating lower than before, dripping and oozing some kind of sludge, but a couple more whip around his head, as if in celebration.
“Strike up a rousing chorus of ‘Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead.’” The voice comes from behind Sam, and he turns to find Richard walking up the south fork, trailed by his own grouping of dark clouds. The demon sounds worn out, exhausted, the same tone Sam uses just after he and Dean finish battling something big and ugly. “Never liked that bitch anyway.”
When they meet in the middle, Sam notices the roll of parchment sticking out of the demon’s pocket. Richard notices his gaze, pulls out the paper, and hands it over. It’s singed around the edges, smells strongly of brimstone. Sam snorts a little. “It’s an actual, physical contract. I didn’t believe you.”
Richard shrugs. “They just kind of…manifest after a deal is made. More secure than a verbal agreement anyway.” He pauses a moment, seems to take in the puddle on the ground, the smoke whirling around the two of them. “So, general. How’s it feel, commanding the demon army?”
Sam knows he should rail against it. Rant, rage, deny, you name it. But the roll of parchment in his hand grounds him, and he just can’t. Instead, uncontrollably, he smiles.
*****
The sun’s just breaking the horizon when Sam gets back to the motel. He opens the room door to find Dean awake, haphazardly dressed, and pulling on his boots. There’s a brief second when their eyes meet that Sam sees sheer panic, then Dean blinks and there’s nothing but anger there.
“Where the hell were you? I woke up and you were just gone. No note, you didn’t answer your phone…” Dean pauses, narrows his eyes, flares his nostrils a bit. “Christo.”
Sam just smiles, smacks Dean in the head lightly with the roll, then drops the parchment into his brother’s lap. “Gezhundeit.”
He collapses onto his bed, watches Dean unfurl the paper. He can tell the exact moment Dean recognizes it for what it is, the sharp intake of breath a dead giveaway. “Sam, what did you-”
“Told you I’d save your ass this time. You’re welcome, by the way.” Sam can’t help but chuckle at the expression on Dean’s face-some kind of hybrid between fish out of water and deer caught in headlights-before he rolls onto his back and props his hands behind his head. “Get me breakfast and we’ll call it even?”
The jab doesn’t get a rise out of Dean. “Sammy, I-” Then he swallows hard, the gulp audible from across the room. “Breakfast, right.” He finishes tying his boots. “You want your frou-frou latte?”
“Damn straight.” He looks up, sees Dean smiling. Finally. No more deal, no more deadline, just them getting back to normal.
Dean grabs his car keys, shrugs on his jacket, and opens the door. He slams it closed just as fast, plasters himself against the wood. Sam jerks up from the mattress, reaching for any weapon nearby. “What? What is it?”
“A herd of possessed Chihuahuas.”
Sam pushes Dean out of the way, opens the door again, and sure enough, there’s six miniature dogs sitting outside. They all stare back at him, beady black eyes meeting his own, and every tail starts wagging like crazy.
Okay, so maybe not entirely back to normal.
End
*****
A/N: baileytc sent me the prompt just after the season premiere aired. She wanted powers!Sammy. SHE GAVE ME PERMISSION FOR A POWERS!FIC. I did a happy dance. Her prompt was perfect: humorous Sammessiah borderline-crack. The demons WANT Sam to lead. Sam doesn't want Dean to find out. I got writing immediately.
Then Kripke included Dean's little heart-to-heart with a demon in Sin City, which totally ripped the premise of the story. Fine, okay, I can work with this. Sam doesn't KNOW Dean knows he's the leader. I can still work with canon. It's still good, it's still good!
Then Bedtime Stories aired. At which point my little fic became AU. *grumble*
I thought I was being pretty witty with the Ruby=Meg idea. Then I saw it all over LJ and went "well, hell." But I wanted to take her out of the picture because Sam could only have one little fallen angel on his shoulder.
Speaking of, Richard. Yeah, I don't know where the idea came from for him. I had this sudden mental image of a Jimmy Olson type demon, someone who calls Sam "chief" and "boss," and his personality just grew from there.
