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runedgirlTitle: He’s Good and He’s Bad and He’s All That I’ve Got
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
runedgirl
Artist:midnightsilvers
Other Pairing(if applicable): Sam/Dean/OFC
Rating: NC17
Warnings/Spoilers: show level violence
Summary: Chuck punishes Sam and Dean by turning them back into their worst versions of themselves, Soulless Sam and Demon Dean. He just never expected them to keep hunting anyway - or to give in to impulses they'd never admitted to.
Art: Ao3
Things stayed on a mostly even keel as long as they kept finding hunts and Dean could regularly tear something apart that screamed and bled and looked at him in terror. Sam rolled his eyes at the mess, but he didn’t really care that much—though he was particular about getting blood on his clothes, especially when he was wearing his fed suit that fit so perfectly Dean was surprised people didn’t combust when Sam walked past them on the street. Funny that he’d never noticed that before.
They took down a nasty crocotta that was terrorizing a small town in Indiana and died too messy for Sam’s liking.
“Damn it, Dean, I told you to drag that thing away from me before you stabbed it in the neck. I’ll never get this blood out. It’s a white shirt!”
Dean wiped his reddened mouth on his sleeve, adrenaline still pumping after another successful hunt. “Were you always this prissy?” he taunted, kicking the remains of the thing he’d just killed across the floor just for the hell of it.
“I don’t know, were you always this much of a pig?”
“Oooh, you wound me, Sammy.”
Sam actually looked annoyed at that. Or maybe it was still the blood on his shirt collar that was pissing him off. He let out a put-upon sigh. “Since you’re the one who made such a mess, you can clean it up.” He brushed himself off and turned to leave, and Dean felt his heart stutter unexpectedly.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, making sure it was annoyance that came through and not something else.
“To get a new fucking suit, not that you care,” Sam said, stalking away.
“You’re right, I don’t care,” Dean yelled after him, but he wasn’t absolutely sure that was true. He didn’t like Sam; Sam was annoying and prissy and… and tall. But who else was he going to hunt with? It was a practical thing. Sam was a good hunter. Even Dean had to admit that. That was all it was—not the memories Dean still had of Sam lying beside him on the Impala’s roof, looking up at the stars, or eight-year-old Sammy with his bangs in his face giving Dean the amulet meant for their dad.
Shit.
Sam climbed in and started the car, and Dean’s heart beat a little too fast. He watched Sam drive away and turned back to the mess, giving the monster corpse one more kick for the blood it got on Sam’s goddamn shirt that had made him so cranky.
It took almost two hours to get the place clear of monster guts, and Dean was in an even darker mood by the time he got back to the motel. Sam had taken the Impala, the asshat, so Dean had to walk… and he had to do that carefully, since his clothes were even bloodier than Sam’s shirt had been. He’d washed the blood off himself and disposed of his overshirt, but his jeans were patchworked red and even his undershirt had some smudges. Luckily there were wooded areas between the warehouse and the motel, so nobody took issue and gave him an excuse to get more red on him.
The Impala was parked outside the room when he got there, so Dean let himself in, annoyed at himself for the wave of relief that swept over him—and almost tripped over Sam’s boots on the floor. Along with his pants. And the suit coat and shirt that he claimed to be so concerned about. Dean was just about to open his mouth to bitch about Sam’s hypocrisy when his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he realized that Sam was not the only other person in the room… or in the bed nearest to the door.
The creak-creak-creak of the protesting bed paused, as did the pumping motion of Sam’s hips. Dean stared at Sam’s broad—very very broad—and very naked back as Sam turned in Dean’s direction, long hair damp with sweat. Beneath him, an equally sweaty woman stared at him, openmouthed.
“What the fuck?” Dean said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The sight of Sam’s muscular bare ass was surprisingly appealing, as was the way Sam’s hair was wild and messed up and half over his eyes.
Had he always thought that? He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t certain. He sure was thinking it now.
