#so. dion stepping on a rake and hitting himself in the face

[beliscary]

ok so i don't subscribe to the break up read re: canon (for me that too much flattens/misrepresents sth as complex as someone admitting to planning martyrdom but ordering their loved one to live and sending said loved one on to a future and a family in a new world they'll create in the same breath)

HOWEVER. walk me with if you will on the mental image of a modern au young adult dion having a long overdue stress and possibly family related meltdown aimed in the wrong direction at terence to the tune of 'you deserve someone who will love you right....' bc he's 20 and an idiot and terence handles it with a commendable amount of grace but still sets a two week no contact boundary while he figures out how he's supposed to feel. meanwhile day 2 terenceless dion is full-blown ugly crying in his car to top 40 lewis capaldi type ballads. he won't stop checking his phone every 3 minutes. he's there at the stroke of midnight on what is just barely day 15 sopping wet from cliche rain and tracking mud and his feelings on terence's parents' carpet. he begs everyone not to mention this during the wedding toasts because he's still embarrassed about it 8 years later

[headfulloffantasies]

Angel with a Shotgun

Chapter 22: Close Call

Ao3

Dean and Sam struggled their way out of the basement Zachariah had trapped them in. The warehouse lot was overrun with weeds and trash. On the edge of the property, a black car gleamed.

“No way!” Dean whooped and ran up to the Impala.

“Why would Zach bring your car here?” Sam asked as he approached warily.

“Who cares?” Dean ran a hand over the hood. “We’ve got wheels. We can drive home.”

Sam made a face. “We’re three days from where we left Bobby.”

“Then we better get going.”

Sam and Dean bundled themselves into the car. Dean tossed Sam a rag. Sam used the rear-view mirror to help him wipe the blood from his face as they sped off.

The grungy city fell away into open roads lined with trees, and then into fields of yellow canola as far as the eye could see. Dusty September blew by as combines and farmers worked to get their crops off the golden acres.

Around hour six of their drive Sam suddenly piped up. “I don’t feel so good.”

Alarmed, Dean raked eyes up and down Sam. Sam pulled his long legs up to curl into a ball.

“You’re not going to puke, are you? If you yack in my car, you’re walking.”

“Thanks a lot, Dean,” Sam curled tighter around his stomach.

An almighty thunder roared from Sam’s belly. Dean’s wide eyes found Sam’s saucer sized gaze. They both burst out laughing.

“You’re hungry,” Dean wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I’ve never been this hungry,” Sam giggled.

“There’s a truck stop a couple miles ahead.”

They pulled into a greasy excuse for a gas and sip. Half the pumps had smudged hand written ‘Out of Order’ signs flapping in the wind. Dean got out of the car and wrinkled his nose at the crusted windows and peeling paint.

“We could wait. Find some place nicer.”

Sam slammed the car door. “If I wait any longer to eat, I am going to waste away. Then I’ll come back and haunt your car for all eternity so that your radio only plays Celine Dione.”

“Okay, geez. Cool off, will ya?” Dean led the way into the crummy store.

Their entrance knocked a decades’ worth of rust off the bell over the door. The pimply kid behind the counter looked up with so much surprise Dean had to double check his wings weren’t showing. He gave the kid a tight smile and led the way to the food aisle.

Sam suddenly buckled beside a shelf of energy drinks. Dean reached for him in alarm. Sam waved him off, clutching at his temple.

“It’s just a headache.”

Dean frowned. “Angels don’t get headaches.”

“Well I’m not an angel anymore, am I?” Sam snapped.

Dean let it slide. He scowled at the selection of dusty ravioli cans and packaged cookies. He glanced up. The cashier was still staring. “Pick something will you? That kid’s giving me Dahmer vibes.”

Sam grabbed a handful of assorted snacks and they made their way to the counter. The cashier rang them through. Dean fumbled for his wallet.

“Do you need a bag, Mr. Winchester?”

Dean’s gaze snapped up. The kid’s eyes flashed black. Dean lurched for the demon blade in his jacket.

           An invisible force hit him in the chest and sent him flying. Dean crashed through a display of washer fluid and toppled to the floor.

           The demon stepped out from behind the counter. He buried his fist in Sam’s collar. Sam squawked, struggling in its grasp. Dean groaned, his head spinning.

           “Who would’ve thought,” the demon grinned. “That this boring crossroads post would have landed me the Winchester boys? You just waltzed right in, didn’t you?”

           Dean struggled to his feet. He was too far away for the knife to be any good. He had a gun in his waistband, but the bullets would be useless.  “Let go of him.”

           The demon pouted dramatically, “Oh, Dean. Don’t be a party pooper. You know Sam has to go back to the Basement. He’s got to finish his treatment.”

           Sam landed an elbow in the demon’s ribs. It didn’t so much as flinch.

“Play nice,” It snarled, shaking Sam like a rag doll.

Dean grabbed his pistol and cocked it at the demon’s head.

The demon’s grin widened. “You can’t kill me with that.”

“I’m not trying to,” Dean pulled the trigger.

The bullet slammed into the demon’s shoulder, knocking it off balance. Sam twisted out of its grip. Dean was already on top of the demon, unsheathing the demon blade and burying the knife in its chest. A wet gasp escaped as fiery light flashed through its bones. It fell limp.

Sam wretched. Dean yanked the knife from the demon’s chest and knelt next to Sam. He was crouched on the floor, one hand clamped over his mouth.

Dean touched his shoulder. Sam was burning up under his hand.

“Come on,” Dean pulled Sam to his feet. Dean snagged a handful of the food on the counter on their way out the door.

Dean half dragged Sam to the Impala. In the back of his head, a siren was screaming. Dead demons attract attention. They couldn’t afford that, not when Sam was powered down.

