#if it isn’t clear what I’m saying: sam being fed demon blood is literally about the fear of miscegenation

[panicroomsammy]

In Gunfighter Nation, cultural historian Richard Slotkin discusses the myth of the American frontier and the ways in which the “hunter-hero” traverses the wilderness outside the corrupt commercial centers and embodies a “regression to the primitive.” As beings that exist outside the vision of those whom Sam and Dean call “civilians,” the demonic Others that threaten humankind within the context of the show are simultaneously the primitives the Winchesters must battle and the living reflections of dark powers that lie within themselves…

The Road to Lordsburg: Rural Masculinity in Supernatural by Lorrie Palmer

[thegeminisage]

john abused both dean AND sam, just differently. in this essay i will

prove that the abuse manifested in different ways for each of them because that’s how abuse works in real life. this is based on the fact that john saw dean as mary’s surrogate but once he found out about the deal and sam having demon blood he blamed sam for her death. ok let’s fucking go

dean as mary’s surrogate

there are loads of parallels made between dean and mary in early season spn and late season spn. in season 12 dean directly calls himself sam’s mother, but even earlier than that we see him doing the cooking and child rearing. compare that to all the parallels made between sam and john (both of them losing their blonde woman significant others in a ceiling fire) and it’s clear that dean was meant to more resemble mary. it’s not a stretch to say that if we can see it as viewers this is how john saw it in his actual life. i do think john loves dean for being dean but he loves him more for being mary.

sam as the reason behind mary’s death

i think once john learned that sam had demon blood, some part of him must have always been waiting for the other shoe to drop with sam, not ever fully believing this kid was human, and maybe not even knowing if this kid was HIS. a popular theory back in the day was that YED fathered sam (something they had to actually address in season 4 to stop the speculation), and if WE speculated that hard, surely john must have too. i’m sure he loves sam as an extension of mary, and keeps and raises and protects him BECAUSE he’s mary’s, but similarly (or maybe inverse) to dean, i don’t know if he ever fully gave himself permission to love sam for being sam. in fact, i imagine john harbors a lot of self-loathing for failing to save mary. if we directly parallel john and sam, that means by some extent he would also hate sam.

john trusted dean with far too much, and sam with far too little

dean knew about monsters; sam didn’t. dean had memories of their mother and the night she died, and shared that trauma of watching her die with john; sam didn’t. dean knew when john was supposed to be home and who to call if he wasn’t; sam didn’t. dean was given the money and the guns and the CAR ITSELF; sam wasn’t. dean was taught to drive; SAM WASN’T. 

dean was expected to do everything john was supposed to have been doing in his absence - he was to be a mother and father to sam, he was supposed to protect sam from evil, he was supposed to see to sam’s meals and homework and getting to school on time. and he was put under an EXTRAORDINARY amount of pressure not to screw this up even a little bit, despite the fact that he was only a kid. sam on the other hand was kept on a strict need-to-know basis for his entire life, right up until season 1 when they reunite at last. john didn’t trust sam with ANYTHING, and sam knew it. this contributed to his lifelong anger issues because he didn’t DO anything to warrant that kind of mistrust and probably got gaslit about it a lot of times either by john himself or dean (unknowingly, by parroting/believing the things john said). even in the pilot sam says very casually of his mother “she’s gone,” because her memory doesn’t hold the same place of reverence for him - best guess is that john didn’t talk about her much to sam because he didn’t trust sam with emotional stuff either. in s14 we learn that dean was the one who told sam stories about mary, including her terrible casserole - and their attempt at recreating it infuriated john to the point of him throwing the entire concoction in the trash.

john relied on dean for everything, and refused to rely on sam for anything

canonically dean was the one who comforted john after a bad hunt, looked after and fed his brother when john wasn’t around. dean knew how to use a shotgun; sam didn’t. dean knew who to call in an emergency; sam didn’t. dean knew about monsters; sam didn’t. this was done under the guise of “protection for sammy” but turn it around and it’s also protection FROM sammy. think of how angry john gets when he learns sam has been having psychic visions. he’s not just angry that dean didn’t report it to him, he’s angry that the demon’s plans for sam are coming to pass, and that sam is becoming less human. again, he can’t TRUST sam if sam’s not human, and it proves to john that he was right all along to keep sam in the dark as much as possible.

john gave dean too much freedom, and sam no freedom at all

“watch out for sammy.” sam was under constant supervision by either dean or john; john made sure of it. again, it’s protection FOR sam but also protection FROM him, in case he did something inhuman or evil. dean on the other hand was left alone without any supervision at all for days or even weeks at a time - he resorts to stealing bread and peanut butter and (according to jackles) turning tricks for money. he had to make it work and got up to whatever the fuck he wanted when john wasn’t looking. sam had to LITERALLY run away from home before he got the simple pleasure of eating pizza and having a dog by himself, independently. dean was given too much independence and freedom but sam was kept on such a short leash he had none at all.

john made dean feel unworthy, and he made sam feel unclean

when dean fails to protect sam from the shtriga in the season 1 flashbacks, he says his dad looked at him differently after. he also implies that john physically beat him when sam ran away in flagstaff. whether he meant to or not, john made it abundantly clear that his love for dean was not unconditional; it depended very much on how well dean performed the multitude of tasks john assigned him. dean grew up believing that his only worth was in what he could do for other people. he demonstrates this an an adult over and over and over, from letting his possessed family members beat him up to refusing to take care of his own needs, emotional and otherwise, and snapping at people who try to talk to him about his own feelings.

on the other hand, sam talks in season 8 about how even at a very young age he felt impure and unclean, even before he knew that he had demon blood, even before he knew that there was any such thing as monsters. kids aren’t stupid, and sam picked up on the vibes john was putting off - that john didn’t trust him, might not have loved him, and might not have considered him human or even his own child. without even knowing why, he spent his entire life feeling unclean and inhuman, not worth of being loved by his own family. even dean, who we all know loves sam unconditionally, admits in season 14 that he often took dad’s side on arguments because he had “his own stuff,” further leading to the alienation that was sam’s constant companion growing up. 

AND, MOST IMPORTANTLY:

JOHN’S ABUSE PITTED SAM AND DEAN AGAINST EACH OTHER

john saved dean after their shared trauma of mary’s death. dean says in season 1 that the reason he stopped talking was that he was scared. iirc john’s journal implies he was mute for over a year, and dean in season 2 says that when he was 6 or 7 his dad took him shooting for the first time. if mary died just before dean’s fifth birthday, the timeline works out to dean talking again because john took him shooting. i believe that dean hero worships his father because after mary’s death, and dealing with the terror that something like that could come in and take his family away by killing them horribly at any time without any warning, john learning to fight back against the darkness - and teaching dean to do the same - is what gave dean his voice again. BOTH of them saw and carried the memory of mary burning on the ceiling for the rest of their lives. “watch out for sammy” and “get the thing that killed mom” were dean’s reasons to get up in the morning, because they were john’s reasons to get up in the morning. these things were LITERALLY his reasons for living. john gave dean a way to fight back against fear and gave him a cause to keep him going. abuse or not, dean never stopped being grateful for that, and he was the only other person in the whole world who understood the unique horror of what john went through that night. even all the way into season 10, he tells other people that john did right by him. it’s borderline brainwashing. part of dean’s self-worth will always be based on how good of a son he was to john.

on the other hand, knowingly or not, john did everything possible to alienate sam. he kept him on a short leash while also keeping him at arm’s distance. he didn’t trust sam with emotional things like the memory of mary, he didn’t trust sam with the truth about monsters and what they did for a living, he didn’t trust sam with his plans, he didn’t trust sam with the truth about demon blood. canon STRONGLY suggests john knew YED bled in sam’s mouth as a baby, but instead of telling sam or even dean about that, sam had to learn about it in a horrible flashback recreated by YED himself. when sam wanted to go to school, john told him no, and when he left anyway, john told him not to come back.

this is an equal but opposite kind of abuse. john totally fucked up BOTH his kids in complete inversions to each other.

which means that, no matter what john did, it caused sam and dean to fight. this isn’t an interpretation. this is straight up canon.

again, dean says in s14 that he frequently took dad’s side in arguments because he had his own stuff to deal with, and he was trying to keep the peace. dean, a victim of emotional (and implied sometimes physical) abuse himself, was not able to shield sam from all of john’s bullshit. he could stop sam from getting hit and having to see john during the worst of his drunken rages, but he couldn’t trick sam into thinking john loved him unconditionally, because john didn’t love either of his kids unconditionally.

when john acted in a way that was not befitting of a parent, sam rightfully took exception, which forced dean (who was ALSO BEING ABUSED, almost brainwashed) to jump to his defense. that led to john getting to do whatever the hell he wanted and sam and dean arguing about the effects. when sam ran away in flagstaff, DEAN was punished, leading dean to resenting sam for that incursion, even though sam was perfectly right to want to get away from an abusive household. when sam did a normal thing wanting to leave for college at age 18, he left, and dean resented him for that because that meant he was alone to bear the brunt of john’s anger. 

sam repeatedly made logical, emotionally healthy choices in attempting to break the family dynamic, but because of JOHN’S BEHAVIOR, not sam’s, those choices wound up causing dean harm. JOHN HIMSELF was the ultimate wedge between sam and dean growing up and beyond.

and let’s not forget the biggest sin - john spent 22 years impressing upon dean that taking care of sammy was EVERYTHING, and then without any explanation at all, he asked dean to kill him, and then he DIED, which meant dean had to carry that weight by himself (because again, he’s been trained not to trust sam with things). like of COURSE sam got angry when he found out - that’s fucking fucked up! once again sam is being treated like a ticking time bomb for absolutely no reason - he didn’t ask to have demon blood or psychic visions or a dead mom or an abusive father. nor did dean ask to be saddled with the upbringing of an entire human at four years old who he then might have to kill. because dean will always feel gratitude towards john, and sam will always feel resentment, and because based on john’s treatment of them BOTH OF THESE FEELINGS ARE JUSTIFIED, john continues to cause fights between sam and dean long after he’s dead and gone, and that will never change.

on a final note: i’d like to bring this around to season 13.

after cas, mary, kelly, and crowley all die (or are presumed dead in mary’s case) in the season 12 finale, season 13 opens with nobody but sam and dean and jack. dean directly blames jack for these deaths. he says so multiple times. he says where jack can hear him that he knows jack is evil and impure and cannot be saved and calls jack a freak. when jack tries repeatedly to kill himself dean says to jack’s face not to bother, because WHEN jack does go bad, dean will be the one to kill him. dean does NOT see jack as castiel’s child - he sees jack as someone who brainwashed cas and kelly both and got them killed. dean does not even see jack as a human person worthy of life. from the get-go, all he wants is to put jack down. jack is born into a world shaped by pain and grief and anger, where people hate him simply for what he is and who died to get him here. 

and again, sam identifies hard with jack. he justifiably protests dean’s treatment of him. jack is a kid and didn’t ask for any of this. jack is terrified of dean. sam reminds dean that john said all these things about sam that dean is saying about jack. john is still causing a rift between his sons over a decade after his death.

eventually, after jack uses his powers and brings back cas from the empty, dean pulls his head out of his ass and admits that he was wrong. he calls jack his kid more than once, and jack refers to dean as one of his dads. but the damage has already been done. jack struggles multiple times with his powers, accidentally hurting people and then wishing himself dead after. he also struggles without them; even when using his powers means using up pieces of his soul, he does it, because dean taught him that he’s only worthy of being loved and trusted if he’s “good.” even when he has NO SOUL, when jack does something bad he panics about it and seeks to undo it at any cost. that’s how deep the damage runs.

i see a lot of people remarking that in the arc of 13.01-13.05, dean became john, and i agree that he did. but dean didn’t do to jack what john did to him. dean did to jack what john did to SAM.

