#Supernatural King of Hell

[mischieviem]

What could have been 😔

[shanastoryteller]

The day his deal comes due, Sam goes missing.

Dean tells himself it’s nothing, that he’s gotten caught up in some research, some last ditch, hail mary nonsense and that he’s just turned his phone off and everything’s fine, that he wouldn’t do something stupid, that he wouldn’t break his promise.

He tells himself that for the first two minutes after he cracks his eyes open and sees the empty bed across from him, and the first time his call goes straight to voicemail, and not much after that. Sam’s broken his promises over things significantly less important to him than his brother’s life.

Dean is dressed and in the Impala five minutes later, heart thudding wildly in his chest. He calls Bobby, Ellen, everyone he can think of, but none of them have heard from Sam, none of them have eyes on him. Sam was with him last night, even if he boosted a car, there’s only so far he can get.

He keeps calling, keep searching, desperate to stop whatever he’s trying to do, to find him, to see his brother one last time before he’s dragged to hell. To make sure Sam is going to be okay after he’s dragged to hell. But the hours tick down, the sun sets, and he can’t find a trace of him. He’s so exhausted and heart sick that when he goes to call Sam again it takes him a long time to read the number on his phone, eyes swimming, the time not making any sense.

1:03

That’s not possible.

That’s not –

His phone rings, blocking out the time with Bobby’s name across the screen, and he answers it but his throat is too thick to say anything.

“Dean?” Bobby says tentatively. “Are you – I got an email from Sam. It just said, I mean, did–“

“What did it say, Bobby?” he asks, even though he’s sure he knows.

Bobby sucks in a breath at his voice, because he knows just as well as Dean that he should be screaming in hell right now, not answering his phone. “To take care of you.”

Dean drops the phone, hears Bobby still talking as he grips the wheel and presses his forehead against the back of his hands. This is what he’d been afraid of. This is why he hadn’t wanted to mess with the deal in first place. This is the one thing he’d begged Sam not to do.

It's easy to find a crossroad.

The demon is laughing at him when it shows up, wicked grin in a pretty face. “That didn’t take you long, boy.”

It’s a different demon than the one he delt with, obviously, but Dean figures they all know the same shit, since demons are a bunch of gossips. “This wasn’t the deal. My brother lives and I die.”

“You traded your soul for your brother’s life,” she corrects, so amused by all this that all he wants to do is kill her, to exorcise her, to make her scream. “Just like your father traded his for yours. There’s no reason Sammy can’t make his own trade. Man, but is your family fucked up. Maybe if you’d just settled down like little Sammy wanted, you wouldn’t all be bargaining for each other’s lives like haggling at a flea market.”

“Untrade it,” he snaps. “My soul for him alive, come on, no year, no waiting, you bring him back and take me to hell right now.”

She laughs in his face. “You don’t have anything to bargain with, boy.”

“My soul,” he repeats, “That’s what this is about, isn’t?”

“Oh, it’s what it’s all about,” she says. “But Sammy’s a clever boy. You know that, don’t you? He didn’t trade his soul for your life, he didn’t have to. You didn’t die. No, he traded it for your soul. Sorry, honey, but your credits been declined.”

At first he doesn’t understand. Sam traded his soul for Dean’s, exactly, so there’s no reason he can’t trade it right back. Then he gets it.

She sees the exact moment it clicks, the moment despair and horror sweep across his face too quickly for him to stop them. “That’s right. Little brother owns your soul now. For some reason he didn’t think you’d take proper care of it. You have it because that’s where he wants it, but no one will be making any deals with you, Dean Winchester. You can’t sell a soul you don’t own.”

“You can’t,” he has to clear his throat, “you can’t just come in and change things at the eleventh hour-”

“Eleventh hour?” she interrupts. “Sammy made his deal eleven months ago.”

His mouth is so dry he can’t speak.

“Isn’t it funny?” she asks, head cocked to the side. “All this time, the deal he’s been trying to get out of wasn’t yours, but his own. Maybe the two of you might have even managed it, except you just wouldn’t help, would you? Insisting that he not research, that he not look for a way out, and he spent so much time trying to convince you, coaxing you to talk about your feelings when he knew you were safe, all he because he thought it would make you feel better when he was gone, because he couldn’t tell you the truth and talk about how scared he was, so talking about your fear was as close as he could get.”

Dean’s going to be sick. “Don’t – please, please, I’ll give you anything-”

“You don’t have anything,” she says, gleeful. “You want to know why I agreed? The thing that made it just too delicious to refuse? Sammy’s down there, just starting in on an eternity of torture, and all he has to do get out of it is give up your soul. It’s his, after all, and he can put the original deal back in place any time he chooses. Just one moment of weakness on his end and his beloved big brother will be on the rack instead.” She sighs happily. “It’s almost as good as anything we’re doing to him down there, the knowledge that if he slips up for even a moment then it would all be for nothing. I couldn’t have found a way to twist the knife deeper if I tried.”

There’s vomit crawling its way up his throat and he has to swallow it down before he can speak. “I can’t – I’ll do whatever you want, please, there has to be something.”

She leans forward, cruelty and delight shining in her eyes. “The only thing you can do is what you’ve been telling your precious baby brother to do for the past year. Accept it. Move on. Live a good life so his sacrifice isn’t in vain.”

