Title: the lovers left broken
Fandom(s): Arrow and Supernatural
Summary: It's not that he wakes up. It's how he wakes up. There is no gasp of air as old life returns to the body, as the heart starts beating, the blood starts pumping, and the lungs fill with air. The eyes snap open, a brand new endless black, and the fingers twitch around the blade that has been placed in the hands, but there is no gasp, no movement, no breath of life. Because there is no life. There is still a dead body lying in the bed. It's just awake. (Otherwise known as the fic in which Demon!Dean is the Winter Soldier to Laurel's Captain America.)
Pairing(s): Laurel Lance/Dean Winchester, Tommy Merlyn/Oliver Queen, Sara Lance/Nyssa al Ghul, John Diggle/Felicity Smoak, implied Thea Queen/Sin. Mentions of past Laurel/Oliver (and implied Laurel/Oliver/Tommy) and past Thea Queen/Roy Harper.
Genre: Angst/Horror.
Rating: Mature
Timeline: Maybe a day/two days after the season two finale of Arrow and directly after the season nine finale of SPN, although it probably messes with how much time passed in between Dean's death scene and him waking up as a demon. I was never clear on how much time went by. It goes into an alternate season ten/season three.
Spoilers: Blanket spoilers for both series. Especially season two and season nine.
Warnings: Character death, pregnancy, childbirth, mentions of past miscarriage, vomiting, suicidal thoughts, depression, mental health issues, implied/referenced alcoholism, blood and gore.
Notes: Title from the poem ''Snow and Dirty Rain'' by Richard Siken.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters you recognize.
AN: For Kathey. Happy Halloween to you!
So...
May 20th, 2014. That's when I started this monster of a fic. My original goal was to have this completed by the time Arrow and Supernatural came back from the summer hiatus. I thought it would be easy enough to finish it in that length of time but here I am, I've been working on this story for nearly six months and I'm not even halfway done with it. What was supposed to be a oneshot has turned into a super long and plotty multi-chapter WIP with twists and turns and massive amounts of angst.
And I cannot even begin to tell you how excited I am about it. Which is kind of a big deal for me because if I'm still this excited about a story six months after starting it, then it is something special. For instance, my excitement for my last supposed-to-be-long-and-multi-chapter Dean/Laurel (You Are a Hurricane) stalled after I got stuck writing a certain character and I'm sad to say it's not going anywhere. I actually want to delete it but I can't manage to pluck up the courage to press the 'delete story' button yet. (It's a really nerve wracking thing to have to do, okay?)
This story is not going to stall. I know I'm jinxing myself by saying that but I have this thing all planned out, I have several chapters of it written already, and I've worked on it almost every day for the past six months, so... *crosses fingers*
Before I stop blabbering on and on - which I should really do soon - I just wanted to address a few changes from canon that I have made in this story:
- #TommyLives. Because reasons.
- Thea did not leave with Malcolm. Mostly because ew Malcolm but also because she's going to have a different origin story.
- Diggle/Felicity is going to be a thing. I love the Lyla/Diggle relationship and the family they have and my original plan was to actually do Sara/Felicity (oh yeah, #SaraLives btw) but the call to do Diggle/Felicity (MY BEAUTIFUL OTP) was too strong and I really wanted to explore Nyssa/Sara, so... Lyla is a trusted friend and a member of the Suicide Squad but they didn't rekindle their romance.
- Demon!Dean is going to be slightly different from the demon!Dean that appeared in canon because this fic was started before season ten.
- This story will not be following Arrow season three storylines or Supernatural season ten storylines.
the lovers left broken
Written by Becks Rylynn
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Chapter One:
DO WE NOT KNOW WHAT WE HAVE DONE?
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Every love story is a ghost story
DAVID FOSTER WALLACE | The Pale King
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''You look tired,'' Tommy tells her quietly, standing in the doorway of her father's hospital room.
She wants to laugh.
He's just noticing this?
Was there ever a time when she wasn't tired?