[spn masterpost]

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part seven Word count: ±5570 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part seven summary: Zoë goes undercover to find out more about the murder she saw in her dream. Little does she know, that Sam and Dean do the same. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     Confident, Zoë bends down in order to fit under the yellow ‘crime scene - do not cross’ ribbon. She takes out her federal agent ID and flips it open before the officer guarding the perimeter can ask her about it. He steps away respectfully and lets her through. 

     It’s about 10 AM and the sun is already out on this relatively warm November day. Marching up the driveway with her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete, Zoë unbuttons her black suit jacket to let in some air. The Stars and Stripes hasn’t been taken down yet and still flutters from the top of the mast, located in the center of a perfectly landscaped garden. The fallen leaves drape parts of the neatly mowed lawn in different tones of orange and brown. Not only does this particular estate look amazing, the entire street is brochure perfect. It is obvious that the families living in these homes on Reynolds Park Road, are wealthy ones. However, the ambulances and police cars blocking the street and the officers scanning the area, indicate that something is terribly wrong. What would seem like the last place on earth for a murder, is indeed a gruesome crime scene.

     Two officers are having a conversation by the front entry. They pause the discussion once they notice the unfamiliar face approaching them. She captivates them instantly. Determined strides, head held high, clearly a woman who stands her ground in the men’s words that is law enforcement. There’s not a single trace of doubt noticeable when she flashes her ID once more.      “Agent Evans, FBI,” she states.

     “Detective Lee. This is officer Sanchez,” a tall man, with a serious case of a receding hairline, introduces his colleague a little reluctantly, clearly not happy about the presence of a fed. He holds out his hand anyway and Zoë makes eye contact, giving him a powerful handshake.      “I didn’t know the Bureau was involved,” he comments with an Upper South accent, common for the region.

     “Well, if you had paid attention while investigating the crimes in your own county, detective,” the specialist returns without missing a beat, facing the two man with enough arrogance to shut them down immediately, “- you might had noticed that there has been a murder similar to this one, making this a serial killing.”      “Still don’t make this a federal case,” Lee returns, standing his ground.      “What does, is the fact that there’s a whole string of deaths leading from Alabama up to your lovely little town.”

     Of course she just made that up on the spot, just to back up her reason to be here, but no one would be able to tell without doing some solid digging first. She is so convincing that the two men fail to counter her.      “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. If you could be so kind to show me the way, that would be neat,” she requires, throwing them a fake smile while narrowing her eyes.

     The two officers glance at each other, it being clear as day that the detective is not amused by the way he’s spoken to. Nonetheless, he gestures to the FBI agent to get into the house. She seems like a person not to be messed with.

      They enter the villa with Zoë in tow, who nods approving while taking a look around. She glances up to the high ceilings, which are decorated with beautiful alto-reveilo, carved into the white plaster. Roman pillars support the level above, and in the back two staircases circle up to the second floor. Every square inch of the floor underneath their feet is made from marble. Renaissance paintings, portraying country sides in the 19th century and battles from the Civil War hang from the walls, a gold plated chandelier floats overhead. Flower pieces, amongst them an expensive bouquet placed on the mahogany round table in the center of the main room, gives the house a finishing touch. Zoë knows the lifestyle of the rich and famous, but this place looks more like a palace than a principal’s home in a town called Paragould.

     “As you can see, Mr. Van Dyke lived the good life. His father owned a Dutch shipping company and made millions,” Officer Sanchez explains, having noticed the federal agent’s impressed expression. “We believe the fortune he passed on to his son might have something to do with Van Dyke’s death.”

     As they climb the stairs, Zoë chuckles, but doesn’t say a word. These oblivious bastards... they have absolutely no clue, do they?      “You think something else is going on?” Lee questions, noticing the sarcasm in her little laugh.      “Money is not the motive,”  she returns, curt.

     An awkward silence follows and Zoë can feel the hostility between her and the two police officers. She has experienced it before, especially in smaller communities. Most cops despise the feds, simply because the cases they work quite literally hit close to home. The FBI is no stranger to barging in and taking over entire investigations, without sending a ‘thank you’ card. A lot of hard work for the local coppers, without any credit. Zoë can’t say she blames the police for being reluctant.

     “This way.” Sanchez beckons them after climbing the stairs to the second floor, where he turns left on the vestibule.      The closer they get to the crime scene, the more crowded it gets. The Crime Scene Unit has already arrived and forensics dust for prints, take pictures and search for evidence. When Zoë enters the room and finds Mr. Van Dyke, she frowns. 

      In the corner lies a man, probably in his mid fifties, half into a shattered exhibition case, his eyes open, death evident. It’s not the first time Zoë has seen a dead guy, but she wasn’t expecting such a violent killing committed by a ten year old. Apparently his head got smashed into the showcase; glass is scattered all over his body. He has bruises and cuts on his arms and face, but most peculiar is his probable cause of death. His neck is broken; the head at a 90° angle. 

     Zoë scans the room, which shows several signs of a struggle. One thing is certain; Van Dyke really got his ass kicked before he died. As she takes a look around, a woman wearing white latex gloves updates Lee and his partner. Zoë glances over, notices the CSU logo on her jacket, and walks over to tune in.      “- time of death was between 6:30 and 7 AM. No prints found so far,” the forensic states.      “Look at this place. There must be something,” Detective Lee ponders, his gaze panning over the crime scene.      ��Not even a fiber,” she sighs. “I have to admit; I’ve never seen anything like this.”

     “Seems like the suspect has left no trace,” Zoë intervenes, mixing into the conversation.      “Someone just did a good job covering up,” Sanchez scoffs, not finding her remark relevant. “We’ll find something.”      Dude, you have no idea, Zoë thinks to herself, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. She doesn’t cut in on him, although she has about a dozen smart curve balls ready. Never get too smart around cops, who knows what she might need them for later on.

     “There’s one thing, though, but it adds more confusion than it clears up.”      The forensic walks over to the body of Mr. Van Dyke and points out the way his sweater is pulled down. It uncovers his left shoulder, the sleeve seems too long at the end by the force that was used.      “Looks like someone pulled him down. As if the killer wanted to level his victim with him or her,” she clarifies.      “The murderer was shorter than the victim,” Lee concludes.      “Not just a little shorter, I’m talking about round 4 ft. 5 here, looking at the angle and location of the bruising,” the forensic adds up.      “About the height of a ten year old, right?” Zoë fills in, as the clues sum up.      “Yeah, that would be correct, but that’s impossible. Even if a ten year old could be capable of doing such a thing, they wouldn’t have the strength,” she rules out.

     Impossible isn’t in Zoë’s dictionary, but she has seen enough. The forensics might be on a dead end, Zoë is a hundred percent sure of who Van Dyke’s killer is. She is dealing with one furious ghost child here, but two questions remain unanswered: why isn't Laura at rest and how is she able to relocate?      A cursed object is the first thing that comes to mind. Being on the clock, Zoë decides to leave and have a talk with the family.      “Thanks very much, I’ve got everything I need.” She gives both the forensic and the members of the PPD a nod, before she exits the room.

     While Zoë walks down the corridor towards the staircase, the undercover huntress goes through the things she just learned. It almost seems like Laura is trying to put her victims through the same horror she experienced before she died. She simply shows them who’s boss, just like her father used to teach her. It’s violent, not suited for viewers under the age of eighteen, and yet a girl of only ten years of age, is behind these murders. 

     Back on the first floor, Zoë can hear soft wailing coming from the dining room. For the third time this morning she shows her ID, this time to the officer guarding the shielded off private space. The door is slightly ajar, when she pushes it open further in order to enter, the investigator finds the Van Dyke family, gathered together. A woman in her early fifties with blonde pixie hair has her arms around a teenage girl, who Zoë presumes to be the principal’s daughter. The son, a few years younger than his sister, stares outside, his empty eyes gazing out over the lake, quietly grieving in his own way. Instantly, Zoë feels sorry for the family. She wouldn’t wish this upon anyone.      “Mrs. Van Dyke?”

     The woman looks up with tears in her eyes and lets go of her daughter, but not before sweetly stroking her hair. Zoë shows Mr. Van Dyke’s wife her identification.      “I’m Special Agent Evans, you can call me Sharon. I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”      The mother of two nods her head as she wipes away her tears. “Of course.”      “Your husband’s passing took place between 6:30 and 7 O'clock this morning. Where were you at this time?” Zoë questions calmly.      “I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast,” Mrs. Van Dyke replies, having crossed one arm over her chest, her hand covering her mouth as she breathes out with a shudder.      “And you heard nothing?” the huntress wonders, her voice gentle, not wanting to upset the poor woman even more.      “Not a sound,” she shakes her head. “Heather was in her room next to Bill’s office, she didn’t hear a thing until the dog started barking, that’s when she found him.”

     Zoë nods at that, aware that dogs have a better sense of the supernatural than humans have. She glances past the woman before her, noticing the kind Australian shepherd, who has laid his head in Heather’s lap, watching up at her with worried eyes while trying to comfort his owner. The dog seems calm now, a good indication that Laura isn’t anywhere near.      What the huntress does find strange, though, is that their daughter didn’t hear a thing. The article in the newspaper yesterday about Robert Shire’s murder comes to mind. His family was home during the incident as well.