Pairings/Rating: Gen, PG-13 for language
Characters: Sam, Dean, assorted OCs, and demons we are all familiar with
Word Count: 5,630
Warnings: AU after ep. 3.02 (because Kripke is a jerk who ruins my fic), spoilers for 3.05 in A/N at the end
Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine, no money made, blah blah.
Summary: Jake killed Sam, but Sam came back. Sam killed Jake, and Jake stayed dead. That means Sam won, and to the victor goes the spoils, right? Yeah, that’s what the rest of Hell thought too.
Written for baileytc for Sweet Charity. I REALLY hope you like it.
It has to be paranoia. He has demons on the brain, that's all. It's the only explanation as to why he keeps seeing them wherever. Especially since Dean never sees it too.
That elderly waitress in Duluth who gave him the free piece of pie? It was just a trick of light that made her eyes look black when she pinched his cheek.
And there's no way he smelled sulfur in that convenience store when he stopped to ask for directions to the nearest motel. Just rancid hotdogs, that's all. After all, why would a possessed clerk not only call ahead to the best place in town to get him a deal, but also toss in a bag of M&Ms for the impatient-looking guy sitting in the driver's seat out there?
It just has to be paranoia.
*****
Eight hours on the road without a bathroom break is never a smart plan. Sam's squirming in his seat before Dean gets the hint and pulls into the next rest stop, then it's a mad dash out of the car and into the men's room.
Two urinals, and the one on the left is occupied by a short guy with slightly greasy black hair. Sam unzips at the one on the right and gets down to business. The other guy seems fidgety, possibly the close quarters, but Sam keeps his head down. "Avoid eye contact in the big boy's room, Sammy," Dean once told him when they were kids, and he's always kept that lesson to heart.
Still, head down doesn't equal completely blind, and Sam starts when he catches a glimpse of floating darkness out of the corner of his eye. He looks up just in time to watch the guy swallow the last of a black smoke cloud, and then a knife clatters to the floor, dropped from the man's left fist where it had been hidden out of sight.
The guy turns his head and flashes a brilliant smile that reaches all the way to his eyes shining onyx. "Sam Winchester!" There's an indiscernible accent flavoring the man's voice, and he sounds way too excited. "It's an absolute honor." Then he thrusts out his right hand, clearly intent to shake Sam's.
As Sam recoils, the fluorescent light bulb above their heads shatters. All goes dark, and Sam rushes out of the room before the demon can grab him. When the rush of adrenaline wears off and he can breathe again, he pulls his flask from his pants pocket, fishes his flashlight from his jacket, and heads back into the restroom. The guy's unconscious on the floor, and a splash of holy water only manages to get the guy wet. No smoke, no steam, no nothing.
The demon's gone, and Sam's really, really confused.
*****
A week later, they're in Onion Creek, Texas-a census town, the welcome sign cheerfully announces-tracking down what they think might be vengeful spirit attacking the cheerleading squad. Dean's eyes had lit up when he first heard about the ghost's choice of victims, until Sam added the dreaded words "high school," and he shut up really quickly.
So now, research, and fortunately there's a decent historical section at the library not eight miles from town. Sam's pulling a decades-old yearbook toward him when someone sits next to him at his table. Maybe in his late fifties, pewter hair, clear blue eyes, a poor man's Paul Newman.
"So let me get this straight," the guy starts right in. "You really left him all high and dry without a single word of thanks?"
And if that didn't come right out of left field… "Excuse me?"
"Rest stop about five hundred miles back? Guy goes out of his way to grab that piece of scum with the knife, and you don't even shake the man's hand afterwards. I guess good Samaritans only get acknowledged when they're human, right?" He blinks, and there are those black eyes that Sam's getting far too familiar with.
Sam pushes away from the desk, upending his chair and unsettling his table, earning himself a couple shushes from other nearby patrons.
"Down, boy," the demon whispers, and the tiny smile on his face looks amused. "'m flying solo, and I'm not here to hurt you. Or your brother, if that's what's got you bothered. Last I saw, Dean's out back with the assistant librarian. Lady's got a weakness for leather jackets."
"What do you want?" Sam hisses, cutting to the chase.