“Stop,” Sam stumbled against the side of the car. “You gotta clean the knife.”

“Later,” Dean snapped.

Sam shook his head. “I can smell the blood. I’m gonna puke.”

Perplexed, Dean fished in the backseat for a rag. He wiped the knife and tossed the bloody cloth in the dirt.

“Better?”

Sam nodded, one shaking hand still pressed against his mouth.

Dean piled him in the car and raced around to his side. He took one last glance at the gas station. In the distance a dust cloud rose over the empty horizon. For just a second, it looked like a column of demon smoke.

The paranoia Dean had inherited from Bobby had them speeding down the highway and then crisscrossing over several back roads. No one was tailing them. The rear-view mirror only reflected Dean’s worried expression.

The pressure finally burst. “Are you going to tell me what all that was about? You can smell blood now?”

“Demon blood,” Sam said miserably. “It stinks. Like burnt sulphur and charred meat.”

“Yummy,” Dean sassed.

“Don’t be a jerk.”

Dean gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles cracked. “I’m going to murder every single demon in Hell. I mean it.”

“Dean-,”

“No. This is ridiculous. I feel like we’re running for our lives and spinning in circles. Hell wants you and Zach wants me and if we say no they’re just going to torch the planet anyways.”

“What?”

Dean pulled off the road. He wrenched the Impala into park and slammed his fists against the steering wheel. Sam watched him in silence. Dean let out a measured breath.

“Zachariah told me I’d have to kill you.”

He explained in broken starts what Zachariah had said. The Apocalypse. The big smackdown. How Sam’s kidnapping was part of the plan.

Sam sat in stunned silence. Dean stared through the windshield at the twisted trees on the side of the road. The quiet stretched. Sam had always needed a long time to process, but he was starting to think he was in shock.

“So, all of this is Heaven’s will? God wants me to be a monster?”

“What? No!” Dean whipped around at Sam. “There is no God. He’s not running the show. It’s just a bunch of junkless angels being butt hurt about daddy running away. They’re following the only script they have left.”

“How is that a bad thing?” Sam’s brow furrowed. “If God wrote the script aren’t we supposed to stick to it?”

“No, Sam.” Dean had to take a deep breath. “There’s no such thing as Fate, or Destiny, or a Master Plan, okay? God left. He doesn’t get a say anymore. We make our own way.”

A shrill cellphone chirp startled both Dean and Sam. Dean dug in the glovebox. An old emergency flip phone rattled away. Dean frowned at the number on the display.

“It’s Cas.” He answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Dean, where are you?” Cas’ gravelly voice was tinned and distant.

“Somewhere in Ohio. Where are you?”

Cas ignored the question. “Is Sam with you?”

Dean glanced at Sam. Sam frowned. “Yeah. Why?”

“I need to know exactly where you are.”

“I don’t know man,” Dean leaned to peer through the windshield. “Somewhere off the interstate. Look, we just ran into a demon-,”

“Dean, I don’t care about demons in gas stations.”

Dean straightened. A tight feeling constricted his chest.

“This is bigger that petty demon activity. I have… I have information.” The tiny pause burrowed a worm of doubt in Dean’s mind. He clenched the phone tighter to his ear.

“Cas, what’s going on?”

“I can’t say over the phone. Where can I meet you?”

Dean glanced at Sam again.

“Trap,” Sam mouthed. Dean nodded.

“You know where we ganked that wendigo? We’ll be there in an hour.”

“I’ll wait right here.” Cas hung up.

Dean tossed the phone into the backseat with a curse.  

“What was that?” Sam asked.

Dean clenched the steering wheel in his fists. “He knew about the gas station. We’re being followed.”

“Cas has been caught,” Sam realised.

Dean nodded stiffly, “Poor bastard.”

“So what are we going to do?”

Dean cranked the keys in the ignition. “We’re going to get him.”

“What was thing about a wendigo?” Sam asked as Dean peeled onto the dirt road. “We’ve never hunted a wendigo in Ohio.”

“Yeah, so whoever was listening in on that call will be on a wild goose chase. Or wendigo chase.”

“You’re not funny.”

“The point is, they’ll be distracted. We can sneak in and get Cas.”

“We don’t know where he is.”

“We know they’re close. They were at the gas station.”

“That was thirty miles back. They could be anywhere.”

“Cas said he’d wait right here. He figured we knew where he was.”

The drive back to the gas and sip was tense. Silence reigned. Dean mulled over everything Cas had said, searching for the hidden meaning. Right here. Where was here? If he could only talk to Cas without anyone else hearing-.

Dean slammed on the brakes. The car skidded on the old road. Sam shouted and braced himself against the dashboard.

Dean threw the car in park. He wrenched the seat recliner and lay back, his mind racing.

“What are you doing?” Sam yelped.

“Angel radio,” Dean shut his eyes.

“Oh,” Sam said quietly. “You’re going to talk to Cas?”

“I’m going to try. Shut up.”

Dean breathed deep and tried to slow his pedalling heart. He imagined Cas. In his head, a trench coat flapped in a breeze. Dark hair stuck up in perpetual bedhead. Blue eyes flashed with lightning. Wings as dark as Hell opened and slowly, so slowly, the blue glow of Grace edged the pinions and guided Dean forwards. Dean imagined his voice.

“Dean.”

The rich cadence was like the Impala’s tires over gravel.

“Dean, you shouldn’t be doing this. Someone might hear.”

“Shut up,” Dean thought projected. “I’m trying to save you. Where are you?”

“Behind the gas station. In a house. But Dean-,”

Dean opened his eyes. “I got him.”

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