     “That will be it for now, thank you for your time,” Zoë notifies, smiling sympathetically. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”      Mrs. Van Dyke turns back to her family with half a nod, still in complete shock after this morning’s events which turned her world upside down. Zoë would like to take more time to talk to the children, but she simply doesn’t have a minute to spare. Hastened, the huntress exits the house, stepping out into the warm sun as she takes out her shades and puts them on. 

      It all makes sense now. Laura isn’t just getting even with the people who are directly or indirectly connected to her death. She’s recreating how she died. What Zoë remembers from her flashback, the poor girl was a punching bag for her father’s fist on a daily basis, but it’s not just that. No one around heard a thing, not even a single sound, like the victims were isolated from the outside world. The vision of Laura’s mother stoically continuing her dinner while her older brother watched TV. As if they couldn’t bear the abuse and therefore shut out the sounds that came along with it. 

     Pondering, Zoë strides down Reynolds Park Road, back to her bike, which she parked near the water. Unlike the police, the huntress is everything but stuck, she knows exactly where she needs to go. Next stop; The Shire residence.

     “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

     Dean has been complaining ever since they pulled away from the In-N-Out, when Sam came up with his newest masterplan. Their usual jeans and several layers of plaid have been replaced with black suits, the sharp dressed men now approaching Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, leaving the Impala in the parking lot.

     “We are doing this, so get used to it,” Sam returns, getting tired of his brother’s whining. “You have the ID’s?”      Dean takes out two leather wallets and flips them open, showing him the fake identification. Sam stares at the ID’s, his jaw falling open.      “FBI? Are you nuts, Dean?”      “Dad and I do it all the time. No sweat,” Dean shrugs, not that worried about getting caught.

     “What if they look up our badge numbers? This is suicide!” Sam hisses, keeping his voice down when they pass people at the entrance of the hospital.      “You wanna know what’s suicide? Meddling with Zoë’s case,” Dean counters.      Sam huffs. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?”      “You should have seen her in Rochester when she found out we rang Cliffer and blew her cover. That wasn’t even intentional, and now you actually choose to get involved?” Dean argues.

     He gives his brother his new identification, which Sam studies carefully as he mumbles his fake name. Dean watches his brother closely, curious if he will detect the little gimmick in their aliases, them being Angus and Young. But Sam doesn’t know enough about rock music to notice that the two names combined is the full name of AC/DC’s lead guitarist. Nonetheless, Dean is proud of the inside joke.

     “She might get a little annoyed, but she won’t get mad. We’re helping her,” Sam assures, hoping his brother will stop being dramatic.      “Exactly! I’m dressed like a fucking penguin while I know she won’t ever thank us, even if we have a major breakthrough.” Dean loosens his tie a bit, smothered by the tightness of his collar.      “Look man, we can sit on our ass and waste this day or--”      “- I prefer that actually,” the oldest intervenes.      “Or--” Sam continues, sternly, “- we can do something useful.”

     With that being said, he walks through the revolving doors of the governmental facility, followed by Dean, who mutters something unintelligible; stubborn fucker. Dean might be the older sibling here, but when Sammy has got his mind set on something, he can’t be reasoned with.      Heading straight for the main desk, the Winchester brothers get into character. Sam especially looks somewhat young to be a federal agent, thankfully his height makes up for that. They both need to sell this in order to gather new information on the case.      Confidently, Dean flashes his FBI identification to the woman behind the counter. “Agent Young, this is my partner Agent Angus. We’re here to see a dead body.”      “You came to the right place,” she comments, apparently not impressed by their badges.      She calls for an older physician in a long white coat who just passed by.      “Dr. Hughes? Could you escort these two agents to the morgue?” she asks him.      “Of course, I’m heading over there anyway,” he agrees, beckoning Dean and Sam to walk with him.

     The hunters follow the doctor through the long hospital hallways. White ceilings, mint green vinyl floors and random photos and Picasso rip offs on the walls every now and then; the typical hospital decor the Winchester brothers are more familiar with than they would want to be. They’ve been inside medical centers plenty. To investigate a case, but also as a visitor whenever someone in their close circle got hurt on the job, but also as a patient. Hunting isn’t just a profession prone to injury, it’s worse than that. It’s a profession prone to death.

     Dr. Hughes eventually breaks the silence when they reach an elevator. “Who are you here for?”      “Ronald Shire,” Sam informs.      Unpleasantly surprised, Hughes looks up at the tall agent. He halts by the elevator, calling it down to the first floor. It takes a second to arrive, the doctor uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other. Dean and Sam have noticed it, however, exchanging a look.

     “I’m sorry,” the physician apologizes when he realizes how his behavior might come across. “Ronald was a colleague of mine, but he was also a close friend.”      “Our condolences,” Dean says, knowing all about Shire’s death after Sam filled him in earlier.      Hughes pushes the button to call the elevator down, accepting the sympathy offered by the agent. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? We see death every day and yet when it hits close to home, you never see it coming.”

     Wise words, applicable to everyone. He has been there on many occasions when the final hour struck; of hunters, of people they were trying to save. One would expect all this experience to give him thick skin, since he’s used to the violence and killings. But when Jess was murdered, it hit him harder than a wrecking ball.

     The younger Winchesters train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the bell, announcing that the elevator has reached their level. He clears his throat and directs his attention to the doctor again. “Do you have an idea what happened to Mr. Shire?”      “I did the autopsy myself; it left me stunned,” Dr. Hughes tells them as they enter the elevator.

     Again the doctor presses a key and the doors close. As they slowly move down to the basement, Dean tries to find out if Hughes knows more about the case then he’s willing to let go at this point.      “We think his death might have something to do with the murder that took place in the Van Dyke residence,” he fills in.      “I heard about that on the news. CSU is still on that, though”, the physician says.      “We have one of our agents at the scene,” Sam returns, with the short statement explaining their suspicion.

     The doors open and the three enter the morgue of the hospital. It’s cool in this section and an unpleasant scent fills the area, chemicals almost masking the lingering smell of the dead. The doctor walks over to the furthest wall of metal drawers. He pulls out one of the many trays and puts on a pair of latex gloves before he zips open the body bag.      “What’s so stunning about this case?” Sam wonders.      “See for yourself.” Hughes unfolds the bag and both boys raise their eyebrows.      “Ouch,” Dean comments.

     The body of Laura’s father is badly bruised and battered, as if he got beaten up by a street gang in a bad neighborhood. His jaw is demolished, his neck broken; this is some serious abuse. The ‘Y’ shaped incisions on his torso indicated that a full autopsy has been performed on Ronald Shire, but the large stitches barely stand out between the black and broken skin.

     “That’s not all,” the doctor adds as he takes out the file. “I searched every inch of his body on the in and outside, but there is not a print, not one single fiber on him that  could point you fellas towards a suspect.”      Dean gives Sam a look without the physician seeing it. Dr. Hughes might have never seen this before, the hunters certainly have. Ghosts never leave any trace on their victims, unless they want to.

     “This caught my attention, though.” The doctor points out the bruises. “See how they run out upwards? That indicates that these injuries were caused from a lower angle. Or the killer was on its knees - which would be most unlikely - or the injuries were inflicted by someone shorter than 4 ft. 7. Someone with a growth defect, dwarf syndrome. That’s the only way I can clarify this.”      “Have you considered a child?” Sam questions, carefully.      “I have for a brief moment, but it’s theoretically impossible for a child to throw punches like this, even when it would use an object to create some kind of leverage, which I found no indication of,” the doctor explains. “Honestly, I’ve never seen damage done like this, not even by trained fighters. The evidence doesn’t add up in the slightest. This shouldn’t be possible.”

     The boys exchange another glance; the evidence adds up just fine for them. Sam tilts his head and nods to the door, giving Dean the signal that they are leaving.      “Thank you for your time, doctor.” he rounds up their visit. “If there is anything else, let us know.”      “You’re welcome, I hope you’ll get this one,” Hughes mentions while he cleans up.      “We’ll do our best,” Sam ensures.

     The two hunters leave the morgue and step back into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, the oldest of the two turns to the other.      “Laura, definitely,” the youngest brother states, determined.      “Unless this town is haunted by two frustrated mini spirits, yeah, it’s Laura.” Dean agrees, watching Sam take his phone out of his pocket as they arrive at the first floor again. “Who’re you gonna call?”      “The other Ghostbuster,” Sam replies, as he looks up Zoë’s number and presses the green button as soon as they step outside the hospital.      “Shouldn’t we get to the bomb shelter first?” the oldest suggests, snarky.      “This information could be useful”, Sam replies, but before Dean can respond to that, Zoë answers her phone.

     “Sullivan.”      “Hey Zoë, it’s Sam. Listen, I’ve got some info on Ronald Shire for you,” Sam cuts to the chase.      “Why would you have info on Laura’s dad?”      Sam cringes slightly, detecting the suspecting tone in her voice. Oh well, here goes nothing.      “We went to the Medical Center to see Shire’s body.”

      Complete silence, but Sam can almost hear Zoë’s blood boil on the other side of the line. Dean pulls his sleeve and gestures at him, frustrated.      “What are you including me for?” he hisses, making sure Zoë can’t hear him.      Sam waves him away, without making a sound he hushes his brother to be quiet, turning away from him in order not to get distracted. He takes a breath, gathering his courage. 

      “Zoë?”       “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Did you just tell me that you deliberately messed with my case, even though I told you VERY clearly not to get involved?”      The huntress’s voice trembles with anger, Sam can hear she tries to keep calm.      “We figured we could spare you some time by going ourselves--”      “- You FIGURED?!”

     Sam cowers, her voice so sharp and loud that he doesn’t have to put her on speaker for Dean to pick up on the conversation. He did move closer to his brother, invading his personal space in order to tune in.      “Better take cover,” Dean advises his brother.      Annoyed, Sam pushes his brother away and focuses on Zoë again.

     “We didn’t mess anything up if that’s what you’re worried about”, he states defensively.      “I wouldn't give a flying fuck if you solved the fucking case! You didn’t listen!”      “You’re not my boss!” Sam makes clear, not having her raging attitude, no matter how intimidated he feels by the fiery woman.      “I am the boss when it comes to MY cases, damn it! This is not a fucking candy store I’m running, Sam! You can’t go do my job without telling me, you almost got me killed last time!”      “It was an innocent morgue visit!” Sam exclaims while making a wild gesture, even though Zoë isn’t there to see it. “And honestly, would you have said ‘yes’ if I asked you first?”