The demon just quirks an eyebrow as his eyes fade back to blue. "What's that, Sam? Oh, my name? So nice of you to ask. You can call me Richard, since my real name's a bitch to pronounce with a human tongue. As to what I want," and now his face falls and he goes completely sincere. "I want to serve my general."
Sam snorts. "Well, I never took the job, so you can get lost. But leave that body here when you go back to Hell."
Richard furrowed his brow. "Okay, first of all, don't get your panties in a twist over this meatsuit. He was a serious pedophile before I took up residence, and he's actually been better behaved since I came around. I may be a demon, but even I have limits. And as for never taking the job, I think you're missing the bigger picture here."
So Richard explains, and it's incredibly logical. Jake killed Sam, but Sam came back. Sam killed Jake, and Jake stayed dead. That means Sam won, and to the victor goes the spoils, right? Yeah, that’s what the rest of Hell thought too.
And when you consider it, Pride was probably not the best person (demon, sin, whatever) to consult when it came to taking orders. No big surprise that he wasn’t too thrilled about following Sam Winchester into battle. But the majority of Legion…well, they weren’t too concerned about it. As long as they’re following somebody.
"So the crown's yours, Big Kahuna, whether you like it or not. Though, truth be told, it'd be a lot easy for you if you did like it. Easier for us too."
"Go away."
"Fine." Richard pulls himself to his feet slowly, never taking his eyes off Sam. "But get used to seeing us around. There're a lot of demons out there just waiting for you to give the order."
Sam glares, sick of this whole thing already. "Oh really? So what if I gave the order for you all to do good things from now on?"
"What, curbing the activities of a serial child molester isn't good enough for you?" Richard rolls his eyes, shrugs his shoulders. "You'd probably lose a couple followers. After all, mayhem's one of the chief forms of entertainment up here. But seriously, if that's what you want, it'll be done."
That stops Sam cold. Altruistic demons, at a single word from him.
Richard starts to leave, but after a few steps he turns back toward the table. "By the way, if you're working the high school ghost, you want the 1972 yearbook." He points at the bookcase a few feet behind Sam. "That one, right there."
Sam looks around until he finds the book in question, "1972" in gold leaf on the spine. When he focuses on it, the book jiggles in its spot on the shelf, slides free, and starts floating toward him unsteadily. He snatches the book from the air, looks around to see if there were any witnesses, and then whirls around back to Richard. "Stop it!"
"Wasn't me, sluggo." Richard walks off, whistling. He winks at Sam as he steps out the door, and then he's gone.
Sam's still very shell-shocked and clutching the yearbook around the edges like a lifeline when Dean comes back in, hair mussed and shirt untucked in the back. "Dude, so what'd you find out?"
Oh, how Sam doesn't want to answer that one.
*****
He can't blame it on paranoia anymore. Not after that talk, and certainly not after the reports start coming in. It's just rumors at first, so-and-so heard from what's-his-name who was drunk at the time, but then Bobby calls them.
"And she's sure?" Sam's catching the one-sided conversation while Dean speaks with Bobby on his cell. "Well, what does it mean?" Dean closes his eyes, runs his hand over his face. "Yeah, yeah, I'll tell him. You too, Bobby."
When Dean hangs up, Sam's practically on pins and needles. "What happened?"
"Tamara. You remember her? Turns out she was working a haunting in Idaho, trying to get back up on the horse. Ghost trapped her in the house and tried to torch the whole place."
"But she got out? She's okay?"
"Yeah, that's the kicker. A goddamn demon punched through the door just as the fire's getting to be too much and dragged her out. Black eyes and everything, pulled her clear then took off." Dean starts fidgeting with his necklace, alternating between his amulet and the anti-possession charm Bobby gave him, a gesture he's picked up in the last month. "They have to be planning something. I mean, demons don't just start helping hunters unless they have a reason, right?"
Sam swallows hard. "Right," and if his voice sounds a little tight, Dean doesn't seem to notice.
*****
A couple months pass, and the stories keep coming. A few more hunters get some demonic help during especially difficult jobs, statements appear in the paper describing certain rescuers as wearing those creepy contacts that cover their entire eye. No one knows what to make of it, especially since there are still reports of the usual demonic activity, murder and mayhem of apocalyptic quality.
