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Dean Winchester

When Sam was six he spilled grape juice in the back seat of the Impala. Dean took the swats for it because he lied to John and told him that he has spilled the juice. He remembers how the rim of the Impala’s back fender bit into the palms of his hands. He watched Sam cry through the back window and gritted his teeth. He hadn’t needed to cry even though John’s Winchester’s swats had hurt like Hell. Sam had done all the crying for him.

The sharp scritch of a claw bumps down his spine, illiciting a cringe from Dean every time it hits a nerve. He’s not tied down but he can’t move regardless of how much he wants to get the fuck out of there. The demon-spider-bitch scrabbles up his back, claws on four legs digging into his skin for purchase. He feels another claw dig deep into the base of his skull and the sound that hisses past his clenched teeth is all that he can manage of a scream.

Sam was pissy and Dean had been ribbing him for it for the last hundred miles.

“Come on, Sammy. I did you a favor. She was a slut and not half good enough for you. All I had to do was smile and she couldn’t get her panties off fas-“

“SHUT UP DEAN!” Sam’s bellow reverberated through the Impala. “I don’t need to hear about your sexual conquest of my prom date.”

“Conquest implies there was some effort put in and trust me, Sammy there was no-“


“Yeah, whatever. Seriously, get over it, Yeti. She wasn’t even that goo-“


The claw retracts, pulling a shining thread of silver with it. The leg extends over Dean’s shoulder so that he can watch the thread unwind and puddle to the floor. The floor is turning silver with the memories the creature is pulling out of his brain. The click of a woman’s high heels adverts his attention for the moment as he watches a gorgeous brunette walk toward him. She tilts her head and a sly smile curves her lips.

“Don’t remember me, do you?” Her English accent is clipped and smug. “I see they’ve already gotten to those memories. A shame. I was looking forward to irritating you for a little while longer.”

“I’d love to catch up, Sweetheart but I’m a little busy right now.” His back arches and he grits his teeth again as a claw digs into the base of his skull again.


“What is it, Sammy?” Dean rubbed his eyes and yawned then scrubbed his hands over his face. “S’late, you oughta be asleep.”

“Can’t sleep, there’s somethin’ under my bed,” Sam whispered, scooting closer to the edge of Dean’s bed.
Dean’s maternal instincts had taken over then and he’d nearly thrown Sam into his bed. “Stay there,” he barked as he shoved a pillow into Sam’s chest. “I got this.” His chest hurt a little his heart was hammering so hard inside of it. He swallowed hard and forced himself to control his breathing. He had to take care of Sammy. One job in the whole world.

“Failed,” the words rip themselves out of his throat, his voice hoarse from screams he doesn’t remember letting loose. “I failed.” He can’t remember what he failed or why. He can’t remember who but he knows it was important.

“Not yet, Short bus, but you’re going to if you don’t grow a pair and stand up to that demon bitch on your back.” It’s a different pair of heels clicking across a floor swarming with silver threads. The accent is American and the woman is blonde.


“Got it in one. Glad they haven’t jerked me out of your pitiful, feeble brain. Sam’s counting on you to still be you when he gets off his gigantic, lazy ass and saves you. Don’t. Fail. Him. Again.” She’s inches from his face, the words hitting his skin with little puffs of air.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and his stomach hurt from all the cookies Pastor Jim had stuffed inside of him. He was tired and fidgety but he didn’t want to go to sleep.

“How much longer?” he asked Pastor Jim as he fought back a yawn. Even at four, Dean Winchester was stubborn as a mule.

“Dunno, Dean. Babies take time. They get here on their own schedule.”

Dean sighed and nodded. A second later he heard a door and looked up to see his Dad strolling down the hall with a grin on his face and a bundle of blankets in his arms. Dean wiggled to his feet and ran to meet his Dad halfway.


“Slow down, Dean,” John cautioned as he crouched down to Dean’s level. “Say hello to your baby brother.”

“Noooooooo!” Dean bucks against the spider bitch on his back. “You son of a bastard! You’re not taking that one!” He struggles, flailing against the invisible bonds, breaking free and reaches back to grab the spider on his back. He throws it against the wall, every muscle in his body screaming. “You are not taking any more of my friggin’ memories. Son of a whore! RUBY!!!!”