     “No of course not, you fucking asshat! That’s the fucking point!” she returns, clearly furious. “I swear to God, Sam, if you and your brother cross my path again…”      “What? You’ll kill us?” Sam huffs. “Listen, Zoë. Ronald Shire was attacked by Laura, without doubt. He was a mess, his jaw was wrecked and his neck was broken, all injuries inflicted from a lower angle. That’s all the info I’ve got for you, you do with it whatever the hell you want.”

     Before Zoë can return an answer, Sam ends the call. It’s only now that he notices Dean opposite of him, his arms crossed in front of him. He nods, appreciating.      “No more Mr. Nice Guy. I like it,” he comments, then continues his way to the Impala.      Without responding to his notification, Sam follows and catches up with him, still angry with the ungrateful attitude of the huntress. He cannot believe he saved her at least an hour and a half and this is what he gets in return; so much for gratitude. 

     Together they walk over to the classic Chevrolet without speaking about it further. Yet Dean can’t help but  smile as he opens his door. Sam notices the grin and rolls his eyes.      “Just say it,” he mutters.      “Say what?”      “You know what.”      Dean looks at him over the top of the black Chevrolet and ponders, still deciding if he should say the words which he longs to say. He can’t help himself, he has to enjoy the moment and rub it in.      His smirk grows even wider. “Hate to say I told you so.”      “No, you don’t,” Sam sighs, sits down and closes the door.

     Dean does the same and turns the key, starting up the Impala’s V8 engine, which lets out an enthusiastic roar. People Are Strange by The Doors is playing on the radio while Sam stares through the windshield, still bummed about the call.      “Why doesn’t she just drop the act?” Sam wonders.      “I’m not sure if it’s an act, Sammy.” Dean checks in both directions before steering his precious car onto the road. “I sincerely think her soul is pitch black.”

     But Sam shakes his head, not buying it. “This can’t be her persona. You said it yourself; she was different when you first met her.”      “So? People change,” Dean simply declares, shrugging his shoulders.      “Maybe, but this is just stupid. We’re in town, bored out of our skull while she is working her ass off to finish up on time. It can’t be that hard to accept our help.”      “Apparently she’s socially disturbed, Sam. Let it go already. If she can’t appreciate a helping hand, she’s not worth the effort,” the older brother suggests, not wanting Sam to be bothered by the matter. “Let’s go to Texas and hunt some wolf, huh?”

     He considers the advice for a moment as they drive by Linwood Cemetery. As soon as he spots the place, he glances across the road at the Hampton Inn, but there is no sign of Zoë; she must be at the crime scene.      As they pass through, he decides he wants to stay. “No. We agreed to stay in town till tonight. Zoë will leave, case closed or not. It’s almost midday, so what difference will it make if we leave now or tonight?”      “Half a day,” Dean answers smartly.      “Denise? Or did you completely forget about the fact that you are meeting up with her later?”

     The driver of the black car raises his eyebrow at that, contemplating, because Sam is right; he did forget about his ‘date’ later today for just a second. Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but Denise is a very big plus to stay in town just a little while longer. A silence follows after Sam’s mention while his brother thinks through his options.

     “Point taken,” he gives in. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Zoë is not gonna come around.”      “She will, believe me. She’s not as bad to the bone as she pretends to be,” Sam states, sure of his words. After all, last night she was friendly for letting him crash in her room and transferring all that lore to his computer.      “I know her better than you do,” Dean weighs up.      “I don’t believe that's true,” Sam counters, shaking his head.      “Wanna bet?” Dean looks aside as the argument is starting to turn into a ‘do not, do too’ fight. “Burgers for a week.”      “I rarely eat burgers. How’s that gonna benefit me?” the younger sibling brings to mind.

     “Okay, well… If I win, you buy me burgers for a week. If you win, I won’t give you shit for ordering a salad in every fast food joint we eat at.” The green eyed hunter wiggles his eyebrows, his arrogant grin confident, spread wide on his lips.      “I’m not settling for that.” Sam huffs and shakes his head. “You can buy me whatever I order for the next seven days if I’m right.”      “Deal.”

     Before Dean can assure him that this is a bet he will win, his brother’s Blackberry rings. Surprised, he checks the screen for the number, his long chestnut hair falling in front of his eyes when he looks down, then he raises his eyebrows and smiles. Victoriously he shows the screen to Dean; it’s Zoë. Sam picks up his phone and puts her on speaker.      “What?” he snaps, still mad at her.      “What are you up to?”      The youngest of the Winchesters isn’t sure if she’s asking him if he’s still intending to mess with her case or that she’s asking if he has some spare time.      “Depends,” he answers, curt.      “You said Shire broke his neck, so did Van Dyke.”      “So?”      “Might be something.”

     Sam keeps his mouth shut, warning Dean to do the same with only a look and a slight shake of the head. An unpleasant silence follows. Obviously, it irritates Zoë.      “C'mon, Sam. Knock it off!”      “No, Zoë! We’re helping you out and this is what we get?” Sam returns.      “You two nosey dickwads went behind my back! How can you expect me to be--”

     They can hear her sigh and swallow down the rest of the sentence as she collects herself, trying to keep her temper in check.      “I don’t like working with others and I certainly don’t want to abandon this case. I’ve never passed up a job, it’s not my style. But if I don't finish up by tonight, I don't have another option.”

     “I get that, but wouldn’t it be better if we just work together now and make sure that you’ll make your deadline?” Sam suggests, calmer than a moment ago, now that the woman on the other end of the line has done the same.      “Look, Zo,” Dean interrupts, adding his two cents. “I know you’re not particularly happy about teaming up - and hey, neither am I - but you’ll be able to cover more ground that way. You can’t expect us to leave town knowing you might have to face a dilemma. The sooner you close this case, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”      “I don’t know...”      Again a sigh while Zoë considers her next move. Sam allows the silence, granting her the time to think it through. The way he sees it, she doesn't have much of a choice. The Winchesters are the best option she’s got.      “Okay, fine,” she eventually gives in. “But this is still my case. I call the shots and might we stumble on trouble, we stick to the plan. I can’t settle for anything less.”      Dean has already opened his mouth to object, but Sam elbows him hard, shooting him a warning glare.      “Agreed,” the youngest quickly answers, ignoring the quiet muttering from his left.      “Dean?”

     The older Winchester brother grinds his teeth. Shit, he does not want to bow down to her, because he knows the second he does, she will without a doubt step up to become Evil Queen Bitch. He’s never going to live it down. One case, he tells himself. One fucking case and he will never have to deal with her again.      “Fine,” he utters, barely audible.      “One other thing. I need to leave town tonight, case finished or not. We have to try or take care of this today, okay?”      “We will,” Sam assures. “And if we run into trouble and can’t manage to wrap up, you don’t have to worry about this case. We’ll make sure to have it covered and that Laura will be put to rest.”      “So, do we meet up or what?”      “Yeah, sure.”      “Where are you at?”

     Before Sam answers he checks the name of the road they are on.      “W. Kings Highway, going west. We’re staying at the Ramada Inn,” Sam tells her.      “Shit motel.”      He scoffs a chuckle, glad the tension has lifted. “Tell me ‘bout it.”      “I'll see you at In-N-Out,” the huntress decides. “I want an Animal Burger.”      “Have you had that 4x4 burger?” Dean says, his mouth watering. “The amount of meat, hmm.”      “Are you kidding me? I grew up in California; In-N-Out is my jam!”      “Their food is fuckin’ amazing, ain’t it?” Dean agrees.      “Oh my God, yes! How they grill their cheese—”

     Stunned, Sam stares from the phone to Dean and back. Did the unthinkable just happen? Did Zoë and Dean actually agree on something? Remarkable, but truly, here is the one subject they can’t fight about; food.      “Zo?” he interrupts.      “Yeah?”      “See you at In-N-Out.” He chuckles and hangs up.

     The Ramada Inn shows up in front of them and Dean pulls up into the parking lot, turning off the ignition once he has found a spot close to the entrance. Before he gets out of the car, he registers Sam, who’s wearing a boyish grin on his face. His eyes sparkle through the curtain of his bangs, his pearl white teeth on display; it’s clear he’s very much amused.      “Hate to say I told you so,” Sam nags victoriously, and pushes the passenger door open.

     With a confused expression upon his face, Dean gets out of his car himself. He then glares at younger Winchester over the top of the Impala, the words sinking in. Fuck, he lost a bet; Zoë came around.      “No, you don’t,” he mutters, following his sibling inside. Looks like he’s going to have to live through the embarrassment of ordering and paying for salads the coming week. Oh well, at least he doesn’t have to eat them.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).   

Read part eight here

[fanforfanatic]

About Dean’s Dreams

Relationship: Dean x Reader Rating: Brief smut Warnings: Mentions of canon events A/N: Thank you to @pixikinz for beta reading this for me and giving me the assurance I needed.

~6.9k words

Summary: Dean writes letters to the woman of his dreams. As in, the woman he’s with when he’s asleep.

Read it on ao3

“Come to bed,” She says.

Dean thinks that’s funny- and maybe she does too since she’s wearing her sweetest smile- because he’s already asleep.

 Dean starts writing the letters long before he starts having the dreams.

It begins after the racist monster truck case that brought Dean back to Cassie Robinson. The first woman he loved and lost. He suggested that this goodbye might not be as permanent as their last and Cassie said that she was a realist and that she didn’t see much hope for them. Dean told her he’d see her again, and when she nodded her head disbelievingly, he said it again, meaning it.

He vowed to himself that he would, he’d return to her. That he’d make it happen because when you meet someone like Cassie Robinson you don’t let go. You hold on tight and you come back.

Writing letters to her was his way of making sure he’d follow through on his promise. He never sent them, that was the point. He wrote things he wanted her to know, but for him to share them he’d have to physically bring them to her. It was an insurance policy of sorts.

Dean wrote about all kinds of things. The cases he and Sam worked, leaving out most of the gore and playing up the heroics, even though he knew Cassie would see right through the latter. He peppered his notes with jokes he knew she’d love, jokes he knew she’d roll her eyes at and jokes he knew would make her huff in annoyance.

He put effort in the letters he wrote. Dean went as far as researching some writing tips just to impress the journalist.

In rare moments of vulnerability, Dean wrote things he could never really talk about. Not even with Sam. Maybe especially not with Sam. He didn’t think he was keeping what he was doing a secret, but he only ever wrote the letters when his brother wasn’t around.

