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Dean looks at his little brother, really looks at him, sees the tired lines around his eyes and the flushed face, red nose -- something's wrong, something's really wrong, and he can't quite shake the feeling that Sam is trying to say goodbye to him. "What's this about, Sammy?" he asks, and nothing could confirm his suspicions more than the way Sam's lips curl up in wry amusement at the nickname.
Dean hasn't called him Sammy in years. Sam hates it.
"It's nothing, Dean," Sam says, but there's a bit of hesitation in the way he says it.
It's not nothing. Dean stares him down, waits for Sam's determination to flicker and fail, and then he asks again, firmly, in the no-nonsense Big Brother Tone he'd perfected at age thirteen. "What's wrong, Sam?"
This time, Sam's whole face falls, his shoulders hunch in around him, protectively. There's something vulnerable about his pose, something that makes him seem less like a thirty-three year old man, and more like the awkward, chubby kid with feet too big for his body that Dean had taken care of for five years. "I lied to you," Sam whispers, and it comes out like a confession.
Dean waits.
"I lied to you, and it wasn't about something stupid, and I'm sorry," Sam says, and then his voice breaks and he starts to cry, really cry. "I couldn't do it, Dean. I came home and Jess was -- Jess was dead, and then there was fire--"
No, Dean's mind supplies. Jess is fine, Sammy -- but Sam's not talking about right now, he's talking in the past tense, and there's a hard knot of dread coiled in Dean's stomach that he can't get rid of.
"It was just like mom," Sam whispers. "It was just like mom, it was the yellow-eyed demon, and--"
"I killed him," Dean says, and he can't help the fact that his voice is hard, because the memory of that night hurts. "I killed him, Sammy, do you remember?"
"Too late, then," Sam says, huffing in laughter that's not the least bit amused. "I'm sorry, Dean, I didn't know what else to do -- I was standing there, looking at it -- and the demon, he appeared. He said he'd make me a deal."
Sam takes a deep breath, but the hard knot in Dean's stomach has solidified into knowledge, knowledge that Sam has done something terrible and unforgivable. He tries to steel himself for it, but it's too late.
"He said he'd give me ten years," Sam says. "Ten years with Jess, and afterwards she'd still be alive, she wouldn't remember it, and neither would you."
"Me?" Dean snaps, pissed off. He can't help but be angry at Sam, irrationally, because he fucking knows his little brother, he should have known Sam would do something stupid like this-- "You let a demon fuck with my head? You let the demon that killed mom fuck with my head?"
"You wouldn't have let me do it," Sam replies, and there's no regret in his tone. "You would have stopped me, if you remembered the fire and Jess dying, you would have done anything to change it. So I made you forget, and I don't regret that, Dean."
Dean takes a deep breath. "What are you telling me, Sam?" He knows the answer, but he needs Sam to say it.
"My time's up." Sam says. "I've got-- one day, now. Tomorrow night."
The worst part is that Sam doesn't look scared, doesn't look like he regrets his decision. What kind of fucking idiot makes a deal with a demon, Dean wants to yell at him, but Sam looks back at him with calm hazel eyes.
"Fuck," Dean chokes out.
"I can't regret it," Sam says softly. "I want to, Dean, I want to say it's the worst decision I've ever made in my life, but if I hadn't made it --"
If he hadn't made it, Jess would be dead. Johnny would never have been born.
"It's okay," Dean says, and then he grabs Sam and pulls him into a tight hug. "It's okay, Sam -- I get it." And he does, he really does. Sam made a choice -- a tough one, and a stupid one -- but he went into it with his eyes open, he knew what he was doing. He wasn't like one of the stupid schmucks who thought they were getting a good deal for nothing.
"I love you," Sam whispers, into the curve of Dean's shoulder, curling into him like Dean's still bigger than he is. "I love you, Dean."
"I'm gonna miss you, Sammy," Dean says, because this is the only time in his life he can say that to his little brother and not get yelled at for the nickname. "I love you too, you big doofus."
The beer is left unopened; the brothers hug it out and then Sam stands up and looks awkward. "I gotta go home," he mutters, like he's embarrassed of his giant girlish feelings, and Dean waves him out the front door.
"You," he says to the closed door of his apartment. "Are an idiot. A giant, colossal, shit-fucked moron," and when the words don't do anything to make him feel better, he adds, "Bitch."
And then he goes to find a crossroads.
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The demon fucking laughs at him.
"Oh," she says, wiping a fake tear from her black, soulless eyes. "Oh that is just precious. You seem like a real sweet kid, but no can do." She waves a hand nonchalantly, as if to convey just how trifling Dean's request is. "Anything else I can do for you?"
Sighing, Dean tilts his head back and looks up at the sky. It's a clear night, stars are sparkling overhead. It's almost pretty. "Look," he says. "I get that you don't do this sort of thing often, but I know it can be done."
"We don't just let people out of deals," She smirks. "Not without incentive, if you get my drift. And to be honest, darling, you might have one hella fine ass, but that's just not enough incentive."
Dean scratches a long line in the dirt in front of him with his toe. "Are you sure?"
"Abso-fucking-lutely," she grins, eyes glittering black.
"That's too bad," Dean says, and scratches another line. That last one completes the devil's trap he'd laid around them, and the demon snarls at him, suddenly furious.
"What do you think you're doing?" She screeches, blood frothing at her mouth. "I'll shatter your soul and eat your liver, pathetic, sniveling human, this trap won't hold me for long--"
"Long enough," Dean says, coldly. He levels the Colt at her, sees it in her eyes when she realizes what she's facing. "I'm not going to exorcise you," he tells her. "I'm not going to make you a fucking deal. I'm telling you how it is. I can kill you and keep summoning until there are no demons left in hell, or I can get what I want. There's only one way this is going to end, so whether or not that involves you dying permanently is up to you."