The blonde appears out of nowhere. She’s leaning against the wall, a smirk slipping across her face. “You called, Special Ed?”

“Tell Sam to hurry his lazy ass up.”
Current Location: Hell
Current Mood: soresore
Current Music: Mandy by Manilow
Dean Winchester
[How self sufficient are you?]

I’m pretty fucking self sufficient. Dad wasn’t home a lot, even when I was little. He was out hunting the thing that killed Mom, saving a bunch of people and killing a shitload of things in the process. You know…family business. It left me and Sammy alone a lot. I remember there was this one house we stayed in. The lady next door checked on us a lot and she smelled like cat piss. Think she got offended when I told her that ‘cause she didn’t come check on us much afterwards. I took care of myself and Sammy because he was just this snot nosed kid that literally couldn’t wipe his own nose. We did alright too. Ate a lot of spaghetti-o’s, Lucky Charms and shit out of vending machines. I taught Sammy to read by the time he was like friggin’ two. He doesn’t look like it but he’s a genius.

You claim to be self sufficient and yet you seem to fare less than well without your brother. You’ve spent a great deal of your time here trying to get out so that you could get to Sam

Dude, have you looked the fuck around here? It’s not the fucking Sandals or whatever the hell those resort places are called.

Fine. Fucking fine. The truth is Yeti Boy has problems tying his own shoes. I didn’t want to say anything because you guys have some stupid ass ideas about what Sam is. Some fucking Anti-Christ. Whatever. I think the Anti- Christ could tie his own damn shoes. His fucking survival rate without me is like an armadillo. You know you see all those damn things dead on the side of the road. I’ve never seen a live one. So hell yeah, I need to get out of here. I figure Sam’s just standing in the middle of the road waiting for some big ass truck to come along and hit him. It’s not like he hasn’t done it already. Totaled my baby in the process. And that’s another thing. He’s got sole possession of the Impala. Her survival rate in his hands is worse than a damn armadillo. Fuck yes I want to get out of here. It hasn’t a got a god damn thing to do with my self sufficiency. It’s all about Sam’s.

You’re incredibly defensive about this topic, Dean

Oh fuck you. This isn’t about defensive this is about Sam out there…all alone. He doesn’t-you’d have to know Samwich to get it.

FINE. So what if I don’t function without Sam? It’s not a big fucking deal. It’s not like anyone would even fucking understand if I tried to explain it. He’s…he was little when Dad gave him to me. I mean…it’s hard to believe it right now because he’s this giant but he was little. Thing is, when Dad gave him to me he was crying. Screaming his lungs out, tears rolling down his cheeks…he still does that sometimes. Usually when he watches chick flicks—but Dad put him in my arms and the whole fucking world was burning around us. Sammy…he just stopped crying. He stopped screaming for no damn good reason. And see, I guess I didn’t think much about it at the time but later—he had these lungs and he could scream…he did for like two days. Dad wasn’t getting any sleep and I’m lying in bed in this ratty motel room watching Dad walk back and forth with Sammy in his arms and he’s patting his back and singing and doing all the shit that you’re supposed to do with babies but Sam’s not having any of it. He won’t stop crying. Finally I think Dad just gives up and he lays Sam in bed with me. Damn kid just shuts up and goes to sleep. Swear to fucking God.

Somehow after that it became me who needed Sam as much as he needed me. I’m the most self sufficient guy you’ll ever meet. Zombies attack and I’ll be standing right next to that Milla Jonovich chick when the smoke clears but Sam, he’ll be standing right behind me. Chickless. And for some fucking reason I haven't figured out yet, Ruby is standing next to Sam.
Dean Winchester

Dean doesn’t have a humble bone in his body. Or at least it would appear that way on the surface. It’s a front really, a wall he puts between himself and the world because it’s easier to be a cocky bastard than it is to be Dean Winchester. Humility opens all his cracks and lets the world inside. That is something that Dean can’t allow because once the cracks are open, he’s liable to spill right out. So he’ll crack jokes and give that smile. He’ll wink and drop pick up lines like they’re pennies. And the girls coming running. He likes to think it’s because of that smile or the charm that pours off him in waves but if Dean were afraid, which he’s not. Ever…but if he were, he would be afraid it’s because underneath the mask he’s built so well, they can see the broken boy he is. Humility is for losers that can’t pull off the Dean Winchester charm anyway.
Dean Winchester
A man cannot be too careful in the choice of his enemies. >> Oscar Wilde

“You’re never going to get him back. Not the way he was before.”