He poured honesty he didn’t even know he possessed onto pages upon pages. He wrote about how desperate he was to find his father, even though he played it like he was on board with the arbitrary cases John would send their way. He wrote about how afraid he really was of Sam’s visions. About what they might mean for his brother. About what he could become.

He wrote all of this for Cassie to read but then months went by and his dad died and the yellow eyed demon came back for Sammy and Dean sold his soul.

Dean wrote about all of that too. Wrote about having a year to live. Wrote about his fear of dying. Wrote about the nightmares where hellhounds drag him to hell. Wrote about being afraid of what he might become there.

But Dean wasn’t writing to Cassie anymore. Maybe he hadn’t been for a while. He definitely stopped beginning the letters with her name. He’d grown up since he selfishly went and got Sam from school, since they worked the Racist Truck case, and he wasn’t deluded enough to think returning to Cassie was an option anymore. That it ever really was.

  “I don’t have any siblings,” She tells him as they rock on a porch swing. “I can’t imagine giving up so much for someone.”

“It’s my job. He's my responsibility.”

“It’s amazing that you believe that.” She leans into his side more and allows him to hold her. It makes him feel good, she’d learned. She doesn’t think it’s half bad either.

 Dean went to see Lisa Braeden, as part of his Dying Wishes Tour. She told him he could stick around after the changelings that took her son were dealt with, but Dean couldn’t. Dean was dying. Dean had a timer counting down the minutes before his eternal vacation in the pit began.

He fed her some line about having work to do because he couldn’t tell her any of that. He could pretend to, though. Which is how he began addressing the letters to her. Not explicitly, of course, but in his mind, she was who he was writing to.

That’s when the dreams began. They were like snippets of the life he could have had with Lisa. Dreams of watching Ben at baseball, going to the movies as a family, cooking together. They were dumb things too like fixing the knob to a closet door, brushing his teeth while Lisa stood beside him brushing her teeth. They were good dreams. They were the version of his life where he could be happy.

Then, Dean died.

There wasn’t enough reprieve from the agony, in hell, for him to mentally form even the outlines of his letters, not that he had anything to say. Dear honey, today I was skinned. ps: It’s more tingly than being burned alive but the aftertaste isn’t quite as pungent.

When Dean started doing the torturing, he couldn’t bear thinking of the screwed up life he’d lived topside, let alone the apple pie one with the Braedens he had liked imagining for himself. It was as if he’d mar it just by having it on his mind because of how sick he was. How twisted his soul had become.

Then, Dean was gripped tight and raised from perdition.

Dean Winchester is saved. The announcement had been clear as bells in the ears of all angels.

  “The things I did…” Dean trails off. He’d been telling her about his time in Hell. “I liked it.” He tells her shaking his head in repulsion. “I’d have turned into them.”

“You’re telling this like you expect me to judge you.”

Dean twists them so that her back is longer to his chest where he’s sitting against the trunk of a tree in the field they often ended up in. “Don’t you?”

He sounds so broken despite it being years since he got back from Hell.

“I don’t,” She says.

Dean nods and pulls her against him again. They settle together and the trees surrounding them part to reveal the horizon and the sun disappearing behind it.

 After returning to the living, Dean found the letters still hidden away in one of his duffles, amongst the things that Sam just couldn’t bring himself to part with. Dean became smarter with where he hid them, after that.

They were a mismatched bunch. Sometimes Dean had written them on motel stationery, sometimes on regular lined or printer paper. Sometimes he’d scratched out a few phrases on the back of postcards, sometimes on a small stack of post-its. Whatever he had on hand. Never on a napkin, though. He refused to be so cliche.

So, he continued. Writing to Lisa. Dreaming of Lisa too, in between nightmares from hell (figurative and literal ones). Life carried on.

He found out angels were dicks. Seals popped left and right. He learned he had a half-brother. He realised Adam died before he’d even met him. Sam became a demon-blood junkie. Lucifer rose. The apocalypse began. The final battle was averted. Sam was in a cage with Lucifer and Michael. And Dean... Dean did something he never thought he would. He returned to Lisa.

The first weeks, he was a mess and that was putting it lightly. He was falling apart and simultaneously tearing the world to shreds trying to find a way to bring Sam back. Drinking, obsessing, the usual suspects. Until... Until he wasn’t anymore. Until he settled into his life with Lisa and Ben, a life he’d dreamt of, because it’s what Sam wanted for him but mostly he did it because Dean would have gone mad sticking to the path he was on. He’d have driven himself insane trying to rescue the brother he’d failed to keep safe.

Dean stopped having the dreams, which made sense because he was living the life. He was teaching Ben about cars, having barbecues, kissing a beautiful woman every night.

What Dean didn’t stop was writing the letters. That was stranger because he had Lisa right there to talk to. He never did, though. He could never be as honest with her in person as he was with her in writing. It made even less sense that he never showed her the letters. Not the old ones he’d written over the years and not the new ones he now wrote on her pretty card paper, in Baby. Only ever in Baby.

Then Sam returned. Without a soul. Dean did his best, he really did. He tried to hold on because when you meet someone like Lisa Braeden you don’t let go. Regular rules don’t apply to Dean, though.

He continued with the letters even as the hits kept coming. Each new apocalypse, each new End Of The World, bigger and badder than the last. Still, Dean wrote to Lisa. Even after he’d had her memories erased. The dreams started back up again too. They were mostly moments from the life he’d shared with her.

At first, he thought he was lucky that he got to relive them in his sleep, but it didn’t take too long for the memories to taunt him. Haunt him, even awake. They were doing more harm than good.

Over time, the woman in his dreams lost the features that made Lisa look like herself. She morphed into someone else, someone fabricated by Dean’s subconscious. Someone less painful to spend imaginary time with.

It was sometime during the Leviathan fiasco, that he started addressing the letters to her instead.

He was in Rufus’ cabin in Montana, dozing off on the ugly red couch there.

In his dream he was somewhere entirely different, however, standing in line in some coffee shop. He’d been here before. Done this before. A lot of his dreams, when they weren’t nightmares, began like this.

The woman in front of him, up next in line, sidestepped closer to the glass casing.

“You can go ahead in front of me.” She told him, like she always told him, not bothering to glance his way. “I’m still making up my mind.” She continued in a very serious tone, as though this decision was of the utmost importance.

Dean chuckled like he did the first time and the last time he was here. “What are your top contenders?” He asked, bending slightly to nudge her shoulder with his amicably.

“Trying to pick between the muffins.” She sighed like she’d been burdened with the task.

“Cranberries, hands down.” He assured her.

It’s what he always recommended, with a sure nod, and it always made the woman scowl.

Finally looking up at him with an odd sort of accusatory look in her eyes, she said, “Absolutely not. If anything it’s between blueberry and chocolate chip.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “How pedestrian,” He teased.

The woman threw her head back and laughed, somehow managing to nod a little in agreement at the same time. “It’s a shame.” She smirked when she quieted down.

“What is?” He asked, even though he already knew; she always answered the same way.

“You’re very good looking, but even in dreams I can’t be with someone who has such a poor muffin ranking system.”

She winked and headed towards the door, a drink and paper pastry bag in hand. Dean followed, an unordered coffee warm against his palm. He got ahead of her and walked backwards the rest of the way to the exit.

“You think you could make an exception if I tell you all about my hierarchy for pie?”

“You gonna impress me?” She asked, an edge of challenge in her tone.

“Tell me your name and I’ll do more than that,” Dean promised, like he always did, just as they got to the door.

He opened it for her and she winked at him as she stepped through. He was right behind her but they never ended up on the street the shop was on. This is where the dreams took a different turn every time.

Suddenly they were in a lowly lit room. Dean would call it a dance studio, if the mirror-lined wall was anything to go by. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, knees brushing, digging into their respective, perpetually half-eaten, burgers.

The woman pressed her lips together, trying to keep from laughing and sputtering out food. “So the husband was a witch too and they were having marital problems?”

“Sam and I had to play Dr. Phil to keep them from tearing the town apart.” Dean laughed, shaking his head a little, recalling the last case they’d worked and questioning just what was his life exactly. “It was a good hunt, well, simple enough.” He sounded more morose just then, the lightheartedness long gone.

“No progress with the Levithins?” She assumed, sucking soda through the straw of her soft drink.

“Leviathans.” Dean corrected with a sad smile. “Cas is still dead.”

Their burgers and drinks disappeared and she moved to sit in his lap, her legs curling around him so their chests were pressed together. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and placed her cheek to his. “Tell me about him.” She whispered.

So Dean did. He began with how he met the angel, continued with all they’d done together, for each other. The sacrifices they’d made. He choked a bit on the part where Castiel deceived him, betrayed him, to work with Crowley, to get the souls out of purgatory. On the part where Cas broke the wall in Sam’s head.

Then he woke up. But Dean wasn’t done. He had more to say, more to tell her about Cas. He wanted to explain that Cas had been doing his best, doing what he had thought was right. He had been learning, still, how to do things without being told what to do. Learning to be more than a soldier that followed orders. Learning the burden of free will. So Dean wrote it down for her. He put it all on paper as if she’d one day read it. All the letters that followed were addressed to her after that.

As far as coping mechanisms go, Dean thought it was one of his better ones.

So it went. He’d dream about her, always in that coffee shop first, then somewhere else: the dance studio, a field, inside Baby, Rufus’ cabin. His favourite was the kitchen of a quaint little suburban house.

He’d dream about her and he’d write to her what he hadn’t gotten around to telling her in sleep.

She’d talk his ear off too. She’d share all about her intricate life and Dean had to applaud himself for creating a complete person in his mind and not some depthless stereotype he might have been prone to.

 Bobby died. They killed Dick. Dean landed in purgatory, where the letters were halted, understandably, but the dreams weren’t.

The first time they landed in purgatory after stepping out of the coffee shop the woman’s eyes widened more than Dean had ever seen. He’d been dreaming of her for a while too, so he’d seen his fair share of wide eyes on her expressive face.

“I thought this was a dream?” She asked quietly, almost to herself.

“It is,” Dean replied, shifting nervously, as he watched her observe the woods. He had this odd desire to clean up somehow. Like he had let her into his messy apartment and he wanted to start hiding the unwashed plates and dirty laundry. Dean never had an apartment of his own but he thinks he’d keep it clean.

Something about the air here… “We’re in a forest straight out of a horror flick.” She countered, twisting her torso to look at him. “Looks more like a nightmare.”