“Fuck’s sake, Dean, get the hell out,” Sam said, grumpy. But he didn’t make any move to climb off the woman.
“Why should I? It’s my motel room too,” Dean snapped back. Why should Sam be able to order him around? He was a demon, for… well, not for Christ’s sake, that was for sure.
Sam narrowed those multicolored cat eyes, and then his lip curled up in a smirk. “Suit yourself,” he said, and snapped his hips forward in a brutal rhythm, making the woman beneath him groan.
Dean’s temper soared, his vision going red and the urge to rip something apart—most likely Sam—making his blood boil.
The woman cried out as Sam plowed her like a machine, wrapping her knees around his hips and clutching handfuls of his long hair in both fists as she hung on for the wild ride. When Dean kept defiantly staring, she sent a flirty smile his way.
“You like to watch?” she teased, and then Sam did something with his hips and she broke off into another moan like a fucking porn star.
“Watch, my ass,” Dean muttered, and then he was stripping off his jeans without thinking, kicking his boots across the room and stalking over to the bed, jacking his already rock-hard dick, which had apparently been on board this whole time.
Sam froze when he saw what Dean was doing, probably bracing himself for the fight he assumed was coming and wondering why it was going to happen bare-assed. “What are you doing, you asshole? You can’t have her, I’m in the middle of—”
That’s as far as he got before Dean did what he’d wanted to do from the second he’d walked in on them: he smacked Sam’s ass so hard his hand stung like a sonofabitch.
Sam yelped, snapping his hips down to get away and driving his cock in deep, so the girl beneath him cried out too, not in pain but in pleasure. “You motherfucker,” Sam swore, and Dean smacked him on the other cheek, then kneed up behind him. Sam started to twist around to knock him off the bed, and Dean couldn’t have that. Without much forethought, he grabbed Sam’s ass cheeks in both hands and pulled him apart as wide as he could, then dove in and got his tongue in the center and licked Sam open with as much spit as he could muster.
Sam froze—not what he was expecting, Dean figured, brothers and all that, blah blah—and Dean took that as his cue to go at it even harder, slurping and sucking and swirling his tongue around, trying to get inside.
“Fuck!” Sam shouted when he got his voice back, rocking back toward Dean’s face and then thrusting forward into the girl, who was still moaning beneath him.
“Don’t you dare fucking come,” Dean warned when he took a second to catch his breath, and Sam just groaned and pushed his hips back, greedy and demanding, every bit the hedonist that Dean was right now. Dean gave him a few warning spanks, and Sam seemed to appreciate them, panting and twisting and pushing into Dean’s hand and not away, and fuck if that didn’t turn Dean’s crank so hard he could barely bring himself to stop. His dick wanted more action than it was getting, though. He got up to grab some lube from his duffel because he didn’t like chafing his cock, then pulled Sam wide again and began to slick him up.
“Jesuschrist,” Sam grunted when Dean got a finger up him, but he didn’t say stop—which was a good thing, because Dean wasn’t sure what would happen if they tried to kill each other for real. It didn’t take long for Sam to take two, and then three, and Dean didn’t have the patience for very much of that before he slid his dick home, burying himself in his brother’s body as Sam pitched forward and ground his own dick into the girl. She was yelling about how good it was, and Dean thought she was probably having a pretty damn spectacular climax, but it was Sam’s harsh grunts that sparked a rush of pleasure through Dean’s body.
It was the best he’d felt in… probably his whole life, Dean thought, with what little remained of his higher cognitive functions. It was physical, sure: Sam was hot and tight, and it was like riding a wild bull, all muscle and strength coiled beneath him, willingly pinned by Dean’s body. But it was also Sam, and Dean’s brain was screaming Mineminemine every time he slammed his hips into Sam’s ass and heard him groan.
“Fuck, gonna come,” Sam said, and Dean flattened himself out on top of him, one hand fisted in his long hair, yanking his head back, the other bracing himself on the bed to give himself the leverage to pound in deep.