Sam's not about to clue them all in.
When they're holed up in Piscataway, New Jersey, just a couple days downtime while Sam deals with a pulled shoulder muscle, Ruby stops in for a visit. Dean's at the bar a few blocks off, having hit it off with the bartender the previous night and hoping to seal the deal before they leave, and Sam's too tired to argue with her, so he brushes away the salt line under the door.
"So Sam, heard you've had a couple visitors lately. Are you having fun being king of the mountain?"
"I don't know what's going on. I never gave an order or anything."
"But I bet you gave the suggestion of one, and that's close enough for government work." She brushes the hair out of her eyes and leans in real close. "You need to be careful what demons you play nice-nice with, Sam. Not all of us have your best intentions at heart."
She's gone for ten minutes before someone else knocks at the door. Sam looks through the peephole and is only half surprised to see Richard standing on the other side.
"Open the door, Sam. I know you're there, and it's important."
Sam cracks the door but leaves the renewed salt line right where it is. His tone is cold when he asks, "What do you want?"
Richard seems a little taken aback at first. "You and that question, I swear. Is that always the first thing out of your mouth?"
A shutting door will drive anyone to get to the point, and Richard yells out "wait" just before the latch catches. Sam pulls it open again, scowl firmly in place. "Please can I come in? I promise I'm house trained. Won't piddle on the carpet or anything."
"No. You say your piece now before I grab a whole bucket of holy water."
"You're getting good at this whole 'giving orders' thing, aren't ya?" Wrong thing to say, because Sam's about to slam the door shut now. That is, until Richard follows up with, "It's about your blonde friend. Ruby, or whatever she's calling herself. You can't trust her."
"And I should trust you instead?"
"Hey, I'm not the one who's screwed you over countless times before. That bitch isn't good for you; she's just out for revenge."
Almost without thinking, Sam wrenches the door open, scattering the salt in the process, and yanks Richard clear into the room. "Please tell me you're not saying what I think you are."
"Whoa, calm down. It's not your fault. No one's taught you how to identify demons in hosts, so I could probably tell you my real name is Millicent and you won't know any better. Look, odds are she wants to prove how much smarter than you she is and has given you clues from the get-go. I mean, do you really think all of us demons have such smart-ass mouths? You need natural, inborn wit to pull off some of her one-liners, and I'll be blessed if some of the boys down below aren't regular sticks in the mud. Take Velcarus over in HR. Guy's got the personality of squash, for crying out loud."
What the… "HR? You have human resources in Hell?"
"No, human refuse. Eighth circle, nasty stuff. Vel doesn't get invited to too many parties. My point is, Sam, with that attitude of hers, hell, she even dresses the same, you should have recognized her from the start. All she's been talking about in recent years is getting back at those damn Winchesters, and let's face it, you guys didn't exactly send her back after her last go-around. It was only a matter of time before she found a new host to use to torment you. And dangling Dean's salvation in front of your face like a carrot? Building you up with hope until she pulls the rug out from under you? Yeah, she's good."
"You're serious about this, aren't you?"
Richard smiles, and it's more relaxed than amused. "Serious as Cerberus, and believe me that puppy is high-strung. Test it next time she comes around, set up one of those traps or something. Just, for the sake of your sanity or whatever, don't do anything she tells you."
Feeling a little weak in the knees, overwhelmed by just how blind he's been, Sam collapses onto his bed, flat on his back. He tips his head back, stares straight at the ceiling, unblinking. "Why are you telling me this? Why are you helping?"
There's a soft scrape of wood on carpet as Richard pulls a chair to the bed's edge. "For you, mon capitaine. A loyal soldier looks out for his CO. It's just good manners." He gives Sam a hard, assessing look. "You want anything? Something to drink or eat? You look a little peaked."
What Sam needs is about half a bottle of Tylenol and maybe a six pack. He squeezes his eyes shut, pinches the bridge of his nose, and nearly jumps a mile high when something small slaps into his open palm with a tell-tale rattle. He knows when he opens his eyes, he'll find the bottle of pain meds he keeps stashed in the med kit resting in his hand.
