Death Becomes Her

Dean wanted answers, but the second they heard you begin to utter the incantation he taught you, Crowley disappeared, and by the time he ran back to the bedroom, he was too late.

You were all too late.

Sam keeps looking over his shoulder at you now as the three of you head back to the bunker. You’re tired and covered in dirt, and your clothes reek of smoke, but Sam and Dean insisted it was the only way to make sure nothing jumps into Jonah’s body ever again. You’re slouched against the door in the backseat, staring absently out the window. You haven’t uttered a word since you said goodbye to the fresh mound of dirt and rocks.

What the hell are you going to tell his parents?

“I want to know how Crowley can read minds, now,” Dean says under his breath, but you can hear him.

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know. I had no idea that was a thing.”

You shudder at the memory of that devilish voice inside your head. How can they think about anything else? Anything other than poor, sweet Jonah? How could you not tell that he was already possessed that day in class? You should have known Jonah wouldn’t have taken Shakespeare.

“So it was the demon after all, at the school,” Sam says. “And the diner.”

“Demons rip out hearts now?” Dean questions.

“It said the rules were out the window, now that Amara’s running around.” With a heavy sigh, he adds, “It said they’re putting Lucifer back in charge.”

“Aw, hell.”

They are silent for a few moments as you glide down the highway. You hate the sun and the blue sky and the puffy white clouds. They have no right to be so cheerful. You release the seatbelt and lie down across the backseat, covering your head with your arm. The gentle vibrations of the Impala travel through the leather seat to the side of your face, lulling you deeper and deeper until you want nothing more than to close out the world.

“Hey, we’re home,” Dean says, gently shaking your leg. Tingles flare up at the touch of his hand.

You don’t want to move. You have no energy. No will power. Jonah’s gone because of you, and the professor, too. How many other people are in danger because the demons are playing with you? ′They’re coming for you.′ Who’re they? And Jenna? Where is she?

“She’s safe, I told you.” The distinctive voice brings you out of your stupor and you bolt upright.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dean growls.

“I followed her,” Crowley answers. “Really, Dean. You didn’t think that through, did you? We’re bound, she and I. I followed her self-pity all the way here.” He turns toward the bunker entrance. “Shame you had to ward the place. I’m a good house guest, aren’t I?”

“I still want answers.”

“Did you expect me to hang around during an exorcism?” Thank you, by the way. That one was a real pain in my arse.

The chill returns to your skin as you glare back at him.

“No, no. I’m not responsible for your friends’ deaths. I am, however, here to help you, as a loyal servant should.”

Dean coughs. “Excuse me, what did you just say?”

Sam swings the demon knife but Crowley vanishes before he can make contact. “I’m going to kill him!” he yells, baring his teeth.

“Get her inside, Sam,” Dean tells him, helping you out of the car.

“Where are you going?”

“To get some damn answers.”

Sam lends you a towel so you can shower. You lose track of time as the hot water cascades over your hair, down your back, and the steam thickens the air, warming your lungs with every breath. What did the demon mean? What don’t I know? What the fuck is going on? A demon? A demon. Holy shit.

After an hour, the water still hasn’t run cold, but you’re tired of holding yourself up. You crave darkness and despite the rumbling gurgles coming from your stomach, you just want to crawl into bed and block out all the light. The bathroom is creepy enough as it is, with gas masks hanging on the walls and mirrors that haven’t been cleaned since the original Men of Letters lived here.

You dress in sweatpants and a t-shirt and trudge back to your room. You don’t stop when you see Sam in the kitchen, cooking. You don’t want food. Not right now. You don’t want to admit that maybe Sam was right: rushing off after the demon without making some kind of plan was reckless. Now you have more questions than answers, a dead friend, and a broken heart.

Some time later, there is a faint knock on your door. “Leave me alone,” you say, but your words go unheard.

The door creaks open. “[Y/N]? Are you awake? It’s me,” Dean whispers.

You wonder what time it is and how long you’ve been asleep. With a sigh, you fold the blankets down, letting the cool air press against your face. “I am now.”