God. How can she – how can Sammy expect him to –

He’s doubling over, finally upchucking what little he’s ate today, and he’s dry heaving on the dirt when he hears the fading sound of her laughter.

This can’t be real. This has to be Hell, he has to be in it right now. He has to be.

[pangolin2d]

A big puppy for the King of Hell🦴

[emmetton]

he deserved more than that.

[surelysilly]

yeah, get it right Sam

[beandraws]

King Crowley 🖤

One of my favorites fr I love him so much 🥲

[strawlessandbraless]

Being a demon was the closest Dean ever got to retirement

[angel-ghoul444]

⛥ the boy with the demon blood ౨♱ৎ

[majordemonblockparty]

au where sam goes along with the demon blood drinking 'cause he figures if anyone can grant clemency in hell, it oughta be the boy king of the fucking place.

cue full-on yellow-eyed juiced-up rightful prince of hell sam winchester who has spent the past four months picturing how he'll pour into the depths of hell with legions of demons and hellhounds at his beck and call to break his brother out of whatever implement of torture he's been strung up in... except that when he gets there, dean's unbound, unfettered, up on his own two feet with a knife in his hand, and doesn't even notice sam right away. he's dialed in, laser-focused on peeling back the skin of what might've once been a person with all the care of a shearer going after a sheep, everything from his face (oh, god, his face, his dear face; last time sam saw that face he was nailing pine boards over top of it after he'd closed the eyelids and wiped it free of blood and salt and kissed that cold, still mouth and--) to his bare feet spattered in abattoir-floor gore.

(in the end, sam's never entirely sure how he gets dean's attention -- whether he calls his name, or chokes on a sound trying to be words, or if something inside him deeper than a soul screams out for dean -- but there's a knife in dean's hand and blood on the blade when he turns to sam.)

dean just stares at him for a second, that still, cool, animal look he gets sometimes on a hunt; all predator, 'yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil for I am the meanest sonovabitich in the valley' kind'a look that makes the hair at sam's nape stand on end. then dean's face contracts all at once -- eyes narrow, lip curls, jaw tightens -- as he turns on his heel and flings his knife into the chest of the -- man? demon? demon, gotta be; nothing still human wears a face like that -- standing just out of arm's reach.

"thought we had an agreement," dean snaps, gravel-scrape low at the bottom of his register, like he's been sick but won't admit it for weeks on end. (or screaming. like he's been screaming, a lot, for weeks. or months, maybe. but maybe not; sam's been wrong before.) "no more projections, no more games. we agreed."

the demon puts his hand to the hilt of dean's knife, still buried in his chest cavity, and sam can't have that, can't have an armed demon within throwing distance of deandeandeandeandean, and all he has to do is think about it -- not even really think, not anything so complicated as holding the words or the image of it in his brain; just the intention behind the thought is enough to send the knife jerking out of the demon's grasp and slapping handle-first into sam's open palm.

the demon doesn't laugh, exactly, but his face stretches into what might be the memory of a grin; all teeth, no smile. "we did, and I have not thus far reneged on our agreement, boy. if I'm not mistaken, that's the genuine article; sam winchester, in the flesh. and what pretty flesh it is, too. goddamned succulent."

"hey!" dean barks, "knock it off." that habitual, spine-up, big brother voice that's been part of sam's life since before he can remember. "quit talking about his fucking... flesh." he says 'flesh' in a tone people usually reserve for words like 'fascism' and 'gangrene' and sam's chest aches for the dean-ness of it.

for a second, like a hologram or a magic-eye puzzle, sam sees dean. dean disarticulated, splayed out like a frog pinned to a dissection board, chest cut open, organs scooped out and toyed with and put back wrong. bones rent from their joints, eyes ripped from their sockets, fingers broken one knuckle at a time, nails torn from their beds in a bloody little pile. pieces cut off and waiting for their white waxed paper wrappers; bloody red pieces of flank, ribs, leg, shoulder.

"dean."

(he doesn't say his brother's name so much as he breathes it, horror and relief and delight and longing all shading his tone.)

the look on dean's face is like missing the bottom step of the staircase in the dark. he looks at sam like he hasn't seen him in a hundred years. he looks at sam like he saw him yesterday, the very last thing he saw, sam's face inches from his when his pupils blew out, the fine muscles inside his eye relaxing as his brain and heart and lungs all stopped working.

"sam?"

[andyevej]

they say the devil looks like me

[mischieviem]

Forced myself to draw other characters

[brennenfox]

FeEeeElings 👿😈🥹🥲😭🥳🥰😘

As I said before Crowley and feelings is my favorite thing about Supernatural yay. The second favorite thing is just Crowley, the third is probably Crowley's crossroads era.. I could go on

Пользуясь случаем, ребятки го читать мой фанфик, это The demon you know на фикбук (Кроули/ожп, макси, уже 40 !!1! страниц).

[acecroft]

SUPERNATURAL 7.23

[jayjay-thejet-plane]

Sam Winchester, the Boy King of Hell

close up below

[castielfucks]

6.04 Weekend at Bobby's

[angelbladez67]

dean just loves fucking entities that aren’t humans

-angels

-vamps

-demons

he’s got an impressive list