"You did that, right?" he asks Richard, a slight hint of pleading in his voice.
"Sorry, chief, but that was all you. It's about time too, because from what I gather, you should have had the whole telekinesis thing pegged years ago. Precognition, telekinesis, and puppy eyes strong enough to make even Margaret Thatcher swoon. That was the Sam Winchester cocktail for success."
Eyes now open, Sam props himself up on his elbows and glares at Richard head on. "I haven't had a vision since Dean killed the yellow-eyed demon. It was over."
"Why do I feel like the exposition fairy here?" The demon sighs, arches hard in the chair until his back pops, then settles back down. "It was never over, Sam. Hate to tell you, but these gifts are part of you, no matter if Old Yellow's here or not. Same with those other kids. But they didn't have your upbringing, where the paranormal was just plain normal. They didn't think it was inherently a bad thing. Instead, they were curious about what was happening to them, and they poked at it. And the more they explored their powers, the better they got, the more natural it became. Now you, you fought it, tooth and nail. So you know what happened? Your powers only manifested when one of us was in proximity. All those death visions you were having? Nine times out of ten they happened when Azazel was checking up on you. They became less like abilities and more an early warning system, if you want to think about it that way."
"So why the kinesis now? Why not visions like before?"
"Because it's easier for your brain to go 'hey, I'd like that shiny thing over there' than to say 'hey, I'd like to see the future now.' Azzy's not pulling your strings anymore, you can make of your gifts what you will."
With a short grunt, Richard pulls himself to his feet. "Look, I've said my piece, like you commanded, oh fearless leader, and I have the crazy suspicion that your brother's going to strike out tonight. I'm gonna get out of your hair before he gets back. Take your brain candy, get some sleep, and for hellfire's sake, figure out something to do about your gal pal."
Sam has an hour of peace, time to mull things over, before Dean comes sweeping in like a whirlwind. "Pack up. Undercover five-oh at the bar, and I think one of them recognized me."
*****
After Jersey, Sam adds a new element to their usual motel room defenses-a Key of Solomon chalked just inside the doorway, hidden beneath a towel-and Dean doesn't think twice about it. "We should have been doing that from the get-go," is all he says on the matter.
It's worth the extra effort the next time Ruby walks in without knocking. Dean's off questioning the latest victim's family, Sam's working research detail, and he knows she's nearby when the pen he needs jumps across the table and into his hand. When he looks up, she's just walking through the door, and he lets himself smile when she gets stuck fast.
"Howdy, Meg." Oh yeah, that look on her face makes it all worth it.
Ruby's-Meg's-eyes go black, and pissed off doesn't even begin to explain her expression.
Sam rises from his chair, gets right up in her face, satisfied grin on the entire time. "Do yourself a favor. Stay down there this time."
No binding curse on the host this time, and the exorcism's over in a blink. When Dean gets back, there's an unconscious girl asleep in his bed, and Sam shrugs his shoulders. "She had it coming."
*****
It's not like he's willingly trying to keep the truth from Dean. It's just hard to bring up in normal conversation. "By the way, it turns out a demon army is waiting for my command and that floating spatula over there is a heads-up that someone here is possessed. Mind passing the ketchup?"
Yeah, it's just easier to keep quiet about it.
Four months left in Dean's deal, and Sam's no closer to finding a solution. Time wasted trusting "Ruby" is months he'll never get back, and he's repeatedly kicking himself for putting all of his eggs in one basket.
And Dean isn't helping, throwing them into hunt after hunt so that every last minute is spent saving everyone except the one person that matters.
The hunt du jour is a black dog that's been prowling the friendly neighborhood of Five Mile Prairie in Spokane, Washington. Five teens mauled already, and they catch up to it just as it's going after number six.
Number six is on the track team though, and it's probably the only thing keeping her alive. She tears across the well manicured lawns, a black shadow on four legs hot on her heels, and neither he nor Dean can get a clean shot. Instead, they join the chase, hoping to get close enough to maybe tackle the dog and give the girl time to get clear.