“Mine,” Dean ground out, teeth fastened to Sam’s meaty shoulder, slight tang of iron just what he needed to reach his own mind-blowing orgasm.
He collapsed on top of Sam’s lax body after, breathless and sated.
“Ohmygod get off me, you guys weigh a fucking ton,” the woman that Dean had totally forgotten about said from beneath them both.
Reluctantly, Dean pulled out and climbed off the bed, flopping down on the other one.
Sam pulled out too, rolling to his side. Dean could feel Sam’s eyes on him from across the bed. Well, fuck it, Sam had asked for it. Sorta.
The girl got up on shaky legs to use the bathroom, muttering something that sounded like, “Jesus, talk about a lucky night.”
“I thought Sam said he was staying with his brother,” she said to Dean when she emerged again, pulling on her dress and putting on her shoes.
Dean smirked. “Nice to meet you.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly thinking he was lying. “Okay, whatever fantasy floats your boat,” she said finally. “One of you gonna drive me back, or do I call an Uber?”
Neither of them said anything, because they were both assholes. Dean was tempted to say, “Lady, he’s got no soul, and I’m a demon, so count your blessings you’re still walking and talking.”
“Assholes,” she said, and they both half nodded. “You’re lucky the hundred bucks covered that.” She slammed the door when she left.
Sam sat up a few minutes later. He was still naked, and Dean raked his eyes over his brother’s body appreciatively. He figured he could do that now, seeing as they’d already fucked.
“What the hell was that about?” Sam asked, but he didn’t sound mad, just curious.
Dean shrugged and sat up too. “You’re a jerk,” Dean started, and then shrugged again. “But you’ve got a great ass.”
Sam stared at him for so long that Dean started to wonder if maybe Sam was mad after all. “Don’t make this a big thing,” he started to say, but Sam waved his hand in the air in that annoying way he had now and cut him off.
“You’ve got a great ass too,” Sam said, and Dean couldn’t help but go along with that.
“’Course I do.”
“You’re a conceited jerk, though.”
Dean smirked. “I think I always thought you had a great ass,” he admitted, because he didn’t feel pesky things like shame anymore and he was pretty sure it was true, and he was already starting to scheme about how he could get Sam to want to do something like that again.
Sam considered, then ran his hand through his unruly hair. “Yeah, I think I always thought that about yours too. Not that I would’ve acted on it.”
“Of course not,” Dean agreed. He was mostly sure his old self wouldn’t have decided to jump into bed with Sam and some chick. Mostly.
Sam smirked back at him, and it made a little wave of warmth run through Dean, unexpected and unfamiliar. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it, though.
“We could do it again,” Dean suggested. “Save some money on the hookers though.”
Sam outright grinned at him.
They didn’t get a chance right away, though, because hunger was even more urgent a need than sex right then, and demons were not good at deferring any needs.
“Move your ass, Sam,” Dean complained when Sam took his time, stretching like a big (very satisfied) panther as he dressed.
“The ass you like so much?” Sam asked, smirking.
Dean rolled his eyes, because Sam was insufferable. And despite his lifelong conviction that he was the oversexed one who was anything but vanilla, Dean was beginning to realize that Sam might give him a run for his money now that he wasn’t constrained by those pesky moral standards he’d been carrying around. “You have a one-track mind,” he grumbled, because it was expected.
“And you love it.”
God, Sam was even more annoying when he was right.
At the diner down the road, Dean’s phone rang just as his platter of pancakes and sausages—with a double side of bacon—had been deposited in front of him. “Oh, fuck no,” he said, pouring maple syrup over the stack.
“You need to answer that,” Sam said, frowning. He was stirring a ridiculously small amount of brown sugar into his bowl of oatmeal.
“No I fucking don’t, I’m eating,” Dean countered.
“It could be important.”
“So?” Dean paused, fork in midair, because Sam was giving him that disapproving look he’d hated all his life, which for some inexplicable reason still worked on him even now that he was a goddamn demon.