Dean’s eyes locked onto the dirt beneath his feet, shamefully. Even the woman he invented for himself, to be with outside of the life he lives, couldn’t help but call him out on how wrecked his world was. He resisted the urge to tell her that it wasn’t so bad, to defend something adjacent to hell.

“I wonder if it has some sort of significance. You know, like how if you’re on top of a mountain in your dream it means you feel like you’ve achieved something in real life.”

Dean considered it for a moment then shrugged. “This is just where I live now. Ding dong the wicked Dick is dead but I was brought here with him.”

She glanced around again. “ This is the purgatory you told me about? I thought it’d be more...fire-y.”

“No, that’s Hell.” Dean corrected.

“Oh right, forgot that I put that in your backstory.”

“My what?”

“So wait, something might jump out at us?” She wondered without seeming afraid.

Dean shook his head but moved closer to her anyway, wrapping his arms around her from behind, half protectively and half for shared comfort. “Might look like a nightmare, but this is still a dream. Safe here.” Dean laughed at himself for worrying about a dream girl he didn’t even have a name for. “Not that you can die anyway.”

“Yeah, people say that if you die in your sleep you die in real life, but it’s hard to buy into considering how ridiculous it sounds.”

Dean hummed, curving his back to place his chin on her shoulder. “Even with the things I’ve told you are hidden in the shadows?”

She laughed quietly, tilting her head back to rest it against his shoulder. “It’s a little different, I’d say.”

Dean hummed again. They stood there for a while, a dream-while so who knows how long it was really.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here.” She whispered eventually. “I don’t know how to do something about it. I’ve tried before. Tried to make your problems go away but I don’t know how.”

Dean pressed his lips against her neck. It wasn’t really a kiss, just a sought-after intimacy. When his lips moved against her skin while he spoke, goosebumps pebbled. “You do enough. I think you’ve kept me sane.”

She shook her head, only minutely not wanting to shrug him away or, god forbid, off of her. “I’ve put you in situations where you’d be expected to lose it. I don’t know why I do that.”

Dean laughed, loud and boisterous enough to warrant her turning in his arms to face him.

“What?”

“I just figured out where you get that irrational guilt from.”

“Wouldn’t call it irrational...maybe that’s the irrational part.” She shook her head confusedly. “Where from?” She focused again.

“Me.” He offered her a sad smile.

She only replied with a curious look.

 When Dean gets out of purgatory his first letter is all about Sam. About how Dean felt abandoned. About how he hated himself for resenting Sam.

“So you’re out?” She asked him during his first dream-inducing sleep since he got back.

“Yeah.” He grinned at her but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Did the Benny thing not work?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s Cas. I... I couldn’t pull him through.”

She gave him a soft look, hopping off of the kitchen counter to move closer to him. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nodded jerkily. “Do you need anything done around the house? C-can I-”

“Shh.” She soothed as Dean’s body trembled. “Sit, yeah?”

Then, they were sitting on a park bench, of all things. They watched children play and Dean wondered if Sam could have had this if Dean hadn’t returned at all.

“Think we can take one home?” She asked him, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Dean laughed. “You want to kidnap a child?”

She raised a brow at him. “Look around, Dean.”

Dean did just that and realised for the first time that there were no adults around.

“I think they’re ripe for the taking. Kids are part of the fantasy, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah they are.”

And then kids were part of their fantasy, because they weren’t sitting on a bench anymore but at the kitchen table. She was calling up the stairs for someone to wash up and Dean heard socked feet pad rapidly against the hardwood floors, behind him.

“I already did, mommy.” A high voice said.

Dean didn’t dare look back. Instead, his gaze fixed on the woman’s face. Her features softened as she looked longingly at the child. Their child.

The kid surged forward with a giggle, revealing herself to be a blond six-year-old girl. She climbed onto her seat and gave Dean a toothy grin. Dean tried not to be reminded of his mom.

“We’re making pie after dinner, right Dad?”

Dean kind of wanted to cry.

 The first time she made an appearance in a wet dream of his, they were both momentarily startled. They had walked out of the coffee shop only to land in a bed, naked and buried under a red sheet. Oh God, they had both muttered when they realised their bed was heart shaped.

“I didn’t think I was capable of something so tacky.” She sighed.

Dean shot her sheepish look. “Sorry.” He had the decency to look a little embarrassed, at least. “Do you... not want to?” It was strange to ask for consent considering he made her up, but it didn’t feel right any other way.

“Fuck, course I do.” She nodded enthusiastically not bothering with bashfulness. “On three?”

On three, it was. They counted then lifted the gaudy sheet and appraised each other, each nodding approvingly. Then they were chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all and then it became a nervous sort of laughter. A lull of silence. Then lips were crashing. Hands brushing down skin, tangled in hair, everywhere. It was all very disjointed, like most dreams. One second they were in one position doing one thing and the next they were in another. Then, back again. In a way, all the things were happening all at once.

His mouth was on hers, tongue licking into her mouth, sliding against her teeth, but his mouth was also between her legs, tongue tasting her, entering her. His tongue was circling her clit but it was also tracing the shell of her ear. His hands, his hands, they were everywhere, all the time. Groping and grabbing and pitching in all the ways that made everything feel better, stronger, more .

They were building so fast, but they were also in an odd standstill because while everything was happening, while he was buried inside her, thrusting into her from above, while she straddled him, riding him, while everything was happening, they were also just lying there, in each other’s arms. It was tender and sweet and post-orgasmic bliss but also pre-orgasmic bliss.

Then they were coming and then Dean was waking.

 So it went. Dean’s dreams were mostly of her. Sometimes they had a kid, sometimes they had a gaggle of them. Once they had a dog and he told her never again. It was their first argument.

His letters were to her, now hidden away in his room in the bunker. She liked the bunker but mostly she loved that he had it. She told him she’d just gotten a promotion, so that might be why he’d found the bunker. He told her congratulations but that he doubted she had anything to do with him being a legacy.

All the while, life carried on.

Sam started doing the trials to close the gates of hell. The angels fell. Dean took on the Mark of Cain, took on Abaddon. Took on Metatron, and lost. He became a demon, Sam cured him, life went on. They released the darkness, the sun almost died, God almost died, Amara was stopped.

The letters puttered to a halt at times, like when he was a demon, like when the mark overwhelmed him, but they always picked back up. The dreams were constant, however. It never mattered how darkened his soul became, if he slept, in his dreams he could escape because she was there.

He didn’t always dream of her. Sometimes he had nightmares or dreamless sleep, but when he did see her it was a wave of calm washing over him. It was normalcy and contentedness and all the things he could never have out in the real world. It was the perfect relationship. Admittedly, it was hard to screw things up with a figment of his imagination.

It didn’t feel like she was artificial, though. She called him out on his shit. She didn’t bend to his will like he’d suspect something he created would. She seemed to have her own things going on too. As if, when Dean was awake she was still living her life in his dream world.

Driving down the highway towards some case Sam had picked up on for them, Dean wondered for a brief moment what his brother could be dreaming of as he slept peacefully in the passenger seat. Had Sam created an entire universe he could withdraw into to get away from their lives, too?

That’s really what Dean had done. He and...she... They built a world together. Adding rooms to that house they often ended up in, simply by willing them into existence.  Going on walks, on drives. Attending fake parent-teacher meetings at the fake school of their fake kids only to mock the other fake parents. Pretending to interrogate their son’s prom date.

“Do we not think our son can handle himself?” Dean had asked her jokingly.

“We’re the type of parents that won’t succumb gender norms.” She’d answered simply and he’d ‘ ah’ ed in acceptance.

She’d shown him the cubicle she used to work at and the office she worked in now. She broke down the coworker dynamics for him making up an actual case board for visual aid. Coloured yarn and all. She told him how dissatisfied she was with what she did for a living. How lonely she’d ended up in life. How that hadn’t even been on her list of worries until it became too late.

Dean didn’t understand why he couldn’t have made her happy when he made her up. Maybe she needed to reflect him. Maybe it was some Freudian shit. Maybe even in his fantasy world, the only way someone could want him was if they were a little broken too.

It had been years since that first time he dreamt of her, Dean thought, pulling up to a cafe. He’d get coffees before heading over to the morgue and waking Sam.

Just how strange was is that he’d sort of been in a relationship with a part of his subconscious? Should he be worried or should he be grateful his non-alcoholism hadn’t escalated to NON-alcoholism (lots of denial) since he’d found an alternate way to cope? Should he just take the good since he got so little of it in life? Naturally, it’d be in a dream. Good things rarely happened to him and his brother. God forbid that when they do it’s in real life.

Dean sighed and stepped into the shop, leaving Sam to catch a couple more Zs.

“You can go ahead.” The woman in front of him in the line told him, chuckling to herself as she looked at the different pastries on display.

Dean was momentarily startled by the eery similarity of the situation. “What are your top contenders?” He asked, humouring himself.

“It’s all about the scones,” She said very seriously like she had secret intel on the matter.

“Cranberries, hands down.” He assured her, just like he assured her, in his dreams.

She finally turned to him with a surprised look in her eyes.

Huh. It was her . Dean was sleeping. Absentmindedly, he hoped he hadn’t nodded off at the wheel.

“That’s...euh... No. Blueberries.” She looked away and stepped up to the counter to put in her order.

Dean rolled his eyes.  “How pedestrian.” He teased.

The woman threw her head back and laughed, like his words chased away any nervousness she might have been feeling. “It’s a shame.” She smirked over her shoulder when she quieted down.

“What is?” He asked, even though he already knew; she always answered the same way. He mouthed the word ‘black’ to the barista and held up two fingers.

“You’re very good looking, but even in dreams I can’t be with someone who has such a poor scone ranking system.” She winked, leaning against the counter where they were to wait for their orders.

“You think you could make an exception if I tell you all about my hierarchy for pie?” Dean asked once he’d paid.

“You gonna impress me?” She said, an edge of challenge in her tone.

“Tell me your name and I’ll do more than that,” Dean promised like he always did.

She opened her mouth to tell him just that when the barista beat her to it, announcing her drink and name and then Dean’s.

“Huh,” Dean said unintelligently. He’d never actually found out her name before. “We’re straying from the script.” He followed her to the exit, two coffees warming his palms.

“I guess so. Maybe we’re feeling adventurous.”

They arrived at the door and by habit she waited for him to open it for her. He glanced down at his occupied hands and shot her a sheepish look. She laughed quietly, pulling the door open for them to step through and winking at him playfully.

This is where the dreams took a different turn every time but for the first time they ended up on the same street where the cafe was. It was one of those areas with independent shops and boutiques. The kind of road that made the small city they were in seem like a small town.