He tiptoes in and closes the door. “Can we talk?”

You sit up and switch on your bedside lamp.

He pulls a chair from the side of the room and sets it down beside your bed. “How you holdin’ up?”

You roll your eyes. How do you think, smart ass? “I burned my friend’s body today.” You bite your lip to hold it steady. You still can’t get the smell out of your nostrils. You don’t know if you ever will.

Dean nods. “I just... I just wanted to come in and let you know that... you are not alone. Me and Sam... we’ve been through this. It comes with the job. I’m sorry we couldn’t save Jonah. He was a good kid. But he’s in a better place, now.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve been there. I’ve seen it.” He recounts his visit to heaven for you in such vivid detail and such conviction that you couldn’t doubt his words if you wanted to.

He’s quiet for a few moments, though you haven’t realized it yet because you’re picturing heaven, at least the way Dean describes it. What would your little piece of it be like? You can almost imagine this Bobby person that he talks about now and then. Part of you wishes you’d had the chance to meet him, but he’s gone, too. Seems a lot of people meet that fate around Sam and Dean.

“So, you know. If you need anything... we’re here. I know I’m not the easiest person to get to know, but... I’m not completely heartless.”

You blink away the sting of tears. Looking at him, you nod and give him as much of a smile as you can muster. “Did you find him?”

“Crowley? No. I didn’t. I’m sorry. He’s usually not so cryptic... can he really read your mind?”

You nod. “And I can hear him in my head,” you add. “It’s...” You shudder.

“Have you ever done that before? With anyone?”

You shake your head. “No.” You absent-mindedly run your fingers over the cuts on the back of your hand. The scabs are rough and dry; they are healing.

“Listen. It’s been a hell of a day, and I always like to wind down a little before bed. What do you say? I’ve got a glass for you.”

You study his eyes, soft in the ambient light. “But - I thought you didn’t like me,” you finally say to him.

He frowns and shakes his head. “It’s not... It wasn’t that I didn’t...” He sighs. “It’s a hard life. I was hoping you weren’t going to be around for long... no offense. I mean Sam and I were born into this... you weren’t. You shouldn’t have to be here.”

“Thanks, Dean,” you say after a moment of turning the words over in your mind.

He shrugs. “Sure. For what?”

It’s your turn to shrug. “For being real.”

The whiskey stings as it slips down your throat, but you wince against the pain and take another swig anyway. Anything to numb the gaping hole in the middle of your chest. Dean returns from the kitchen with a bag of freshly popped popcorn and opens Sam’s laptop. “It’s too quiet in here,” he says and starts a playlist of classic rock on low volume. He grabs the seat beside you at the table and holds up his glass. “To Jonah, who deserved to be saved.”

You swallow the lump in your throat as your eyes get misty again. You tap his glass with yours and take a big, fiery swig. Just a few days ago, everything was normal. You worked in a coffee shop, you went to college, you called your parents on the weekends. And Jonah was alive.

Dean refills your glass and tops his off, too. You clink glasses again and ask him to tell you more about Bobby. He tells you about the time Bobby lied about kissing Crowley. He chuckles as he talks about the picture on Crowley’s phone, and the look on Bobby’s face. His impression of Bobby’s face whenever he’d say “balls” sets you into a row of giggles, though it may be the whiskey you’re not used to drinking. Before you know it, Dean has both of you nearly in stitches with his stories about Bobby, and Garth the Hunter-turned-werewolf, and a down-to-earth sheriff, and you feel like you’ve known him all your life. Like sitting there at the table and shooting the breeze is the most natural thing in the world.

He takes a deep breath and wipes the wetness from the brim of his eyes, smiling at his own memories. “We’ve had some good times, too,” he tells you. “You just have to hold onto the good stuff with everything you’ve got.”

You empty your glass and push it toward him.

“Another one?” he asks you with laugh lines around his eyes. “You sure?”

“As long as it helps me forget, then yes,” you say, with a chuckle.