“Dean,” Sam said.
Dean picked up the phone. “Yeah, Jody, what is it?”
Sam took the phone away from him. Dean tried to grab it back, but Sam was too damn fast. “Sorry, Jody, Dean’s not… not feeling well.”
“I’m feeling fine, you filthy liar,” Dean said around a giant mouthful of pancakes.
“He said he hopes you’re fine,” Sam lied again. Now that he had no soul, he was pretty much an expert at it.
Dean gave up and concentrated on eating, half ignoring and half listening to Sam do a surprisingly good approximation of empathy as Jody told him some sob story about some kind of monster killing people in some nowhere state that Dean had no desire to visit.
“We can be there tomorrow,” Sam said. “No, it’s okay. We’re, uh, we’re both well rested, so we can drive through the night.”
“Filthy liar,” Dean said again when Sam hung up.
Sam shrugged and started eating his lukewarm oatmeal. “It’s a job, and Jody’s a friend.”
Dean ordered another coffee for the road.
“So you still have friends?” Dean asked when they were six or seven hours out. It was bugging him, though he wasn’t sure why.
Sam had been staring out the window, exercising that big brain of his, no doubt, but he turned to Dean, eyebrows drawing together. “What do you care?”
“I don’t,” Dean answered instantly, because he didn’t, of course. “Just wondering. Without a soul, I mean… do you really care about anything?” He got a funny feeling in his chest when he asked it, like part of him knew he wasn’t actually asking about Jody and the other part wanted to stay in denial about that knowledge.
“Not like I did before,” Sam admitted. “But I remember how I felt about her. That I cared about her. I know I would want to help her, so…”
“So you’re just goin’ through the motions.” That stupid twinge happened again, and Dean shifted restlessly, stepped on the gas a little harder.
“Not always,” Sam said, and turned to look out the window again.
The tightness in Dean’s chest eased a little, and he turned up the radio.
Part 3
Author:
runedgirlArtist:
midnightsilversOther Pairing(if applicable): Sam/Dean/OFC
Rating: NC17
Warnings/Spoilers: show level violence
Summary: Chuck punishes Sam and Dean by turning them back into their worst versions of themselves, Soulless Sam and Demon Dean. He just never expected them to keep hunting anyway - or to give in to impulses they'd never admitted to.
Art: Ao3
Things stayed on a mostly even keel as long as they kept finding hunts and Dean could regularly tear something apart that screamed and bled and looked at him in terror. Sam rolled his eyes at the mess, but he didn’t really care that much—though he was particular about getting blood on his clothes, especially when he was wearing his fed suit that fit so perfectly Dean was surprised people didn’t combust when Sam walked past them on the street. Funny that he’d never noticed that before.
They took down a nasty crocotta that was terrorizing a small town in Indiana and died too messy for Sam’s liking.
“Damn it, Dean, I told you to drag that thing away from me before you stabbed it in the neck. I’ll never get this blood out. It’s a white shirt!”
Dean wiped his reddened mouth on his sleeve, adrenaline still pumping after another successful hunt. “Were you always this prissy?” he taunted, kicking the remains of the thing he’d just killed across the floor just for the hell of it.
“I don’t know, were you always this much of a pig?”
“Oooh, you wound me, Sammy.”
Sam actually looked annoyed at that. Or maybe it was still the blood on his shirt collar that was pissing him off. He let out a put-upon sigh. “Since you’re the one who made such a mess, you can clean it up.” He brushed himself off and turned to leave, and Dean felt his heart stutter unexpectedly.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, making sure it was annoyance that came through and not something else.
“To get a new fucking suit, not that you care,” Sam said, stalking away.
“You’re right, I don’t care,” Dean yelled after him, but he wasn’t absolutely sure that was true. He didn’t like Sam; Sam was annoying and prissy and… and tall. But who else was he going to hunt with? It was a practical thing. Sam was a good hunter. Even Dean had to admit that. That was all it was—not the memories Dean still had of Sam lying beside him on the Impala’s roof, looking up at the stars, or eight-year-old Sammy with his bangs in his face giving Dean the amulet meant for their dad.