The comment is completely out of context and she says it while they’re lying in bed watching TV.

“Ruby…don’t.” His tone is dangerous and hard, capable of stopping most monsters in a single breath but Ruby doesn’t pause.

“It’s been what….like five years? You’re not going to get him back.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls and pushes himself out of the bed to pace the room. He grabs his pants and put them on then continued his pacing.

“Yeah. When has that ever worked with me?” Ruby rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “I haven’t lied to you in a long time, Dean. I’m tired of letting you lie to yourself about this. You can’t save him and magically resurrect him back to the person you knew growing up. He’s never going to be Sammy again.”

He hits her hard, fist balled up and right in the mouth. She looks at him all big eyes and then before he realizes what’s happening, she hits back and he’s on the floor, looking up at her.

“You son of a bitch.”

His leg sweep is flawless and she hits the ground gracelessly then Dean is on top of her, hand circling her wrists, his body holding her down. “Sweetheart, no one talks about my mother like that.”

They’re both bleeding and really when Dean kisses her it’s just to shut her up. He doesn’t want to hear how he can’t save Sam anymore and while trading insults with Ruby is fun, she’s naked on the floor. He can think of other things that are more fun. Besides, they can trade insults while fucking. Thanks very much.
Dean Winchester
16 June 2008 @ 07:57 pm
[Justify your actions]

This week, therapy was like actual therapy. Novel concept, Dean thought as he sat down on the couch. He stretched his feet out, propping them on the far arm and putting his hands behind his head. This was actually sort of a sweet deal, a break from the blinding torment and speechless rage they’d been leveling against him lately.

“Mr. Winchester.”

“That’d be me.” His eyes are fixed on the shrink’s legs. She’s got a pair of gams that go up to her neck and it’s always the hot women down here. Hot women that aren’t women and will turn nasty, face-eating demon the second a poor guy lays a hand on them.

“Mr. Winchester, you seem awfully reticent today.”

“Yeah well, sorta waiting for the blinding torment,” Dean said with a smirk. His eyes finally left the woman’s legs and moved up to her breasts. “Fuck yeah I know what reticent means. I’m not stupid. Looks and brains, the whole Dean Winchester package.”

If rolling eyes made a sound, the shrink would have made that sound. Momentarily a clipboard got in Dean’s line of vision then she laid the clipboard in her lap and his view was unobstructed. It was a damn good view too.

“You sold your soul for your brother. We thought perhaps you might like a chance to justify your actions.”

“And there’s the blinding torment,” Dean growled and stared up at the ceiling. “I’ll take hot pokers through the eyes for $200, Alex.”

The shrink sighed and gave him that look that John used to get. The one that said ‘I can wait all day, Boy’. And he could too. Out in the fucking hot Arizona sun he could wait until Dean made his confessions.

“A good lashing for $500?” he asked hopefully, casting a little boy’s grin at the woman. It made human women swoon but this old bag just glared at him.

“Oh al-fucking-right. What the fuck am I supposed to say? I was four friggin’ years old when I carried him out of that burning house. From that moment on, that was my job. Take care of Sammy. I can’t very fucking well take care of him if he’s dead. I had one job and I failed. I had to fix it. No matter what it cost.”

He paused and shook his head, pursing his lips as he thought. “’Sides, Sammy is the strong one. Kid’s got more strength…I couldn’t do it without him. I tried. Maybe it wasn’t much of a fucking try but forty eight hours can be a whole friggin’ lot longer than you ever imagined. Sam’ll be okay without me. I couldn’t make it.”

“You travelled for four years without him. You went two years without speaking to him. The evidence begs to differ.”

“I don’t give a flying monkey fuck. The evidence lies,” Dean snapped at her. He was still staring up at the ceiling, his jaw tight and square. Behind his head, his fingers were laced so tight his knuckles were white. “Sam was FINE in Stanford. He was getting out of this life, making Dad proud. He was going his own way. When he hit the mud in that God forsaken ghost town, he wasn’t FINE. He was dead and there’s a damn difference. Don’t even tell me you don’t see it, Bitch.”