Laurel smiles weakly and lifts her eyes from her father's prone form to Tommy. He's standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the lights in the hospital hallway, the bright fluorescent ones that spill over into the peaceful darkness of the room. She knows she must look awful. She is sitting by her father's hospital bed, barely awake, swallowed by a heavy, unnerving silence that is only broken by the soft mechanical beeping of the heart monitor. It beeps in a steady, anchoring rhythm and, quite poetically, her heart beats right along with it. Her hair is in desperate need of a wash and she has pulled it back into a sloppy, loose ponytail. She's wearing ripped jeans that she has owned since she was twenty years old, an old ratty Blue Oyster Cult t-shirt that she stole from Dean and refuses to give back, and a sweatshirt that briefly belonged to Cas during his short stint as a human before he re-graceified himself and went back to all trench coats all the time.
She doesn't feel like herself.
She doesn't feel steady. She feels shaky on her feet and there's this strange sort of electric humming under her skin, like a warning of things to come, and an equally strange tugging feeling inside of her body, like a craving of some sort. Some part of her, buried underneath the relief that her father will recover, will survive, the sorrow over Sara's departure, the shock over the events of the past two days, and the ever present concern for Dean's safety and whereabouts, Laurel knows. She can feel it. She can feel him. Or, more accurately, she can't feel him.
''I honestly can't remember what it feels like to not be tired,'' she admits in a murmur.
He lets out a graceless snort. ''You and me both.'' Tommy, as steady and soothing as ever, does not look much better than her. He's pale and there are dark smudges under his eyes that dull his usually lively blue eyes. His hair is mussed, his clothes are wrinkled, and if she looks hard enough, she knows she will see a faint tremor running through him like an electric current. She can't blame him. It's been a long couple of days. He pushes off the doorjamb and moves farther into the dark room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. It shuts out the light.
This feels important somehow. The absence of light. It feels like it means something.
Tommy drops a soft kiss to her forehead and takes a seat next to her. ''How is he?'' He nods towards her father.
''Oh, he's...'' This time, her attempts to smile go horribly wrong and she's left with a watery grimace instead. ''He's out of the woods. He's still got a long way to go, but he's - he's still here.''
Tommy smiles gently and slowly, hesitantly, reaches out and takes her hand. ''Of course he's still here,'' he says. ''He's one of the strongest people I know. In fact, there's only one Lance stronger than him.''
''Sara.''
He says, firmly, ''You.''
Laurel tears her eyes away from her dad and looks at Tommy, surprised. She doesn't know how to answer that. She doesn't know how to tell him just how wrong he is, so she just smiles and squeezes his hand.
''Speaking of Sara,'' he goes on. ''Have you - ''
''I can't reach her,'' she sighs. ''I doubt I'll be able to reach her for awhile.'' That's just the Lance family luck. One member heads off with a bunch of assassins, totally unreachable, and moments later, another member starts spewing blood and needs emergency surgery for severe internal bleeding. ''My mom's on her way, though. She missed her train, so she probably won't be here until morning, but she's coming.'' She leans forwards in her seat and lets go of Tommy's hand, grasping her father's instead. It's warm. He looks peaceful. She hasn't seen him this peaceful in a long time. At least someone's getting some rest.
''And Dean?'' Tommy questions innocently. ''Last time Quentin was in the hospital, he came running. He took a plane,'' he lets out a quiet chuckle. ''Which I know is a big deal.''
As soon as she hears the name, the absolutely paralyzing terror that she has been trying to push away slams right back into her.
The last time she saw Dean in person, he was leaving for Chicago and she was coming to terms with the fact that basically everyone in her life with any sort of connection to Oliver Queen had been lying to her for two years. He wasn't okay. He wasn't well. He hadn't been well for a long time, and she knew that. She knew that and she let him go anyway. She had wanted to talk to him, to help him through it; she wanted him to know that she was there, that she was always there, but... She had just let him go.