What they don't expect is for her to run blindly into the road just as headlights crest over the hill. There's no way the car could slow or swerve in time, and Sam can't help but think how unfair it is that the girl avoided a preternatural death only to be killed by something as mundane as being run over by a car. In fact, he's so intent on thinking about how he wishes he was close enough to push her out of the way that he nearly misses it when she's shoved hard enough her feet lift off the ground.
She falls clear of the car by about a foot, and the vehicle instead careens into the black dog at about forty miles an hour. There's a sharp yelp, some very vulgar squishing noises, and the shrill squeal of braking tires.
Sam and Dean just stop. And blink. And stare.
The driver, a grandma-type with her hair in curlers and a plastic housecoat draped over hunched shoulders, gets out of her car and starts with the dramatics. "Oh my goodness, I didn't see you all here. What did I hit? Is that…oh no, did I hit your pet?"
Dean leans over and gives the black dog a quick once-over. Content it's been reduced to road pizza, he rushes across the street to see to the out-of-breath track runner, leaving Sam with the Roadwarrior.
"No ma'am, it wasn't ours." Sam gives her a grin, hoping it does something to calm her down. "The dog was actually rabid. We're from Animal Control, and we've been trying to catch it for a while." Not his best lie ever, but not bad for improv.
"Oh thank goodness, I was so worried. It would be absolutely terrible if I'd hit the family dog or something." Sweet little Grandma then gazes up at Sam, and something in her smile shifts a bit. She's looking him right in the face when she asks, "Is there anything else I can do to help?" and he's almost expecting it when her eyes blink black.
Sam quickly glances over at Dean, who is trying his damnedest to calm the girl down. Distracted, attention elsewhere.
"No, we have it handled here. Just, um," and the old lady has such an expectant expression on her face. "Thank you."
*****
There's no denying it now-they're everywhere Sam looks. And what's worse: they're friendly to him. The gas station attendant in Itasca blinks darkly when he lets Sam fill up the Impala for free. No less than three motel managers put them in the most comfortable rooms in their establishments, and they each give Sam sunny grins as they pass over the keys. He gets cornered in the bathroom again, at a couple diners, even in front of a church as he's about to go in to replenish their holy water supply.
They start getting more numerous as Dean's days dwindle.
With a month left until the big day, Sam's desperate for research time, so he fakes a headache and kicks Dean out of the room. Dean gives him a knowing look on the way out the door but mutters about finding the nearest Happy Hour.
Sam's just popping the spine on Bobby's tome of higher demonology when someone knocks on the door. The face in the peephole is unfamiliar, a short Hispanic man with a receding hairline and a thick mustache. He gives a toothy grin and waves to the still-closed barrier. "Hola, jefe. Mind some company?"
Cracking the door just an inch, Sam peeks out. "Richard?"
The man steps back, arms open wide. "In the new flesh, though I guess it's Ricardo now. Someone recognized my last host from his wanted poster. Nothing like an anonymous tip to ruin one's day."
Sam opens the door a little wider, sweeping the salt away and smudging the Key with his foot. "Is this one a child molester too?" he asks as Richard walks by him.
"No. They're too slimy for me, if you'll believe it. This guy's just aggravated assault and three counts of rape. Might have to switch again soon though, he might be a little high profile."
Sam huffs. "Can't believe I'm going to ask this, but wouldn't it be easier to possess someone without a rap sheet?"
Richard plops into a chair, gives the books a good once-over with a studious eye, then sprawls his legs wide. "Well, yeah, but I can't."
"Can't?"
"Need a couple good healthy sins for me to take up residence. It's the upper management that gets to take over the innocent Regan MacNeils of the world. I'm just a menial fifth circle worker. You know what I do all day? I poke the wrathful with sticks." He makes little jabbing gestures to emphasize his point. "Sounds like fun, but it really loses its appeal after the first millennium or so. But yeah, we lower levels get the dregs."
Richard's attention turns back to the books, squinting as he reads the titles on the spines. "Hell knows I'm not one for segues, but you still looking for a way out of your brother's deal?"
Sam's eyes narrow for a different reason, suspicion all too clear. "You know something?"