Shit.
Sam climbed in and started the car, and Dean’s heart beat a little too fast. He watched Sam drive away and turned back to the mess, giving the monster corpse one more kick for the blood it got on Sam’s goddamn shirt that had made him so cranky.
It took almost two hours to get the place clear of monster guts, and Dean was in an even darker mood by the time he got back to the motel. Sam had taken the Impala, the asshat, so Dean had to walk… and he had to do that carefully, since his clothes were even bloodier than Sam’s shirt had been. He’d washed the blood off himself and disposed of his overshirt, but his jeans were patchworked red and even his undershirt had some smudges. Luckily there were wooded areas between the warehouse and the motel, so nobody took issue and gave him an excuse to get more red on him.
The Impala was parked outside the room when he got there, so Dean let himself in, annoyed at himself for the wave of relief that swept over him—and almost tripped over Sam’s boots on the floor. Along with his pants. And the suit coat and shirt that he claimed to be so concerned about. Dean was just about to open his mouth to bitch about Sam’s hypocrisy when his eyes adjusted to the dim light and he realized that Sam was not the only other person in the room… or in the bed nearest to the door.
The creak-creak-creak of the protesting bed paused, as did the pumping motion of Sam’s hips. Dean stared at Sam’s broad—very very broad—and very naked back as Sam turned in Dean’s direction, long hair damp with sweat. Beneath him, an equally sweaty woman stared at him, openmouthed.
“What the fuck?” Dean said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say. The sight of Sam’s muscular bare ass was surprisingly appealing, as was the way Sam’s hair was wild and messed up and half over his eyes.
Had he always thought that? He didn’t think so, but he wasn’t certain. He sure was thinking it now.
“Fuck’s sake, Dean, get the hell out,” Sam said, grumpy. But he didn’t make any move to climb off the woman.
“Why should I? It’s my motel room too,” Dean snapped back. Why should Sam be able to order him around? He was a demon, for… well, not for Christ’s sake, that was for sure.
Sam narrowed those multicolored cat eyes, and then his lip curled up in a smirk. “Suit yourself,” he said, and snapped his hips forward in a brutal rhythm, making the woman beneath him groan.
Dean’s temper soared, his vision going red and the urge to rip something apart—most likely Sam—making his blood boil.
The woman cried out as Sam plowed her like a machine, wrapping her knees around his hips and clutching handfuls of his long hair in both fists as she hung on for the wild ride. When Dean kept defiantly staring, she sent a flirty smile his way.
“You like to watch?” she teased, and then Sam did something with his hips and she broke off into another moan like a fucking porn star.
“Watch, my ass,” Dean muttered, and then he was stripping off his jeans without thinking, kicking his boots across the room and stalking over to the bed, jacking his already rock-hard dick, which had apparently been on board this whole time.
Sam froze when he saw what Dean was doing, probably bracing himself for the fight he assumed was coming and wondering why it was going to happen bare-assed. “What are you doing, you asshole? You can’t have her, I’m in the middle of—”
That’s as far as he got before Dean did what he’d wanted to do from the second he’d walked in on them: he smacked Sam’s ass so hard his hand stung like a sonofabitch.
Sam yelped, snapping his hips down to get away and driving his cock in deep, so the girl beneath him cried out too, not in pain but in pleasure. “You motherfucker,” Sam swore, and Dean smacked him on the other cheek, then kneed up behind him. Sam started to twist around to knock him off the bed, and Dean couldn’t have that. Without much forethought, he grabbed Sam’s ass cheeks in both hands and pulled him apart as wide as he could, then dove in and got his tongue in the center and licked Sam open with as much spit as he could muster.
Sam froze—not what he was expecting, Dean figured, brothers and all that, blah blah—and Dean took that as his cue to go at it even harder, slurping and sucking and swirling his tongue around, trying to get inside.