Dean and Laurel have been together for over five years now. Five years she's been by his side and he's been by hers. She knows him like she knows the back of her hand. He has an amazing sixth sense about what she needs and when she needs it. They've been through so much shit together. They're partners. They're supposed to be together.
But there are some things that are just hers and some things that are just his. They have separate work lives. They have different interests. He prefers she stay far away from hunting. She prefers he stay out of whatever the hell the Arrow does. It's worked for them for the past five years. There is some minor crossover every now and then (the earthquake when he ran into a collapsing building to save her life and barely got out before the entire thing fell, the time she saved Dean's life from a brainwashed Castiel) but other than that, their work lives are completely separate. Which is fine. It's healthy.
The problem is it's more than their work lives that have been separated this past hellish year. They have always had a weirdly healthy relationship in spite of their shitty lives, but this past year life has kicked them while they were down. No. More than that. Life has beaten them bloody - pulverized them - this past year. It has affected their relationship. The fragile, precarious thread that keeps their personal lives connected seems to have frayed over time. They've barely been a part of each other's lives lately.
Laurel hasn't talked to Sam in weeks and she can't even remember the last time she saw Cas or stepped foot in the bunker. She was there when Kevin died, but she didn't get to say goodbye to him when he left with his mom or apologize for not looking out for him better. She's still not exactly clear on what the hell happened to Garth. She didn't even know about the nasty fallout between Dean and Sam until Dean came home one night, drunk off his ass, barely able to stand, branded with the Mark of Cain. The second she saw it, she had burst into tears, screaming that he was supposed to be the one who didn't leave, because she knew, even then, that that damn thing was the beginning of the end.
Dean barely knows Sara and what he does know, he doesn't like. He respects her mother and loves her father, but he didn't like Sara the minute he met her, and the feeling is mutual. Sara has been open from day one about how she doesn't think Dean will ever be good enough for her. The last time he saw her father was when her father was stuck in prison. And the last time he saw her mother was the night of that dinner party. He came home, found Oliver and Laurel screaming at each other in the hallway, punched Oliver in the face, threw him in the elevator by the scruff of his neck (poor Ollie is still really pissed about that) and told everyone else, ''I haven't slept in three days and you are all awful, awful people. Get the fuck outta my house and leave us the hell alone or so help me God, I will throw you out on your goddamn asses.'' Which, in hindsight, is probably one of the biggest reasons why Sara doesn't like Dean.
It's been a rough year, is the point, and the worst part is, Laurel's pretty sure all of that crap was just the beginning.
The last time she saw Dean, they were standing in the doorway of the apartment. It was mid morning on a rainy Saturday. She was still wearing her pajamas and her robe, shivering because the heat was broken and it was unseasonably chilly. His hair was still wet from the shower and he tasted like coffee when she kissed him. ''Okay,'' she had laughed, in between kisses. ''You know the drill,'' her arms had wound around his neck while he busied himself by peppering kisses on every bit of exposed skin he could find, like he was trying to leave a mark. ''You be safe. Call a lot. Whenever you can. And come home as soon as possible.''
''As soon as possible,'' he agreed, and she still remembers the tired rumble of his voice and the softness in his eyes when he looked at her, the one that was reserved for very few people in his life.
''Right,'' she nodded, ''because the heat isn't going to fix itself.''
He had laughed, head tilted back, arms moving around her waist, stepping, if possible, closer to her. ''You only love me because I can fix things, don't you?''
''Nah, your cooking is the biggest draw. The fact that you're handy is just a plus.''
''On a related note, I left a lasagna in the fridge. Heat it at 375 until the cheese bubbles.''
''I bet you leave all the girls lasagnas.''
''Just the ones as bendy as you are, honey,'' he had winked.
''Dean!'' She shoved his shoulder and she had still been blushing when he covered her lips with his. It had been a long, slow, feel-it-all-the-way-down-to-your-bones kiss. Her hands had found their way to his hair, and his hands had slipped down her body and up her nightgown. ''Are you sure you can't stay a little while longer?'' She had asked when he finally pulled away.