"Only that it'll take more than salt and goofer dust to keep the dogs at bay this time. The big wigs downstairs started prepping the welcome wagon the moment Dean even pursed his lips at those crossroads. They're not letting him go without a fight."
A fight. Okay. Sam sighs. "I think I'm going to regret this. I need your help with something."
*****
The first time Sam moved something with his mind, it was a jerk reaction after a vision of his brother being shot in the head. He got a bitch of a headache afterwards, but at least Dean was safe.
The first time Sam purposely moved something with his mind, it was under the careful tutelage of a low-level demon. Sam got a cookie afterwards. Dean was out getting plastered.
*****
They talk afterwards, trying to formulate a plan.
Richard scrubs his hand over his face, brushing his mustache a couple times. "Something like that? With her? You'd need ten, maybe fifteen. But the problem is fetching the actual contract."
"And that'll take more?"
"Another twenty at least."
"Think you can get that?"
"I'll ask around. No worries, boss."
*****
Two weeks later, Dean wakes up screaming. He doesn't tell Sam what his nightmare was about, but he spends the next couple of days looking cross-eyed at every dog they pass. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.
Dean's started giving Sam weird looks too. Mid-conversation, he'll stop and just cringe in Sam's direction. Sometimes, he even startles and has to blink away the nightmare in front of his eyes. Sam's done enough research to know Dean's just hallucinating, but it hurts every time Dean jerks away from him.
With a week to go, Dean just stops. Actually unpacks his duffle and places his clothes in the dresser drawers. "Here's as good a place as any," he tells Sam, then grabs the remote and tunes into some random cable channel. End of discussion.
After running a quick search on Google Maps, Sam steps outside to make a quick phone call.
He gets his answer an hour later.
*****
The next night, Sam's ready. He fakes sleep as well as he can, waits until he hears Dean's soft snores coming from the next bed, then sneaks out. With any luck, he'll be back before the guy in the next room calls the cops to report his stolen car.
His internet search showed three workable crossroads within a fifteen mile radius. Only one of them has yarrow flowers growing nearby, and he heads directly there. There's a crash barrel in each corner, huge drums full of water, preparations handled perfectly, and he says a blessing over each before dropping in a rosary.
Now or never.
One tin box, assorted herbs and bones, and a happy good riddance to the bikini inspector ID, all buried at the dead center of the roads. Just a matter of time now.
She comes as a shorter blonde this time, not even bothering to disguise the red of her eyes as she steps his way. “I have to say, Sam. Begging for your brother’s soul? I was expecting this sort of desperate move way earlier than now.”
He meets her head on, eye narrowed, and clenches his fists at his side. “I’m not begging. I’m demanding. Let him go.”
She quirks an eyebrow, a small smirk twisting her lips. Steps back and brushes her hands down the length of her dress. “Don’t make the mistake of assuming I’m one of your new lackeys that will jump at your every beck and call. I never signed up for the Sam Winchester for President bandwagon.” She starts to back up, defiance in her eyes. “I owe you no allegiance.”
“Last chance. Let him go.”
She blinks once, slowly, letting her lashes rest at half-mast before making that final eye-to-eye contact. “No.”
“Fine.” Sam rolls his eyes upward, and she follows his gaze, just in time to watch the water drum hovering above her head tip. Gallons of blessed water pour over her, and her shrieks tear the night apart as steam rolls off her like a fog.
She looks like a drowned rat once the barrel is empty. She glares at him through drenched bangs, eyes burning like embers, and pulls her lips over her teeth into a snarl.
Sam doesn’t even flinch, just bends down to her height to look her right in the eye. “I have three more barrels. Let. Him. Go.”
The demon spits. “Fuck you, Winchester. I’ll see you both in the pit.” And before he can say another word, she opens her mouth and starts screaming out black smoke.
Perfect.
“Now!” At Sam’s shout, a dozen similar clouds rush forth. They seep out of the earth, drop from the sky, seemingly appear out of nowhere. And they all descend upon the red-eyed bitch.
He never knew smoke could be torn to shreds.