The pair looked around, then shared a confused look, until Dean spotted Baby a few stores down, where he’d parked her.

“Wanna go for a ride?” He suggested.

“Sure.” She agreed, biting into her scone hungrily; she never got to eat the muffin before. “What a great idea, darling.” She intoned dramatically, hooking an arm around his and only spitting a few crumbs.

Dean rolled his eyes at her theatrics. They knew it was all make-believe and she liked to make a mockery of it once in awhile. “I’m just glad you stopped calling me hubby.”

“Honestly, that weirded me out too. It sounds too sweet for- There’s a stranger in your car.”

Dean’s head snapped towards the impala to look through the passenger door he’d just opened, his hunter instincts kicking in. He sighed in relief. “That’s just my brother,” He assured as he watched Sam roused from his own sleep. Talk about inception.

“Another first.” She frowned for a moment then smiled brightly, unhooking her arm from Dean’s to stick her hand down for Sam to shake.

Sam who’d barely pried his eyes open only to find his brother and a lady peering down at him from the open impala door.

“Dean,” Sam murmured, rubbing a palm against a bleary eye. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re the one crashing my dream.” Dean whined. He whined. He allowed it because it wasn’t like real-Sam would ever hear it and lord it over him.

“Your dream?” Sam heard the woman question at the same time as him. Differently though. He’d said, “Your dream ?” She said, “ Your dream?”

“Yes.” Dean deadpanned, bored and ready to speed things along. The expressions on the two faces made him second guess himself, though. “Yes?”

“This is my dream,” She corrected him.

“What?” The brothers spoke in unison.

There was a long moment where the three of them eyed each other, assessing one another. Sam took the time to collect his bearings as well and step out of the car. Once he did, he broke the silence. “Alright, Dean, what are we dealing with? A witch? Did you get whammied or something?”

“What? No, dude, this is my regular-life dream, monsters don’t come here.”

“Dean... You’re not dreaming.”

“Listen to your brother, Dean. I’m the one who’s asleep.”

“What, no, shut up. You’re not real.” Dean shut her down quickly to focus on his brother. What if he wasn’t regular-asleep? What if this was some rogue djinn and Sam is here to help him get out?

“That’s rude. I made you.” She countered.

Dean sighed exasperatedly and turned to face her. “Remember when we went fake camping and you kept trying to tell me I was starting the fire wrong.”

“ Yes. ” She knew what he was talking about because he never let her forget it.

“Then what happened?”

“You started the fire.” She mumbled. “Look, it’s a little ridiculous, even for us, for this,” She threw her arms up at the world around them. “To light a fire by rubbing two sticks together. I’ve only ever seen that in cartoons, it’s not-”

“What did we agree on after that?”

“That you wouldn’t say you know something if you didn’t.”

Sam watched as his brother discussed with the woman events that couldn’t possibly have ever occurred, like they were old friends, like they were a bickering couple.

“So when I tell you that I’m sleep-”

She didn’t hesitate to interrupt him. “You done being mildly condescending? This is my dream. I’m not going to let you, like, I don’t know, commandeer it.”

“ Listen, my car, my brother,” He started, pointing at each thing with one coffee clutching hand. Sam took the beverage away before it went sloshing everywhere, through the small mouth hole. Sam also started gulping it down, for the sake of his sanity. “My bunker, my-”

“My office, my field, my studio.”

“ What? You only have those things because I made them up for you.” Dean shot back gruffly, missing how Sam took the second coffee to chug that too. “I’ve probably been to those places and their images have been stored in my subconscious. I gave you that office. I gave you that promotion. I gave you a studio because I always thought it’d be hot to be with a dancer.”

“A dancer? What? It’s where I volunteer to teach karate to kids and women. And I earned that promotion you son of a bitch. Besides! You want to talk about made up? You think you fight ghosts. You think you met God. ”

“Shhhh!” Sam finally spoke up. “You guys are causing a scene and drawing attention we don’t need.”

“Who cares, we’re in my dream.” Both Dean and the woman shouted at Sam. “It’s my dream.” They repeated, in each other’s faces.

“No. It’s not. Neither of you is dreaming, or asleep. Neither of you- Christ. Neither of you created the other. Dean, is this a prank? Because we said we wouldn’t do that anymore and I’m a little worried and a lot unsure if I should gank her.”

Instinctively, Dean stepped between her and his brother. “Definitely not killing her, Sammy.”

“I agree.” She piped up from behind Dean’s shoulder.

“Not that it matters,” Dean threw behind him. “Since you’re not real.”

“Oh piss off.”

Sam sighed and pinched the skin of Dean’s forearm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Dude. You. Are. Not. Dreaming. Look around, we’re in a very real city, working a very real case, with very real people’s very real lives at stake.”

Dean shook his head. “No, Sam, you don’t understand. This isn’t the first time I dream of her.”

Sam grunted and threw his hands up in defeat, spilling some of the coffee he had left.

“Dean.” Her small voice squeaked from behind him.

“Yes, dear ?” He mocked.

“Whether this is my dream or yours, it’s definitely mine, but for argument’s sake, we both agree that there shouldn’t be people with black eyes right?”

“What?” Dean whipped around and spotted the dozen or so demons occupying different positions on the street amongst civilians. They were hiding in plain sight and it wasn’t like the brothers could attack them in broad daylight in front of the entirety of the crowded area. “Okay, in the car, in the car.”

Dean ushered her into the front seat after his brother and slid in last, tossing Sam his keys to drive. The impala drove off just as a few of the demons moved in towards the trio.

“What the hell was that!” She half screeched half laughed.

“You hit it right on the nose there with your word choice. A little taste of hell,” Dean mumbled, checking the side-view mirror to see if they were being followed.

“God, why haven’t I had you bring your work into our world before?” She asked Dean. “This is exhilarating.”

“No, it’s not!” Sam yelled. “This is dangerous stuff, lady.”

“You can’t die in your sleep, Sam.” She explained to him nonchalantly.

Sam turned into a vacant lot and brought the car to an abrupt stop. “You’re not sleeping!” He whipped out a knife and cut slits into the woman’s forearm and then Dean’s. “Does that feel awake enough for you?”

Dean barely flinched but she definitely winced at the pain, sighing afterwards.

“I hurt myself when we were putting shelves in the laundry room, remember that, Dean?”

“Yeah. Watch, Sam. We’ll heal right up.”

They each stared at their cuts. When after long moments, their skin didn’t knit back together like it had before, like it was supposed to, their gazes lifted to lock on one another.

“I’m awake,” She breathed.

“I’m awake,” Dean echoed.

“Yes, thank you that’s what I’ve been saying.”

They ignored Sam and just continued to stare at each other. A long silence stretched and even Sam caught on enough to keep quiet. When it kept going long after that still, he proposed to give them some privacy and jetted out of the impala. Sam didn’t want to touch that mess with a ten-foot pole.

“It’s all real,” She finally said. “Your life, purgatory, you really had to... you’ve really lived through... You...”

Dean didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? He’d been having a fake relationship with a fake woman he thought he’d created, he’d thought he’d tailored to his preferences, and it turned out it was real. She was real. And she was here. And she...

“You’re not a dancer?” He questioned, furrowing his brows but unable to mask his smug smirk.

“Shut up, asshat,” She said, punching him in the shoulder.

“We’re definitely still not getting a dog.”

“No way.” She shook her head vehemently. “That conversation isn’t over. I only agreed to table it because I thought, I thought...”

“That you’d made me up.”

“Yeah. I thought...” She breathed deeply, unable to tear her eyes away from his. “ Dean. You never told me your name before.”

“You never told me yours.”

“I never thought it mattered.”

“Because we weren’t...” He searched for the words.

“Because we weren’t.” She repeated. “We just weren’t. You were an escape, Dean, you weren’t a real person, I wouldn’t have... Well, I don’t know, maybe I would have. I don’t know. Isn’t this crazy? Isn’t this insane? You’re the supernatural expert, is this something you’ve seen before? What would you even call this? Dream-sharing? Oh God, the supernatural is real. Ghouls and ghosts and- Oh God, God is real. Oh man, you’ve seen me naked and I didn’t even bother working my angles. Oh man, I told you what happened with Steven Wong under the bleachers in tenth grade. I haven’t told that to anyone. I-”

“Hey, hey, sweetheart breathe. You’re gonna run out of oxygen and then I won’t be able to kiss you just like this.”

And then he kissed her just like that. It was nothing like in their dreams. There were no jump cuts, it was a continuous flow of time and it was perfect. It was lips pressed together for the sake of being pressed together and it felt like safety for the both of them. It felt familiar and new and it felt like everything they’d been waiting for. Everything they’d spent the past years growing between them was coming to a head. It might only have been his lips touching her but Dean felt his entire body flare up with heat and a wild sensation of want.

His hands cupped her face gently as he made the kiss last, he’d have it last his entire lifetime if he could. He’d have it never end. This could go on forever and he’d be more than okay with it.

“Wait.” Dean pulled away suddenly. “There’s something I want to give you.”

“Eh, I wasn’t expecting to meet my fake dream lover-and-pal-io so I didn’t get you anything.”

“I wrote you something.” Dean continued agitatedly, ignoring her statement. “Some things, actually.” He started fidgeting and looking around, like the letters might pop up on the dash even though he knew they were all tucked away in a tin box in his dresser back at the bunker. “I’ve- Shit. I’ve been waiting for years, I-”

Dean met her eyes again and the urgency left him. Maybe the letters didn’t matter, just then. He wrote them so someone could know him and she... She already did. The woman in his dreams. The woman of his dreams. It’s two ways of saying the same thing, maybe.

Read it on ao3

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The Cult: Roger Federer

This article originally appeared on VICE Sports UK.

Once you're done with Roger, why not clear your diary and check out the other 98 instalments of The Cult.

Cult Grade: The God Illusion

Deep in the mists of time, when this series began, I called it The Cult because it seemed that everyone had grown a little silly about who and what sportsmen and women were. The urge to venerate humans far above what they actually are is presumably as old as the human ego. I doubt that chimpanzees did it – they don't seem the type – but I'm pretty sure the Mayans did, up there on the highest hill, cutting off some child's head for a little blood sacrifice to their dead ancestors. You know what people are like: if we put our minds to it, we can control anything.