“Verbally abusing me won’t get you out of this session. You’re here for an hour, regardless of what you say or don’t say.”

“Fine. I think I’ll take a friggin’ nap.” Maybe they’d come along and stick hot pokers in him or something.
Current Location: Hell
Current Music: Friggin' Teletubbies. It's Hell. What did you expect?
Dean Winchester
08 June 2008 @ 03:16 pm
[How are you?]

“Lemme guess, I’m being upgraded to the penthouse suite?” he cracks the joke as he follows the scantily clad demon bitch into something that looks a lot like he always imagined the champagne room at some freakin’ high end strip club might. Dean’s seen a lot of strip clubs and a lot of champagne rooms but none of them were high end anything.

The woman doesn’t say anything to him, just gives him that thoroughly disgusted look that makes him grin like a kid at Christmas. She leaves, locks the door behind her and for the first time since he got here-days, months, weeks, years ago- he’s alone and it’s quiet. And he’s in a fucking champagne room. So Dean does what anyone would do; snooping. Only his snooping has a purpose and a goal. He needs a way out, something to defend himself and something, anything to get to Sammy on the other side. He knows the great big yeti idiot is probably watching Chick Flicks and listening to the Steel Magnolias soundtrack.

That’s when the creepy shit starts and he knew there was going to be creepy shit. He might have been upgraded to the penthouse suite in Hell but it was still Hell. The seventies porn music he can handle. In fact, he kinda likes the seventies porn music, he thinks as he sits back in one of those deep club chairs they reserve just for friggin’ strip clubs. The lights start to go down and Dean leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“Oh thank sweet Jesus,” he mutters but he’s still on alert even when he sees one long, shapely leg emerge from the curtain, followed by an arm that matches the leg. He leans his head back, settling into the seat and that’s when, pardon the pun, it all goes to Hell. Bands whip around his ankles, his wrists and his forehead, binding him to the chair. He’s struggling and screaming and cursing but none of it makes any difference. He tries to take deep breath because he knows how this works. They win when he freaks out.

Then they shove Him out on stage. He stumbles and he’s covered in blood, great big hazel puppy eyes. Dean lunges forward in his seat, pulling at the restraints without any effect.

“NO! You fucking son of a bitches! Let him go!”

And Sammy’s just standing there, begging him with those eyes to save him. Only that’s the one thing they won’t let Dean do. He watches helplessly as meat hooks sink into Sam’s shoulders and he’s screaming and Dean’s screaming and it’s all one big fucking mess. He watches as they pull Sam in pieces, little at a time and those eyes never stop begging and Dean never stops wanting to save him. They finally get what they want and he can’t help it Sammy is lying dead and Dean’s crying.

Everything breaks.
Current Location: Hell
Current Mood: crushedcrushed
Dean Winchester
Mommy issues, Daddy issues, Dean’s a whole warehouse full of issues. But today, he's focusing on the mommy issues because even Hell only tortures him so much in one day. There’s a cassette tape in the glove box of the Impala that’s never been played and it never will be as far as Dean is concerned. Of course one of the first things they did when he arrived was play that song over and over and over again. Stairway to Heaven. It was Mary’s song and the bastards knew it. She’s a friggin’ saint in the Winchester mythology and they’ve tried to use that against him down here but there are a few things Dean is sure of. One of them is Mary Winchester. He’s seen her take on nasty evil and evict it with just an order. Over the years, he’s put together some theories and one of them is that she could have taken the yellow eyed bastard but her death was some sort of sacrifice to protect Sammy. Sorta like that Harry Potter bullshit. Only it’s not bullshit because his Mom is cooler than Harry Potter’s mom could ever be.
Current Location: Hell
Current Mood: weirdweird
Current Music: Stairway to heave
Dean Winchester
He’s been here many times before for one reason or another. The ritual is something he’s used to and he can do it without thinking, without breathing and through this pain that’s made him numb. She shows up with a laugh and he wants so bad to fucking strangle her that it makes him clench his fists until his knuckles turn white. He focuses on the way he can feel his nails biting into his palms and not on all the ways he could torture the demon in front of him.