She hisses.
"I'm going to count to two," Dean decides, because the bitch has tried his patience and he is running out of time. "One."
"I will need to talk to my superior," she spits at him.
"Go ahead."
"I will not be able to while I am in the trap," the demon purrs softly. "Let me out, Hunter, and--"
"No." Dean grabs a can of spray paint and begins creating a more stable version of his hastily constructed trap. "Bring him here, princess, I'm not letting you out until I'm ready or you're dead."
She hisses something unintelligible at him, and then turns around, facing away from him. "Fine."
Once the paint is set, the trap more or less permanent, Dean relaxes and tosses the empty can back into the trunk of his car. "Well?"
"You called?" a voice drawls from behind him.
Dean turns, sees a dark-haired man (demon) in a suit strolling up to him, swinging a walking stick. He smiles pleasantly as he looks at Dean, ostentatiously avoiding the trap on the ground.
"I'm here to make a deal," Dean says.
"So I've gathered, but I'm afraid you'll have to be a mite more specific," the demon holds out a hand. "I'm Crowley, and you are Dean Winchester. I must say, I'm rather surprised to see you."
"My brother made a deal ten years ago." Dean says.
"Yes, it's about time to collect on that." Crowley nods. "Poor Azazel, would never have given him a decade if he'd known his plan was doomed from the start. Still, you have to admire a demon with ambitions. Now, Mr. Winchester, what can I do for you?"
"I want my brother's soul back."
Crowley's eyebrows rise in feigned surprise. He's irritatingly soothing when he replies, "Well, if you're asking nicely, the answer is no."
"I'm offering mine in return." Dean says, and he's almost surprised that his voice doesn't waver in the slightest.
"Again, I'd gathered." Crowley pauses, assessing Dean. "The problem is, Dean, that your brother's soul was worth rather a lot to Azazel, who held his contract. But you killed him, freeing up a lot of space for maneuvering, and now that he's gone and his plans have died with him, there's no reason anyone would really care whether or not your precious baby brother made a deal ten years ago. He's nothing but another contract come up, and no self-respecting demon would agree to a swap. Why put off making the quota? You're going to need something more enticing than what you've already put on the table. A soul's a soul, after all."
"If a soul's a soul, why not make the switch?" Dean asks. "What's the difference?"
"Aside from the time you're asking for, nothing." Crowley shrugged. "But the fact that you want it so badly makes it so much more amusing to say no."
Fucking demons, Dean thinks, furious. "So I can't get a decade," he says. "Who cares? Give me a year, then. A year and then you'll have me, that's gotta be no big deal, right?"
Crowley laughs. "Cute, Dean, but you should stop before you start to sound desperate."
"I've got the Colt."
Crowley's eyes barely flicker. "So you do." He nods. "I'll tell you what, Dean. You give me the Colt, your soul, and--" with a gesture at the demon still trapped in the sigil on the ground, "Return to me my esteemed minion there, and I'll give you your brother's soul."
Dean looks at him. "A year."
Crowley sighs. "Dean, if I let you bargain for time, what's to stop your brother from doing this exact thing in a year? What's to stop the two of you from eternally bargaining for each other's lives? No. If we deal, you come with me. When Sam's contract is up. That's in fifteen hours, if you didn't know."
Dean feels his hands start to shake, but there's nothing he can do. "Look--- a day, give me a day."
"Done."
"And Sam's off-limits," Dean adds, even though he's fucking terrified now when he wasn't before, his throat is threatening to close up on him. "For you and everyone else. His soul stays his forever, nobody gets to bargain with him. No more deals -- not for Sammy, and not for any other Winchester."
Crowley suddenly laughs. "Oh, Dean, I have to say, I underestimated you. You're rather clever for a human, aren't you? A pity, I was looking forward to reuniting you two later, but no matter." He pauses to think about it, then nods. "Done. Your brother's soul returned to him, and your family remains untouchable to us from now until the end of time, in exchange for yourself in one day's time."
Dean swallows, hard. "Okay." He holds himself still, knowing what's coming next. "So let's seal this, then."
The demon across from him seems amused. "Not a first-timer, are we? That's just as well, I probably would have deducted a few hours if I'd had to deal with your heterosexual panic." He grabs Dean's chin in one hand, his grip hard and unyielding. "Give us a kiss, then."
The kiss is hard and brutal, like being attacked by a mouth. Crowley's tongue sweeps into his mouth, his teeth nip at Dean's lips, and it seems to go on and on, until Dean's mouth is bruised and Crowley finally pulls away, his mouth looking wet and his smile satisfied.
Dean feels vaguely ill, but he's pretty certain that's because he just got tongue-fucked by a demon and he also sold his soul so maybe that's normal. "One day," he whispers, feeling nauseous.
"Well, I wouldn't do this for anyone, darling, but for you, I've given you a little bonus." Crowley smiles at him. "Sam's contract is over in fifteen hours, I've given you a day past that. Count your blessings, say goodbye, go on one last bender. Get laid, boy-o, may as well have one last hurrah." He smirks, as if he's said something witty. "Doesn't matter what you do now, you're going to hell."
He takes the Colt from Dean's numb hands, and then, smirking, Crowley kisses him again, on the mouth, hard and without finesse, leaving Dean flailing to push him away when the demon suddenly disappears.
The other demon is standing, still trapped, glaring at him with hate-filled eyes.
Dean feels like leaving her there until the paint wears off, just to be petty, but a deal's a deal so he kicks dirt over one of the lines until she flickers and leaves.
"Fuck," he says, looking up at the sky.
The stars are still shining. It's still beautiful.
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