''Don't tempt me,'' he groaned, and pushed her robe away just enough to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. ''I'll call you when we get to Chicago, okay?''
''Promise?''
''I promise, Laur.''
''Okay then,'' she had said, and smiled when he kissed her forehead. Her fingers had grasped his jacket lightly before letting it slip through her fingers. ''I love you,'' she said. Then added, ''And don't die. 'Cause remember you have to fix the heater.''
The last phone call, after a couple weeks of communicating through phone calls, texts and a few Skype dates, had taken place while she was in the Arrowcave for the first time. It was just a check in. Their customary just want to let you know I'm not dead phone call. He had wanted to talk more but she had been preoccupied with everything that was happening and the fact that Tommy and Felicity were doing a piss poor job of pretending they weren't listening. ''Honey, I really can't talk right now,'' she had said. ''I'll call you as soon as I can, okay? I promise. Just hold that thought. I love you.''
After that, they had played telephone tag for awhile. Starling had become some sort of twisted Hell on earth, which she did not tell him in any of the messages she left for him and in every message he left for her, he was careful not to share too much information about what was happening on his end, which almost always meant that bad shit was going down on his end.
The last voicemail came earlier today. It wasn't even from his phone, just some unknown number that probably meant he was calling from a payphone. That fact alone is worrying, you know, given his thing about germs. The phone call came in while Laurel was sitting in a cold exam room staring at the wall in shock and her father was in surgery. She didn't even hear the phone buzz. She's listened to it four times now, trying to decipher what it means. It can't mean anything good.
''Hey, pretty bird.'' In the voicemail, his voice is slow, slower than usual, as if he's choosing his words very carefully or maybe like he doesn't know what to say. ''My girl...'' And then there's this wet sounding laugh that doesn't really sound like a laugh at all. ''...Listen, Laur... Laurel... Baby, you know that I...'' Then there's an extended pause and a release of breath and she can just see him standing there, eyes closed, running a hand over his face and doing that jaw thing he does. ''Uh, you know what? Never mind. I'll call you back, okay? I promise.''
The message ends.
Out of everything, it's the 'baby' that scares her the most. She and Dean are pet name kind of people, always have been, but they only ever call each other 'baby' when they're scared.
Laurel doesn't tell Tommy this. She doesn't tell him any of this.
All she says, as she squeezes her eyes shut and does her best to breathe through an intense wave of nausea, is, ''I can't get a hold of Dean.'' Her voice only shakes a little. She thinks that's progress. ''He's not answering my calls. Neither is Sam.''
Tommy doesn't say anything right away and when she looks over at him, there is a noticeable flicker of worry in his eyes that he tries to hide with a big, reassuring smile. ''Well, I'm sure he's fine,'' he says. ''It's Dean, right? He always comes home to you.''
She lets out a breath and blinks away the pressure behind her eyes. ''Right,'' she nods and sits back in her chair. ''Right, of course. It's Dean. I just, um,'' she looks down at her lap. ''I just really need to talk to him. I need to hear his voice and I need to know he's okay and I need to tell him...'' She trails off and clenches her teeth together.
Tommy eyes her suspiciously. ''Tell him what?''
Before she can attempt to come up with any sort of excuse, there's a soft knock on the door. Laurel's heart leaps into her throat and she stands so quickly her chair nearly topples over, hurrying around the bed.
Oliver pokes his head into the room. ''Hey.''
Laurel stops in her tracks and tries not to let her disappointment show.
Tommy, on the other hand. ''Ollie,'' he breathes out, and then jumps to his feet and attack hugs Oliver, nearly knocking him down to the ground. Once the disappointment has cleared and has been replaced with relief, Laurel rushes over to them and joins the group hug.
Oliver releases a breath like he's letting go of something important. ''Why don't more people great me like this?''
''You dickhead,'' Tommy murmurs. ''Where the hell did you go?''