“I want him back.”

She laughs again and shakes her head. “We’ve been expecting you to show up. What I want to know is why it took forty eight hours for you to decide you wanted to save your brother.”

“Bitch.” The word slips through clenched teeth before he can stop it and he squares his jaw to keep anything else from slipping. He looks up at her, eyes catching and holding her gaze. He could swear for a single moment she swallowed and fear flitted through her eyes. She banishes it and a smirk slides across her face.

“Now didn’t your mother teach you about flies and honey? Oh…that’s right. She died. Oops.” She bites her bottom lip and giggles as she steps a little closer. She knows he’ll tolerate this and so much more if he thinks she can help him. She slides her fingers down the lapel of his coat and leans in to lick his earlobe. “Oh sugar, the things I would do to you.”

Dean grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her back. “How ‘bout you start with telling how we go about trading my soul for his.”

She wiggles out of his grasp and takes a step backward. He supposes that should have been his first warning sign. Once she’s back a few steps she laughs, head tilting back and exposing her neck. She meet his gaze again, laughter still fizzing in her eyes like champagne bubbles.

“Baby, your soul is so dirty that no one wants it. We all know it’s a matter of time before we all get to play with you anyway. Why would I trade for something I’m going to get with just a little bit of patience. And patience…I’ve got that in spades. A girl has to develop that virtue when she’s got time to spend in Hell.”
She almost feels sorry for him and the expression on his face. He looks like someone ran over his puppy, brought it back and then sat it on fire. A giggle makes its way up her throat and she ducks her head. No he looks like someone yanked his puppy’s soul out and it’s appropriate because that’s exactly what happened.

She never sees it coming but he’s looking down the barrel of the colt and he watches as she falls dead.

“Nice…idiot. You might have at least asked her a question or two. Like…oh…maybe how the hell we can get your great big idiot brother’s soul back? That would have been nice.”

Dean looks up to see a blonde standing with her arms crossed, all her weight on one hip. The look on her face is pure disgust. “As you can see…I’m really not in the mood. You wanna end up like her, Goldilocks, that can be arranged.”

“No. I want to help you save your brother.”
Current Mood: aggravatedaggravated
Dean Winchester
I don't believe in perfection. I don't think there is such a thing. But the energy of wanting things to be great is a perfectionist energy. >> Reese Witherspoon

Reese Witherspoon, that a chick? Hold on a sec.

Okay, so I told Rita she needed to get dressed and get out. Also asked who the fuck Reese Witherspoon is. Apparently she does chick flicks? According to Rita, who’s thank fucking God bisexual, she’s a hot blonde. So I’m thinking a trip to Hollywood might be necessary. Not like the chick is gonna believe perfection incarnate ‘less she sees it for herself. Haven’t been up there in a damn long while but I seem to remember a lot of really fucking perfect tits.

Hey! Ruby! Wanna go see the damn Hollywood sign? I need to screw Reese Witherspoon. Let's just lay it out there, nobody else is gonna put up with me on a road trip all the way to California.
Current Location: some damn rathole
Current Mood: excitedexcited
Current Music: Back in Black by ACDC
Dean Winchester
28 February 2008 @ 05:08 pm
Surely it was a good way to die, in the place of someone else, someone I loved. Noble, even. That ought to count for something. >> Isabella Swan (Stephanie Meyer's Twilight)

This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go down. I was supposed to die in a friggin’ blaze of glory. Instead, I lived, Sammy went evil anyway and now we’re all stuck in this hellhole called Earth. Most people you talk to can’t pinpoint when it got so bad because it was progressive. Little by little it became too much for me to hunt, too much for me to fix. It all became too fucking much.

And then Sammy quit and I couldn’t. I was supposed to die. For Sam. It was gonna be my noble fucking deed or whatever. Thing is, it wasn’t noble. It was selfish. I know it and Sam knows it. Hell fuck even Ruby knows it. I was supposed to die and Sam would do his grieving shit then he’d get on with his life. Maybe go back to law school, meet another blonde and have a stupid picket fence life. Seriously? Can you see Sammy driving a mini van. Friggin’ hysterical. I’d laugh all the way from Hell.

Wayward sons verse
Current Music: Hell on Earth by Rob Zombie