Fic: Real life situations lose their thrill...
Title: Real life situations lose their thrill
Author: zara_zee
Beta: Not beta’d
Genre(s): Episode coda. Companion piece, of sorts, to King’s Gambit
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Spoilers: Episode 9.23, possibly vague S10 spoilers
Word Count: 1,030
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing in the sand box.
A/N: So it seems I might be just a wee bit excited about Demon!Dean...This is my second look at this particular piece of time...last time from Crowley's POV, this time from Dean's...
Title from Imaginary Lover by Atlanta Rhythm Section
Summary:
From far away, the First Blade calls his name, insistent, persistent. His knife is with Crowley and Dean can feel the King of Hell calling him too, but it’s the call of the knife that makes his skin buzz and itch.
--
It’s Death himself who comes for Dean and Dean would feel honored except he suspects that the grimmest of reapers probably only came to make sure that he was really and truly properly dead this time.
“Howdy,” Dean says. “If I’d known it was gonna be you, I’d’ve brought pizza.”
Death doesn’t so much as twitch.
“No? Not even a smile? Guess there ain’t much to laugh about when you’re Death,” Dean spreads his arms wide. “Well, come and get me then. I guess I’m finally all yours.”
“Oh, Dean,” says Death. “What have you done?”
Before Dean can answer, the floor beneath him vanishes and he’s falling, fast, through blackness and pinpoints of brightness, through ice and fire, through everything and everywhen and when he stops he’s a spider in a familiar web of metal and spikes and there are hooks beneath his skin and sulphur in his nose.
Dean isn’t frightened, not like last time. Not of the swirling black smoke, not of the twisted true faces of the demons gazing up at him, not of the snarling, red-eyed hellhounds patrolling and snapping below. He grins and pulls, and skin and tendons snap and he falls, down onto the ash and blood and bone below. He lands on his feet, knees bent; and straightens slowly, drawing his not-real skin back together with a thought. Around him demons shuffle nervously and the hellhound nearest to him growls until he glares at it and then it whimpers and tucks its tail between its legs.
The mark sings to him and Dean grins. From far away, the First Blade calls his name, insistent, persistent. His knife is with Crowley and Dean can feel the King of Hell calling him too, but it’s the call of the knife that makes his skin buzz and itch.
Dean wonders how much time has passed in the real world; not much, he reckons. Time moves differently down here and he’s not sure exactly how long he was out of it, before his meet and greet with Death, but he figures he’s still got some time before Sam salts and burns his corpse.
He claps his hands together and demons jump. “Well, kids,” he says, “it’s been fun. But I gotta head topside. Things to do, people to see,” he grins. “Things to see, people to do. You know how it is.”
Dean is surprised by how happy he feels; how light and free and strong.
“You can’t just,” an unholy stockbroker begins. He shuts up fast when Dean whips around to look at him.
“Oh, but I can,” Dean says. He walks toward him, slowly, purposely, and the surrounding demons part like the Red Sea parted for Moses. “I can do whatever the Hell I want,” Dean says and the sudden stench of acute fear is the most beautiful thing he’s ever smelled. Power thrums deep in his bones, in his blood, in his flesh, and Dean doesn’t need a gesture, but he finds himself wanting to be theatrical so he reaches out a hand, like Sam used to do when he was dragging unwilling demons from their meatsuits, and he twists his wrist. The demon’s neck snaps and he falls into ash and the delighted laughter that erupts from Dean’s lips chills even him.
“Ooh!” he gives an exaggerated shiver. “Spine-tingling.”
He feels like singing.
And maybe he will. Maybe he’ll throw his head back and sing with gusto, the way he used to years ago, before he realized that he couldn’t hold a tune and that other people didn’t appreciate his efforts.
Although why that little fact had deterred him, he can’t begin to figure out right now. It seems to Dean, that he spent far too much of his life doing what other people wanted him to do; being who other people wanted him to be. Being weighed down by tedious concepts like honor and duty and, ugh, he shudders, morality.