Oliver shrugs. ''Lian Yu.''
Tommy and Laurel pull back in order to stare at him. Because clearly he's lost his mind. ''You've really gotta stop doing that,'' Tommy points out. ''It's not healthy.''
''It's a long story,'' is the only explanation they get.
''How are you?'' Laurel asks. ''Are you okay?''
''Me?'' Oliver stares at her incredulously. ''You're asking how I am? Laurel, I'm fine. How are you? How's your dad?''
''Still kicking,'' she says. ''They had to operate and he's...'' She glances over her shoulder. ''He's going to be unconscious for awhile - he's on some pretty heavy medication - but he'll pull through.''
''And you? You're okay?''
''I'm okay,'' she nods, bringing her hand to his arm briefly.
''What about you?'' Oliver looks at Tommy. ''You good?''
''Peachy keen, man.''
''Slade didn't - ''
''Slade mostly annoyed the fuck out of us,'' Tommy deadpans. ''Also, I think he might think you're in love with me.''
''Yeah, what about Felicity?'' Laurel asks. ''Or Thea. Is Thea okay?''
''Thea's...'' Oliver pauses. ''Angry.''
''With you?''
''With...the world.''
''Well,'' Laurel folds her arms. ''She has a right to her feelings. Just give her time. She'll come around. And Felicity?''
''Felicity's fine,'' Oliver says quickly, a little too quickly, and then winces. ''I mean... She will be,'' he corrects. ''She's a little rattled. But Dig's with her. He's good at keeping her calm.''
Tommy leans over to whisper in Laurel's ear, ''He's totally in love with her.''
''What?!'' Oliver's voice comes out in a surprised yelp, eyes widening. ''No, I'm not!''
Tommy stares at him for a second before he heaves a giant sigh and facepalms. ''Not you,'' and the grin can be heard in his voice. ''You lovable idiot.'' He looks up at Oliver, locking eyes with him. ''John. He is one hundred percent, unchangeably besotted with her.''
''Nice word,'' Laurel whispers in his ear.
Tommy winks at her, then looks back at Oliver, tilting his head to the side. ''Haven't you noticed?''
Oliver's face scrunches up and he scratches the back of his neck in genuine confusion. ''Not, uh... Not really.''
Laurel allows a small laugh to escape, because she can't help herself, and pats him on the cheek. ''Oh, sweetie.''
Tommy shakes his head. ''You're fucking adorable.''
Oliver says, more to himself, ''Huh.''
Tommy and Laurel both move back to their seats and, after a moment of silent contemplation, Oliver drags over another vacant chair and settles in. Laurel curls up in her chair, feet tucked under her, head propped up in her hand. Instantly, Tommy props his feet up on Oliver's chair and sticks out his tongue when he gets a glare in reply. In response, Oliver makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat, puts his feet on Tommy's chair and grins triumphantly. Tommy rolls his eyes fondly. It's the strangest version of 'I love you' that Laurel has ever seen, but it's so distinctly Tommy and Oliver.
''Are you sure you're okay?'' Oliver's voice is gentle but prodding and it takes her a minute to realize that he's talking to her.
''Yeah, I'm fine,'' she says. ''Why?''
He raises his eyebrows and points to her wrist. ''Hospital bracelet.''
''Oh.'' Shit. She tugs the sleeve of the sweatshirt over her wrist and folds her hands in her lap. ''It's nothing.'' When she looks up again, both of them are sending her unconvinced, concerned looks. ''Guys, I'm fine.''
''Swear?'' In the dim light, exhausted and worried, Tommy looks like a little boy.