“Fuck!” Sam shouted when he got his voice back, rocking back toward Dean’s face and then thrusting forward into the girl, who was still moaning beneath him.
“Don’t you dare fucking come,” Dean warned when he took a second to catch his breath, and Sam just groaned and pushed his hips back, greedy and demanding, every bit the hedonist that Dean was right now. Dean gave him a few warning spanks, and Sam seemed to appreciate them, panting and twisting and pushing into Dean’s hand and not away, and fuck if that didn’t turn Dean’s crank so hard he could barely bring himself to stop. His dick wanted more action than it was getting, though. He got up to grab some lube from his duffel because he didn’t like chafing his cock, then pulled Sam wide again and began to slick him up.
“Jesuschrist,” Sam grunted when Dean got a finger up him, but he didn’t say stop—which was a good thing, because Dean wasn’t sure what would happen if they tried to kill each other for real. It didn’t take long for Sam to take two, and then three, and Dean didn’t have the patience for very much of that before he slid his dick home, burying himself in his brother’s body as Sam pitched forward and ground his own dick into the girl. She was yelling about how good it was, and Dean thought she was probably having a pretty damn spectacular climax, but it was Sam’s harsh grunts that sparked a rush of pleasure through Dean’s body.
It was the best he’d felt in… probably his whole life, Dean thought, with what little remained of his higher cognitive functions. It was physical, sure: Sam was hot and tight, and it was like riding a wild bull, all muscle and strength coiled beneath him, willingly pinned by Dean’s body. But it was also Sam, and Dean’s brain was screaming Mineminemine every time he slammed his hips into Sam’s ass and heard him groan.
“Fuck, gonna come,” Sam said, and Dean flattened himself out on top of him, one hand fisted in his long hair, yanking his head back, the other bracing himself on the bed to give himself the leverage to pound in deep.
“Mine,” Dean ground out, teeth fastened to Sam’s meaty shoulder, slight tang of iron just what he needed to reach his own mind-blowing orgasm.
He collapsed on top of Sam’s lax body after, breathless and sated.
“Ohmygod get off me, you guys weigh a fucking ton,” the woman that Dean had totally forgotten about said from beneath them both.
Reluctantly, Dean pulled out and climbed off the bed, flopping down on the other one.
Sam pulled out too, rolling to his side. Dean could feel Sam’s eyes on him from across the bed. Well, fuck it, Sam had asked for it. Sorta.
The girl got up on shaky legs to use the bathroom, muttering something that sounded like, “Jesus, talk about a lucky night.”
“I thought Sam said he was staying with his brother,” she said to Dean when she emerged again, pulling on her dress and putting on her shoes.
Dean smirked. “Nice to meet you.”
She narrowed her eyes, clearly thinking he was lying. “Okay, whatever fantasy floats your boat,” she said finally. “One of you gonna drive me back, or do I call an Uber?”
Neither of them said anything, because they were both assholes. Dean was tempted to say, “Lady, he’s got no soul, and I’m a demon, so count your blessings you’re still walking and talking.”
“Assholes,” she said, and they both half nodded. “You’re lucky the hundred bucks covered that.” She slammed the door when she left.
Sam sat up a few minutes later. He was still naked, and Dean raked his eyes over his brother’s body appreciatively. He figured he could do that now, seeing as they’d already fucked.
“What the hell was that about?” Sam asked, but he didn’t sound mad, just curious.
Dean shrugged and sat up too. “You’re a jerk,” Dean started, and then shrugged again. “But you’ve got a great ass.”
Sam stared at him for so long that Dean started to wonder if maybe Sam was mad after all. “Don’t make this a big thing,” he started to say, but Sam waved his hand in the air in that annoying way he had now and cut him off.
“You’ve got a great ass too,” Sam said, and Dean couldn’t help but go along with that.
“’Course I do.”
“You’re a conceited jerk, though.”