Dean spins in a slow circle and surveys the spineless snivelling morons standing around gaping at him. What a disappointment; nothing but a bunch of low-level, unimaginative thugs. No wonder Crowley spends so much time topside.
“Pathetic,” he says. “Where are all the real demons? Like Alastair. And Azazel. And Lilith,” he inclines his head and then sniggers. “Oh yeah. Oops. My bad. Well. Me and Sam,” he frowns.
Sam’s really not going to like this. He’s not going to understand. There is a natural order to things, and this? This is right. Dean has been a killer all his life and if there’s a sin he hasn’t committed, Dean doesn’t know what it is. This is where he was always destined to end up. And after his first stint in Hell, Dean had no illusions that he wouldn’t end up here again. Still, Sammy’s going to want to save him. Or wipe him from existence. That might be nice. And in the meantime, tormenting Sammy could make for some fun times.
Speaking of, he finally gives in to the blade’s nagging and lets go; lets himself become smoke and lets the mark steer him toward the knife.
The first thing his sees when he opens his eyes is the ceiling. The second thing he sees is Crowley. The knife is a comfortable weight in his hand and the mark burns in his skin. Dean blinks away the black in his eyes, and, yeah, that’s not a surprise, he knows what he is, has known since he landed in the pit. Crowley reaches out a hand and Dean takes it and sits up. He curses when sluggish black blood oozes out of him. Fucking Metatron. He mends the stab holes in his flesh with an unnecessary (but dramatically satisfying) snap of his fingers; this is his own true body, no way he’s treating it like a rental.
Crowley is babbling beside him and Dean has to quash the impulse to stab him dead with the blade; he may yet prove useful.
“I feel like a burger,” he tells the King of Hell, who finally, finally, falls silent. “And maybe a beer or six. Hey," Dean grins and lets his eyes go black again. "Do you know a good karaoke bar? I feel like singing.”
--
Author: zara_zee
Beta: Not beta’d
Genre(s): Episode coda. Companion piece, of sorts, to King’s Gambit
Rating: PG-13, Gen
Spoilers: Episode 9.23, possibly vague S10 spoilers
Word Count: 1,030
Disclaimer: Not mine, just playing in the sand box.
A/N: So it seems I might be just a wee bit excited about Demon!Dean...This is my second look at this particular piece of time...last time from Crowley's POV, this time from Dean's...
Title from Imaginary Lover by Atlanta Rhythm Section
Summary:
From far away, the First Blade calls his name, insistent, persistent. His knife is with Crowley and Dean can feel the King of Hell calling him too, but it’s the call of the knife that makes his skin buzz and itch.
--
It’s Death himself who comes for Dean and Dean would feel honored except he suspects that the grimmest of reapers probably only came to make sure that he was really and truly properly dead this time.
“Howdy,” Dean says. “If I’d known it was gonna be you, I’d’ve brought pizza.”
Death doesn’t so much as twitch.
“No? Not even a smile? Guess there ain’t much to laugh about when you’re Death,” Dean spreads his arms wide. “Well, come and get me then. I guess I’m finally all yours.”
“Oh, Dean,” says Death. “What have you done?”
Before Dean can answer, the floor beneath him vanishes and he’s falling, fast, through blackness and pinpoints of brightness, through ice and fire, through everything and everywhen and when he stops he’s a spider in a familiar web of metal and spikes and there are hooks beneath his skin and sulphur in his nose.
Dean isn’t frightened, not like last time. Not of the swirling black smoke, not of the twisted true faces of the demons gazing up at him, not of the snarling, red-eyed hellhounds patrolling and snapping below. He grins and pulls, and skin and tendons snap and he falls, down onto the ash and blood and bone below. He lands on his feet, knees bent; and straightens slowly, drawing his not-real skin back together with a thought. Around him demons shuffle nervously and the hellhound nearest to him growls until he glares at it and then it whimpers and tucks its tail between its legs.