''I swear.'' She licks her dry lips and searches her mind for something to tell them. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to tell them, truth be told, but she's not ready for anyone to know just yet. It still hasn't sunk in for her. She's still trying to come to grips with it. Not to mention, she refuses to tell anyone until she tells Dean. ''I was feeling a little dizzy earlier,'' she begins, which is the truth, ''and I was worried that maybe there was still some of whatever was in that poison dart left in my system, so I admitted myself and they ran a few tests. But I'm completely fine. Clean bill of health and everything.'' There's a long pause in which Oliver has gone all rage monster and Tommy's jaw has dropped to the floor. That's when she remembers they don't actually know about the poison thing. ''Oh,'' she smiles nervously. ''You guys didn't know about the poisoned dart, did you?''
''I'm sorry,'' Tommy starts, ''the poisoned dart?''
''Who?'' Oliver growls. ''When?''
''Oh, it's not a big deal,'' Laurel waves it off. ''Sara's assassin girlfriend just has a thing for poisoning me, apparently. I'm choosing to be flattered by it. It means she sees me as a threat. But it doesn't matter because she's gone now and I'm fine, so we're all going to drop this.'' She levels them both with a pointed stare. ''Am I making myself clear?''
They look at each other briefly, both of them looking mildly frightened, which she is going to take as a success, and then they nod. Tommy sighs and lets his head fall back, eyes on the ceiling. Oliver keeps his watchful eyes on Laurel for a moment longer, possibly a moment longer than necessary, and then he lowers his gaze. Laurel bites down on her lip. None of them say anything. The silence between them is calm and comfortable. The beeping of the heart monitor is like a lullaby. Laurel watches Tommy and Oliver instead of staring at her father and thinking about everything that could have happened. Neither one of them look particularly relaxed. Tommy's eyes are closed but she can tell he's not sleeping, body too tense, breathing too quick. Oliver's eyes are open and trained on the ceiling. He looks tense and trouble. She wonders, idly, if he's gone home yet. If he's walked the empty halls of his big manor, tried to talk to Thea, sifted through his mother's belongings like Laurel once did with his things and Sara's things after the boat went down.
She looks back at her father. It was a close call. She could have lost him. She almost did. But she didn't. He's here and he's alive. So why does she feel like something has been taken from her, brutally snatched away from her when she wasn't looking? What is the heavy feeling in her heart?
She takes out her phone, fully charged, ready and waiting for a call from Dean, and she listens to the message again.
Hey, pretty bird.
She closes her eyes.
My girl...
She stops it before she can hear any more, makes sure it's still saved, and calls Dean. It rings. And rings. And rings some more. She gets his voicemail - ''leave your name, number and nightmare at the tone'' - followed by an automated voice telling her that his inbox is full. She presses her lips together and swallows a half irritated, half terrified sigh. She gets halfway through dialing his second cell, the one he keeps in the glove compartment of the Impala, before she remembers it was destroyed a few weeks back. She keeps meaning to run out and buy another one so she can fill it full of pictures of her, but she hasn't yet. This leaves one number left. His emergency cell. The one he keeps on him at all times, no matter what. It rings and rings and then she hears his voice. ''This is Dean's other, other cell so you must know what to do.''
A noise escapes her throat, disappointed and scared. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Oliver lift his head and Tommy opens his eyes. They're both looking at her. She means to tell them to stop but the phone beeps in her ear. She has no idea what to say. After a solid five seconds of dead silence, she says, tersely, ''You need to call me as soon as you can. I need to know you're okay.'' She lowers her voice and ducks her head so that her hair falls in her face, an illusion of privacy. ''You're scaring me, Dean,'' she tells his voicemail. She ends the call before she can ramble on about everything she needs to tell him and realizes, seconds too late, that she forgot to say 'I love you.'
A glance over at Tommy and Oliver has them both scrambling to look away from her, both pretending they didn't hear a thing. ''Pretend you're asleep,'' she hears Tommy whisper, as he gives Oliver a kick. It might be more for her benefit than his. Tommy's always trying to make her laugh.
She smiles weakly, but can't manage a laugh. She slips her phone back in her pocket and wraps her arms around her middle. Another silence takes over the room. This one is less comfortable and more deafening.
''So,'' Tommy's voice startles her, breaking the silence. He sits up in his chair, looks at Oliver, then at Laurel. ''It's been a weird couple of days, huh?''