Dean smirked. “I think I always thought you had a great ass,” he admitted, because he didn’t feel pesky things like shame anymore and he was pretty sure it was true, and he was already starting to scheme about how he could get Sam to want to do something like that again.
Sam considered, then ran his hand through his unruly hair. “Yeah, I think I always thought that about yours too. Not that I would’ve acted on it.”
“Of course not,” Dean agreed. He was mostly sure his old self wouldn’t have decided to jump into bed with Sam and some chick. Mostly.
Sam smirked back at him, and it made a little wave of warmth run through Dean, unexpected and unfamiliar. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t like it, though.
“We could do it again,” Dean suggested. “Save some money on the hookers though.”
Sam outright grinned at him.
They didn’t get a chance right away, though, because hunger was even more urgent a need than sex right then, and demons were not good at deferring any needs.
“Move your ass, Sam,” Dean complained when Sam took his time, stretching like a big (very satisfied) panther as he dressed.
“The ass you like so much?” Sam asked, smirking.
Dean rolled his eyes, because Sam was insufferable. And despite his lifelong conviction that he was the oversexed one who was anything but vanilla, Dean was beginning to realize that Sam might give him a run for his money now that he wasn’t constrained by those pesky moral standards he’d been carrying around. “You have a one-track mind,” he grumbled, because it was expected.
“And you love it.”
God, Sam was even more annoying when he was right.
At the diner down the road, Dean’s phone rang just as his platter of pancakes and sausages—with a double side of bacon—had been deposited in front of him. “Oh, fuck no,” he said, pouring maple syrup over the stack.
“You need to answer that,” Sam said, frowning. He was stirring a ridiculously small amount of brown sugar into his bowl of oatmeal.
“No I fucking don’t, I’m eating,” Dean countered.
“It could be important.”
“So?” Dean paused, fork in midair, because Sam was giving him that disapproving look he’d hated all his life, which for some inexplicable reason still worked on him even now that he was a goddamn demon.
“Dean,” Sam said.
Dean picked up the phone. “Yeah, Jody, what is it?”
Sam took the phone away from him. Dean tried to grab it back, but Sam was too damn fast. “Sorry, Jody, Dean’s not… not feeling well.”
“I’m feeling fine, you filthy liar,” Dean said around a giant mouthful of pancakes.
“He said he hopes you’re fine,” Sam lied again. Now that he had no soul, he was pretty much an expert at it.
Dean gave up and concentrated on eating, half ignoring and half listening to Sam do a surprisingly good approximation of empathy as Jody told him some sob story about some kind of monster killing people in some nowhere state that Dean had no desire to visit.
“We can be there tomorrow,” Sam said. “No, it’s okay. We’re, uh, we’re both well rested, so we can drive through the night.”
“Filthy liar,” Dean said again when Sam hung up.
Sam shrugged and started eating his lukewarm oatmeal. “It’s a job, and Jody’s a friend.”
Dean ordered another coffee for the road.
“So you still have friends?” Dean asked when they were six or seven hours out. It was bugging him, though he wasn’t sure why.
Sam had been staring out the window, exercising that big brain of his, no doubt, but he turned to Dean, eyebrows drawing together. “What do you care?”
“I don’t,” Dean answered instantly, because he didn’t, of course. “Just wondering. Without a soul, I mean… do you really care about anything?” He got a funny feeling in his chest when he asked it, like part of him knew he wasn’t actually asking about Jody and the other part wanted to stay in denial about that knowledge.
“Not like I did before,” Sam admitted. “But I remember how I felt about her. That I cared about her. I know I would want to help her, so…”
“So you’re just goin’ through the motions.” That stupid twinge happened again, and Dean shifted restlessly, stepped on the gas a little harder.
“Not always,” Sam said, and turned to look out the window again.
The tightness in Dean’s chest eased a little, and he turned up the radio.
Part 3
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Date: 2021-10-26 08:11 pm (UTC)Love Demon!Dean fishing for reassurance, whether he wants to consciously acknowledge it or not, ha!