Dean tops you off as the computer spits out an old, familiar guitar intro. You bring the glass to your lips as Dean refills his drink, then sets the bottle down. His fingers start to move along an air guitar as his bottom lip juts out in playful concentration. You swallow quickly before you choke, because he looks so damn cute with those wrinkles in his forehead, staring down at his invisible instrument. Then he takes a deep breath and starts singing:

"Mama told me

When I was young

Come sit beside me

My only son

And listen closely

to what I say

And if you do this

it’ll help you some sunny day..."

You move your head in rhythm as he air guitars the music in between, listening to his sweet nocturne.

By the time the first chorus comes around, you know the words. His eyes pop open and his smile widens as you join him. By the last chorus, you’re belting out the words, sloshing whiskey onto the table as you try to air-drum along with him. “Oops!” you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand, then wiping up the little puddle with the hem of your t-shirt.

Dean is bent over the table, laughing so hard he can hardly breathe. His laugh is contagious and you start to snicker, then giggle.

He pushes his chair back and stands up, holding out his hand. “C’mon. Dance with me.”

“I can’t dance,” you protest, but Dean doesn’t take no for an answer when it comes to music.

He pulls your chair out and leads you up. “Yes, you can.”

“Wait,” you say, reaching back to set your glass down. When he whips you back into his arms, your heart flutters. He smells like whiskey and clean cotton laundry soap and sweat, and for some reason, it’s nearly as intoxicating as the drink. He continues singing in your ear as you sway back and forth in his arms like middle school kids at the spring formal, and your heart comes alive.

The song finally ends, and just as you start to pull away, he tightens his hold around you when the plucky metallic twangs of “Wonderful Tonight” start floating through the tall room. “No, no. We’re not done, yet.”

You giggle again, resettling in his arms, wondering if he can feel the light, rapid thumping coming from your chest.

“It’s late in the evening,” Dean croons, much softer than the last song.

“She’s wondering what clothes to wear.

She puts on her makeup

And brushes her long blonde hair...

And then she asks me

‘Do I look all right?’

And I say ‘Yes, you look wonderful tonight..’.”

Butterflies invade your stomach as Dean leans back, gazing into your eyes. He closes his mouth as the song goes on, content just to sway along with you. Your cheeks set afire under his attention, but you can’t look away. You shift your hand lower on his back, gently pulling him closer to you. His eyes seem to twinkle as the corner of his mouth pulls back into a half-smile. He mouths along to Eric’s lyrics, ”I feel wonderful because I see the love light in your eyes...” and he brushes your nose with the tip of his.

Your breath escapes you as his lips graze yours. Your knees go weak, but he holds you steady. You hesitate at first, not sure how you got here, but you don’t want to be anywhere else in this moment. “I say my darlin’, you were wonderful tonight...” he sings, so quietly that you can only hear him because you’re so close.

For this euphoric moment, you forget all the bad. You forget the demons chasing you in the night, and the hell you’ve gone through since you found your professor, and you forget what happened to Jonah. He cups your face and presses his soft, warm lips against yours. You’re light as air, and you would float to the ceiling if not for his arms wrapped around you. An electrical sensation surges from your belly into your chest, down to your toes, and back up to steal the heat from your face.

But just as quickly, you come crashing down under a shower of darkness and shadows, crashing over you with the force of tidal waves, thrusting images into your mind of Dean and a frail but powerful man with dark hair and sunken cheeks...

And the euphoria is gone.

A dark gray sky and a windy city street. A checkered tablecloth in an empty restaurant. A ring, and a deal. Bodies slumped over just yards away, flesh still warm.

The Mark of Cain glows on Dean’s arm, the First Blade in his hand and the lust for murder in his eyes.

Sam kneels on the floor of some empty Mexican restaurant with a few old family photos in his hands, looking like he’s been run over. The old man hands the scythe to Dean, but now you’re the old man, and as you watch, Dean turns to you. In one swift move, your own scythe slices right through you.