The mark sings to him and Dean grins. From far away, the First Blade calls his name, insistent, persistent. His knife is with Crowley and Dean can feel the King of Hell calling him too, but it’s the call of the knife that makes his skin buzz and itch.
Dean wonders how much time has passed in the real world; not much, he reckons. Time moves differently down here and he’s not sure exactly how long he was out of it, before his meet and greet with Death, but he figures he’s still got some time before Sam salts and burns his corpse.
He claps his hands together and demons jump. “Well, kids,” he says, “it’s been fun. But I gotta head topside. Things to do, people to see,” he grins. “Things to see, people to do. You know how it is.”
Dean is surprised by how happy he feels; how light and free and strong.
“You can’t just,” an unholy stockbroker begins. He shuts up fast when Dean whips around to look at him.
“Oh, but I can,” Dean says. He walks toward him, slowly, purposely, and the surrounding demons part like the Red Sea parted for Moses. “I can do whatever the Hell I want,” Dean says and the sudden stench of acute fear is the most beautiful thing he’s ever smelled. Power thrums deep in his bones, in his blood, in his flesh, and Dean doesn’t need a gesture, but he finds himself wanting to be theatrical so he reaches out a hand, like Sam used to do when he was dragging unwilling demons from their meatsuits, and he twists his wrist. The demon’s neck snaps and he falls into ash and the delighted laughter that erupts from Dean’s lips chills even him.
“Ooh!” he gives an exaggerated shiver. “Spine-tingling.”
He feels like singing.
And maybe he will. Maybe he’ll throw his head back and sing with gusto, the way he used to years ago, before he realized that he couldn’t hold a tune and that other people didn’t appreciate his efforts.
Although why that little fact had deterred him, he can’t begin to figure out right now. It seems to Dean, that he spent far too much of his life doing what other people wanted him to do; being who other people wanted him to be. Being weighed down by tedious concepts like honor and duty and, ugh, he shudders, morality.
Dean spins in a slow circle and surveys the spineless snivelling morons standing around gaping at him. What a disappointment; nothing but a bunch of low-level, unimaginative thugs. No wonder Crowley spends so much time topside.
“Pathetic,” he says. “Where are all the real demons? Like Alastair. And Azazel. And Lilith,” he inclines his head and then sniggers. “Oh yeah. Oops. My bad. Well. Me and Sam,” he frowns.
Sam’s really not going to like this. He’s not going to understand. There is a natural order to things, and this? This is right. Dean has been a killer all his life and if there’s a sin he hasn’t committed, Dean doesn’t know what it is. This is where he was always destined to end up. And after his first stint in Hell, Dean had no illusions that he wouldn’t end up here again. Still, Sammy’s going to want to save him. Or wipe him from existence. That might be nice. And in the meantime, tormenting Sammy could make for some fun times.
Speaking of, he finally gives in to the blade’s nagging and lets go; lets himself become smoke and lets the mark steer him toward the knife.
The first thing his sees when he opens his eyes is the ceiling. The second thing he sees is Crowley. The knife is a comfortable weight in his hand and the mark burns in his skin. Dean blinks away the black in his eyes, and, yeah, that’s not a surprise, he knows what he is, has known since he landed in the pit. Crowley reaches out a hand and Dean takes it and sits up. He curses when sluggish black blood oozes out of him. Fucking Metatron. He mends the stab holes in his flesh with an unnecessary (but dramatically satisfying) snap of his fingers; this is his own true body, no way he’s treating it like a rental.
Crowley is babbling beside him and Dean has to quash the impulse to stab him dead with the blade; he may yet prove useful.
“I feel like a burger,” he tells the King of Hell, who finally, finally, falls silent. “And maybe a beer or six. Hey," Dean grins and lets his eyes go black again. "Do you know a good karaoke bar? I feel like singing.”
--