When it’s over, there’s a dark puddle of something staining the crossroad dirt. A few of the smoke clouds are floating lower than before, dripping and oozing some kind of sludge, but a couple more whip around his head, as if in celebration.
“Strike up a rousing chorus of ‘Ding Dong, The Witch is Dead.’” The voice comes from behind Sam, and he turns to find Richard walking up the south fork, trailed by his own grouping of dark clouds. The demon sounds worn out, exhausted, the same tone Sam uses just after he and Dean finish battling something big and ugly. “Never liked that bitch anyway.”
When they meet in the middle, Sam notices the roll of parchment sticking out of the demon’s pocket. Richard notices his gaze, pulls out the paper, and hands it over. It’s singed around the edges, smells strongly of brimstone. Sam snorts a little. “It’s an actual, physical contract. I didn’t believe you.”
Richard shrugs. “They just kind of…manifest after a deal is made. More secure than a verbal agreement anyway.” He pauses a moment, seems to take in the puddle on the ground, the smoke whirling around the two of them. “So, general. How’s it feel, commanding the demon army?”
Sam knows he should rail against it. Rant, rage, deny, you name it. But the roll of parchment in his hand grounds him, and he just can’t. Instead, uncontrollably, he smiles.
*****
The sun’s just breaking the horizon when Sam gets back to the motel. He opens the room door to find Dean awake, haphazardly dressed, and pulling on his boots. There’s a brief second when their eyes meet that Sam sees sheer panic, then Dean blinks and there’s nothing but anger there.
“Where the hell were you? I woke up and you were just gone. No note, you didn’t answer your phone…” Dean pauses, narrows his eyes, flares his nostrils a bit. “Christo.”
Sam just smiles, smacks Dean in the head lightly with the roll, then drops the parchment into his brother’s lap. “Gezhundeit.”
He collapses onto his bed, watches Dean unfurl the paper. He can tell the exact moment Dean recognizes it for what it is, the sharp intake of breath a dead giveaway. “Sam, what did you-”
“Told you I’d save your ass this time. You’re welcome, by the way.” Sam can’t help but chuckle at the expression on Dean’s face-some kind of hybrid between fish out of water and deer caught in headlights-before he rolls onto his back and props his hands behind his head. “Get me breakfast and we’ll call it even?”
The jab doesn’t get a rise out of Dean. “Sammy, I-” Then he swallows hard, the gulp audible from across the room. “Breakfast, right.” He finishes tying his boots. “You want your frou-frou latte?”
“Damn straight.” He looks up, sees Dean smiling. Finally. No more deal, no more deadline, just them getting back to normal.
Dean grabs his car keys, shrugs on his jacket, and opens the door. He slams it closed just as fast, plasters himself against the wood. Sam jerks up from the mattress, reaching for any weapon nearby. “What? What is it?”
“A herd of possessed Chihuahuas.”
Sam pushes Dean out of the way, opens the door again, and sure enough, there’s six miniature dogs sitting outside. They all stare back at him, beady black eyes meeting his own, and every tail starts wagging like crazy.
Okay, so maybe not entirely back to normal.
End
*****
A/N: baileytc sent me the prompt just after the season premiere aired. She wanted powers!Sammy. SHE GAVE ME PERMISSION FOR A POWERS!FIC. I did a happy dance. Her prompt was perfect: humorous Sammessiah borderline-crack. The demons WANT Sam to lead. Sam doesn't want Dean to find out. I got writing immediately.
Then Kripke included Dean's little heart-to-heart with a demon in Sin City, which totally ripped the premise of the story. Fine, okay, I can work with this. Sam doesn't KNOW Dean knows he's the leader. I can still work with canon. It's still good, it's still good!
Then Bedtime Stories aired. At which point my little fic became AU. *grumble*
I thought I was being pretty witty with the Ruby=Meg idea. Then I saw it all over LJ and went "well, hell." But I wanted to take her out of the picture because Sam could only have one little fallen angel on his shoulder.
Speaking of, Richard. Yeah, I don't know where the idea came from for him. I had this sudden mental image of a Jimmy Olson type demon, someone who calls Sam "chief" and "boss," and his personality just grew from there.