We live – or have been living, depending on how many miles you think are left on this particular road – in the Entertainment Age. You hardly need me to tell you that sport has stood side by side with movies to form its most beloved couple. Know how many movies were released in 2016? Nah, me neither. Too many. I stopped counting at 60, by which point it was January 8th. Friend Request. Eisenstein in Guanajuato. Crayon Shin-Chan: My Moving Story. "Gimme a break, kid," you'll have to tell some uppity grandchild who's asking whether you possess the know-how to construct a workable flood defence. "I was busy with other stuff."

READ MORE: The Cult – Goran Ivanisevic

Though most of the time I just accept it, every so often I'm caught by what 'normal' looks like in sport, the excess congesting its surfaces like a bad case of herpes. The umbrella sponsored by BNP Paribas, a digital display sponsored by Rolex, the sweetly innocent Robinsons, still trying to get someone to buy barley water. Loudest of all are the desperate solicitations – delivered in a tone that always puts me in mind of that poor salesman Gil from The Simpsons – to bet on anything and everything you're seeing. Please – *grips your arm* – please bet now.

Then there are the people playing it, and the labyrinthine distortion through which we now see them. What they are is humans running around and throwing things and having KEEP IT TIGHT TO HIM GARY as the central philosophy of their existence. What they also are, in the Entertainment Age, is one of the few things on this planet that feels like it truly matters. After all, it's always new, the drama of a 91st-minute winner is never fake, so blame me not for losing track of how important they are. In this Age, when all the stuff that matters most is the opposite of what has mattered most to the human race for millennia, you get a bit weird about how to define 'important'.

So yeah, that was what I wanted to get across in profiling the members of that cultish firmament. That, among other things, it's irresistible, but inane, to see them as anything but human beings. And then moonlight falls on the murky pond of human inanity, and you see a guy who, though you know you shouldn't, can't help but make you feel that we are gods. Capable of nonchalantly rewriting the laws of what is possible. And, happily, back into the pond you go.

Point of Entry: Keys To The Universe

Here are some sports players who can compete with Roger Federer in the cultish perception stakes: Michael Jordan, Usain Bolt, Lionel Messi. That's it. I mean, I say that like I have any bloody clue about how Rod Laver or Pele or Wilt Chamberlain were viewed, except for knowing that they came into the Western conscious at a time when the Entertainment Age was at best in its adolescence, when stuff like nuclear war or global communism or the rights of black people put more pressing demands on people's attention. As your correspondent at your service, I watched some old footage of Rod Laver playing tennis, and I can report back that he looks very good at it. But, running around an unadorned court in service-issue whites, that's all he looks: good at tennis. He isn't a god. He's a sportsman who won all four Grand Slams in the same year that the Soviet Union started shipping nuclear missiles to an island a few hundred miles from America. Barely 15 years previous – in fact, only slightly longer than the gap between Federer's first and eighth Wimbledon titles – America had emptied life from two cities with these weapons. They obviously weren't 'symbolic deterrents'. I sort of hope Rod did actually try telling people during that time, as their knuckles whitened around their corned-beef tin, ears glued to their radios: 'Guys, I'm thinking of eliding my initials to form a cool logo.'

Is it an error to think of how Roger Federer plays tennis as godlike? I can't tell anymore. I'm not exactly helped by all the people who assemble to watch him while wearing sportswear bearing his logo. During the semi-final against Tomas Berdych the camera repeatedly cut to a couple, who appeared old enough to dress themselves, sporting his and hers RF red caps as if that was a completely regular thing to do, even though they clashed dementedly with the rest of their outfits. At what point did they put them on? In unison? Or did they discover, as they reunited in the hall to leave the house, that they both had the same instincts? Is that not the definition of cult: the keenness to debase yourself in service of it?

PA Images

But then he played, and he reminded you that, at his best, there is no tennis apart from his. Jordan, Bolt, Messi, Federer – they have the power to remove the very existence of competition, to destroy all worlds but their own. *Mutters, sotto voce - because of dunking a ball, running fast, kicking a ball, hitting a ball*

More than once – probably about 20 times – Berdych played a shot where your natural reaction was: "He'll do well to get that one back." And then, whip. He does indeed do well. There's a music that plays, a saturnine Federer key into some rhythm of the universe that only he knows, where every single element of the winner he produces has a one-millimetre margin for error, the angle of his racket and the height of the net and the position of Berdych and the length of the court leaving it with a possibility for success of *grabs calculator* not very much. And yet his most difficult shots are the ones that seem somehow most sure to work, a restructuring of physics, the silly music of humans as gods, because it's also just tennis. The consequence is, when you're not distracted by the BNP Paribas umbrella and the Rolex display, you feel innocent about life, about how to judge and measure it. He did that to you. Your humble correspondent would argue that his ability to make you childlike and awestruck is why he seems to have a pretty neat split between girl fans and boy fans of all ages, because as kids we're less aware of our gender.

My favourite thing Federer does, and it usually happens once or twice a match, is to go down three break points. "Oh my god, I've got three break points against Federer!" The way in which he then takes those break points back, like a sniper who manages to put three headshots on you before you've even bent a knee, probably makes it even more disheartening to have got them in the first place than if you'd just lost the game conventionally. The most likely interpretation of this is that he's supremely unruffled by the situation, being who he is; and the awesome, godlike interpretation is that he really is toying with humans who have made multi-million pound careers in tennis by giving them imaginary break points.

This stuff is so illusory. You've learnt from all those interviews with sporting superheroes how regularly they disprove the possibility that exciting, compelling things are occurring in their heads. From Kobe Bryant to Pete Sampras to Steven Gerrard to Lewis Hamilton, they're all boring; they weren't made to talk. A large part of me suspects that if you were to ask Roger Federer whether, like a cruel, godlike tennis cat, he was toying with his opponents in these situations, you would be met with the same reaction as if someone asked you to describe the dynamics at play in your mind while tying your shoelaces. But I'm afraid, and this will forever hold true, a small part of me just can't help but wonder.

The Moment - A few seconds in an interview from 1999, when he had terrible highlights in his hair

Is Federer boring in interviews? Again, it's hard to tell. I mean, obviously he is. There are about eight sportsmen who give genuinely interesting interviews, and they're all fuck-ups who demonstrably had minds that distracted them from operating consistently in elite sport. But still, that happy, bulbous-nosed serenity – I end up retrofitting it in my mind, as if somehow this talking-style will be taken on to the court and turned into godlike tennis. In fact, I suspect the reality is that it's not much like him, that talking isn't a whole lot to Roger Federer, a minor significance compared to what life is really for.

Take, for example, a brief exchange during this interview, which is meant to be presented in rapid-fire 20-questions style, but, thanks to the hilariously literal-minded approach of his Dutch interviewer, comes across more like the interrogation of a fighter pilot who's been captured behind enemy lines. 'Last book you read?' Fed swats the question back in that way we've all grown to know and love, like it's literally nothing to him. "I don't read books, so I don't have a favourite book."

But relax, I have an update on this particular saga. I have sat through a little clipoid called Favourite Book? from Tennis TV. A smattering of them are proper readers, though not the Americans, obviously. It has some strong moments: Andy Roddick telling us that it is because he is 'a big history buff' that his favourite book is Angels and Demons by Dan Brown; Sam Querrey pronouncing 'book' like he isn't quite convinced of the spelling; Rafa sitting there for a second or two, looking like he isn't even convinced of the definition, and then naming a book in the magic-realist Latin American tradition from the daughter of the ex-Chilean president called City of the Beasts, like a sudden topspin whip kicking up in your face.

And then we get to Roger. A decade has passed; his cap is now adorned by an elided RF. You've never heard a more practiced answer; he says it literally as soon as he can: "I actually read a lot of magazines, newspapers, so I actually don't have a favourite book… but autobiographies are quite interesting as well."

You know what I think Roger Federer's not prepared to do? He's not prepared to get anything wrong, ever, including answers to questions like 'What's your favourite book?' Do you know how hard it must be to have that as your overall sense of life? I think, in its coiled springs, it makes you want to hurt people. Could you truly imagine that the person who occupies his spot in the sporting world would simply be the one with the most talent? The talent has to be strapped to, needled by, something darker. Something to force it beyond where anyone else's talent goes. If you looked at Roger Federer's eyes, would you say they look light or dark?

PA Images

And so we get to the true god illusion. A gentle god, his image perpetuated by how handsome he looks in a white jacket as he strides on to Centre Court, by dippily idolising TV pundits, by the creation of his smoothed, chaste, on-camera style. The illusion that somehow, Mr RF is simply playing alone, a solitary maestro bestowing his hallowed brand of tennis on a grateful world.

Bullshit. You know who doesn't get mentioned enough in any discussion of Roger Federer? His opponents. Because I can guarantee you, Roger hasn't forgotten them. He is not the charitable foundation of RF Tennis. He is, lest we forget, possibly more than anyone in the history of men's sport, the one whose forte is beating another human one-on-one. And beating them in a way that's relentless in torturing their dream that they might escape a beating. You don't get to do that, year in year out, unless you want to. Find a friendly way to describe that one to Sue Barker, eh Rodge? 'So what did you think when you knew Cilic was injured?' Can guarantee you wouldn't like the answer to that, Sue, if he could only find a way to spell it out. And here's a question: if he could, would he still feel the drive to keep on playing? Does he need tennis to spell out the darkness?

READ MORE: The Cult – Michael Vick

And so to The Moment, which occurs around 48 seconds into the video above. In the silence when the interviewer is asking him "Is it tough to be on the tour?" his face spells it out, even if it's gone in a heartbeat. And you know why I think that is? Because what he'd just said regarding recent tour results was that he'd taken a good scalp, a top-10 player, "So this week is already great."

And my theory, dear reader, for you, brought to you from a kitchen table where I have made an apple core into an impromptu ashtray, is that when 18-year-old Roger talks about beating people and then uses the words "already great", it causes a reaction in his face that gives his eyes juuuust the slightest hint of axe-murderer around enraged, tightened cheeks, before it disappears. Something inside him would never be satisfied, would never think the job was done. You cannot keep beating people, to the extent he has, unless you need to, unless it is a means to cool your insides off. And what are any of us really looking for but a way to cool off our insides?

Closing Statements

Some suited commentary goon stood next to one of those blue ATP courts in 2010, doing a bit-to-camera:"I had a chance to chat to the top eight players. I asked them a few 'random questions'.First of all, which actor would they like to portray them – *pause for effect * – in a film.

Federer: "Pffft, I dunno. Hopefully one of the greatest actors around. I don't know which one that is right now."

Words: @TobySprigings / Illustration: @Dan_Draws

The Cult: Roger Federer published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv