SPN Comment Fic: Making Luck

[wanderamaranth]

Title: Making Luck
Rating: PG
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean, Gary (from ep. 5.12 "Swap Meat")
Warnings: mentions of minor character death, second person POV, minor language and sexual references
Word Count: ~2000
Summary: You know you're f**ked when Sam and Dean come to the door. It's just the way things are.

Written as a comment-fic response to ammcj062's prompt: "Supernatural, any, You know you're fucked when Sam and Dean come knocking at your door". Became a bit too long for a comment, so posted here instead.

*~*~*~*

You know you're fucked when Sam and Dean come to the door. It's just the way things are. But how haven't you been fucked lately?

“What,” you say sourly, “do you want?”

“Just to talk,” Sam says, in that earnest way he has, at the same time Dean tells you, “We know what you've been doing.”

Well. That certainly clarifies things. You've done a lot of things the Winchesters probably wouldn't like. Opening the door wider, you plaster on your most winning smile and say, “Won't you come in?” Because it's easier to invite them and pretend that you still have some control over the situation than it is to have them just shove you aside and come in anyways. They totally could; Sam is at least a foot taller than you, Dean almost as much. For all the vague reassurances you've gotten over the years that 'once your growth spurt hits you'll be a tall man', you have yet to see any practical evidence of this, and you really don't have any desire for the body you once inhabited to bounce you around like a rubber ball. You may be a shrimpy glucose intolerant he-witch, but you do have your pride.

“Gary, we know that you've been dabbling in witchcraft again,” Sam says, and God, when you inhabited his body you never wrinkled his forehead like that. How unflattering. Sam could really benefit from practicing facial expressions in the mirror. Although he does look even more massively ripped than he did before. Stupid muscular woobie bastard.

Dean holds up your old He-Man lunch box and rattles it, and oh, shit. They know about that. Well, it wasn't like any one (or thing) showed up, so you're not quite sure what the big deal is. From what you recall Dean was pretty cool, so you try joking your way out of it.

“What's that, your lunch? I always pictured you as more of a She-Ra fan.” You make a cupping motion in front of your chest where, if you had breasts, they would be. “She's stacked, am I right?”

Predictably, Dean smirks, but Sam, the wet-blanket-of-all-fun, smacks Dean's arm, hard, causing the slightly shorter man to wince and rub his arm. Sam looks back at you with that sad but disapproving look perfected by moms and other responsible adults everywhere. You think it's funny how Dean is the older brother yet Sam is the one that makes you feel like a child.

“Gary, you just can't do these things,” Sam says.

“What do you know?” You shout. The illusion of your patience is gone. “You, with your stupid manly hair, and stupid manly muscles, and stupid manly...manhood!”

Sam and Dean exchange disturbed glances. Yeah, probably not the best move, mentioning how equipped the guy is. But c'mon, seriously, he's hung like a horse. After being in his body, he made your junk look like a NYC vendor hotdog; the right general shape and taste and texture, but sized in such a way that it's woefully inadequate to really satisfy anyone's hunger.

Aaand that's the last time you're going to compare your penis to a hot dog, you tell yourself as you belatedly recall the one way you haven't been fucked lately. Really. No more hot dog analogies, especially with Mr. Bratwurst in the room.

“You can't possibly know what it's like. Nora was the only one who would ever want me.” That's not all of it though, even if that's what you've been telling yourself so you don't fall apart. Sam keeps looking at you with that Sam stupid expression, but when you look over at Dean, you see his pinched eyes and think maybe he'll understand a little bit more than his brother.

“Nora loved me. And I love her. Do you know what it's like, loving someone whose love for you can only be expressed in past tense now, not because you fucked up or they decided you weren't good enough, but because they're just...because they're past tense themselves?” You can't say the word dead. You haven't been able to say it since the accident that stole Nora away from you.

“I just wanted to bring her back. Even...look, I'm not stupid, okay? I know what I'd have to give up for it to happen.” Talking about selling your soul makes you nervous. Despite your bravado, you really have no idea what it would be like living without your soul, or if you even would live without it.

“No, I get it,” Dean tells you, and you feel yourself smile just the smallest fraction. You knew there was a reason you thought Dean was the cool brother. “I've done it myself.”

This revelation is something of a bombshell. Dean looks perfectly fine to you. He's around, walking, talking, looking like a cleaner-cut version of freakin' Hans. Dean throws He-Man down on the sofa. “Only problem is you used the wrong kinda of cat in your spell. Crossroads demons are very specific on what color the cats the bones come from have to be.”

“Really?” You can't believe, even with Dean saying that he's sold his soul too, that he's helping you. Sam looks like he can't believe it either.

“Dean,” he hisses.

“What?” Dean flicks his eyes at his brother, and there's something angry swimming in their depths now. “I can't exactly tell the kid to not sell his soul, Sam, when I did the same damn thing for the same damn reasons. It's not like he's asking for millions of dollars or trying to kill people. He just wants his wife back.”

Before Sam can answer, though, Dean focuses on you again. “What I can do is tell you that you think you know what hell will be like...fire, brimstone, maybe a little sulfur...but you can never prepare yourself for it, not really.” Dean licks his lips, and you realize with a dull horror that not only had Dean sold his soul, but he's already been to Hell and back. Literally.

“If you've been there, how can you be here now?” you ask. You know enough about these deals to know that's not the way things are supposed to work.

“Would you believe me if I told you an angel pulled me out?”

You think about this for a moment. While the grieving parts of you want to rage at such a suggestion—if there are angels, why didn't one of them save your Nora before she passed—the logical parts of your brain pipe up and nod, telling you that if there is great evils out there like demons supposedly are, then it only makes sense to have their counterpoint be real as well.

“Does it work that way for everyone? You serve in Hell for a set amount of time and then you're sprung?”

Dean grimaces. “No. It wouldn't be quite so Hellish if you were able to tell yourself there's an end in sight. No, when I went down I went down for eternity. I'm just the lucky bastard who the folks upstairs decided they wanted to use as a meat puppet, like when the demons possessed your...” Dean trails off, obviously uncertain how to name your relationship with Nora. That's okay. When he was here last, you were just a couple of high school kids, not even dating. Must be weird for him to think of her as your wife.

“No.” Dean repeats, his tone final. “There would be no end in sight. I didn't get to know Nora at all, but kid...I can't believe she'd want that for you.”

“She can't want anything,” you can't help but point out. “She's dead.”

Dean's lips quirk in unspoken humor. “The dead can want more than you think. But...” Here his face grows serious, and he looks to Sam. “You're not gonna like what I have to say, Sammy, so plug your ears and go 'la la la', okay?”

Sam snorts. “What am I, five?”

“Sometimes I wonder,” Dean mutters, and okay, before you didn't see where he acted like an older brother at all, but now, now you totally see it. Green eyes flick back to you and stare, and you wonder where Dean learned to look at someone like that, like he's able to stare down through the center of you with just the weight of his gaze. You're pretty sure he couldn't do that before. If he could, he would have seen you weren't Sam in a hot minute.

“The cat has to be black,” Dean says. “And bury it at a gravel crossroads. You might have to drive a while before you find one.”

“Dean!” Sam yelps, but you and the older Winchester just continue to stare. You don't ask him why he's telling you this. He's giving you a choice, trusting you to make the right one, without telling you what he thinks the right one is. You're not sure that he and Sam would agree on what that would be; maybe that's why.

“Thank you,” you say seriously, and you mean it. Dean tilts his head, stares at you for a moment longer, then nods. He doesn't say it then, but you can imagine what Dean will tell his brother later, his explanations for why he told you exactly what went wrong when you tried to exchange your soul for Nora's life. You imagine he'll tell him that at least this way, you're the only one that will be hurt, that you won't try more and more desperate and foolish measures, you won't start dabbling in the heavy witchcraft again or worse, possibly dip your toes into necromancy. Dean's no fool. He recognized the book on your coffee table as soon as he walked through the door. It would have been impossible for him not to, now that you know that he's been in Hell. It is, after all, where that particular volume was crafted.

“Let's go Sam.” Dean slaps his hand on Sam's back, and the taller man tilts forward, stumbling a bit on his floppy feet. Goober, you think, not without affection. You suddenly feel years older and wiser than Sam Winchester, and no longer envy him at all. It's hard to envy someone when you feel that they're stumbling through life half-blind, not seeing hard scary truths for what they are, not the way you and Dean can. Even though Sam fights monsters every day, you don't know if he's ever given himself over purely for love, or if a sense of obligation was what drove him. You suppose it doesn't matter, not really. Where you're going, your fast-tracked B.S in Psychology isn't going to do you much good anyways, so why bother practicing your skills on Sam?

“Good bye, Gary,” Dean says. He licks his lips, more words on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows them back and just nods instead. “Good luck.”

You watch the Winchesters drive away, plans already forming in your head. The local shelter put an ad in the paper stating they'd had an influx in cats recently. More likely than not one of them will be black. Dean's wish for luck is already forgotten. You won't need it, you think. You're going to make your own.