Laurel lets out a sharp bark of laughter that tastes bitter on her tongue. ''It's been a weird year,'' she corrects.
''It's been a weird six years,'' Oliver adds.
And then, out of nowhere, Tommy starts to laugh. Tommy starts to cackle.
Laurel arches a single brow. Oliver looks startled, staring at his best friend as if he's lost his mind. ''Tommy, buddy, do we need to take a walk up to the psych ward?''
''Dude,'' Tommy is bent over, clutching his stomach and wheezing. ''Dude, you're fucking Hawkeye.''
Oliver blinks. ''Excuse me?''
''You run around in leather pants and a mask with a bow and arrow.''
''It...'' Laurel smirks. ''It does sound pretty ridiculous when you say it out loud.''
''You're Robin Hood!'' Tommy exclaims.
Oliver's lips twitch.
Laurel feels laughter bubble up in her throat. She can't help herself. She starts giggling. ''You're totally Robin Hood,'' she agrees.
Oliver starts chuckling. ''I kinda am, aren't I?''
''Hey, is it as weird as my boyfriend is a monster hunter? Because my boyfriend is a monster hunter,'' she says, and then completely dissolves. It does sound ridiculous. Everything about her life sounds ridiculous. It's like she's stuck in the fucking Buffyverse. Her boyfriend/partner/sort of common-law husband hunts demons and ghosts and monsters. Oliver is the Arrow. What even is her life?
''Your boyfriend's Buffy,'' Tommy squeaks.
''And your sister's a leather clad vigilante in love with an assassin,'' Oliver adds.
''My father's a super villain,'' Tommy says. ''And Thea - the girl who used to have a crush on me - is my sister.''
And then they're all laughing. Laughing hysterically, actually. They're wheezing, nearly falling off their chairs, stomachs aching, because if they don't laugh, they're going to start bawling. Or possibly go insane. Oliver has just lost his mother, Tommy's father was responsible for the deaths of over 500 people, and Laurel... Well. Laughing definitely seems like the better option here.
''Our lives, man,'' Tommy shakes his head and wipes at his eyes. ''Our fucking lives.''
''We're fucked,'' Oliver manages to get out through peals of laughter. ''We are all fucked.''
The laughter is a coping mechanism, or possibly shock, but it's nice. For the first time in a long time, Laurel feels like she has her friends back. It's never going to be the same, and she doesn't want it to be. She has Dean now and her relationship with Dean is...so different than whatever it was that she was with Oliver and Tommy in the past. Dean is it for her. Besides, you can't go back. You can only go forward. But Oliver and Tommy are always going to be a part of her, they're two of her best friends, they're practically family, and it's nice to have them back. They've been pulling apart over this past year. It's nice to come home.
''God,'' Tommy says, once they have all caught their breath. ''How did we get here?''
''Uh,'' Oliver raises his hand. ''My bad. Sorry about that.''
Tommy bursts into laughter again.
In the pocket of her sweatshirt, Laurel's phone buzzes. She nearly jumps out of her skin. Her movements are hasty and uncoordinated and she nearly drops the phone as she's pulling it out. The Caller ID says Sam.
Sam.
Not Dean.
Her heart slams against her ribcage.
''I-I have to take this,'' she says, barely sparing a glance at the boys. ''I'll be right back.''
The last thing she hears before she steps out into the brightly lit hallway is Tommy's giggle of, ''Ollie... Ollie, we share a sister. What the fuck is happening?''
As she steps out into the hallway, Laurel blinks as her eyes adjust to the sudden onslaught of bright lights. She doesn't know what to expect from his phone call. Sam rarely calls her these days, so if he's calling her now... She's not sure how this could be a good thing. There's a part of her that doesn't even want to pick up. If she picks up, she doesn't have to hear whatever bad news Sam is about to give her. Unless it's Dean and he's just using Sam's phone because his was crushed by a monster. Not like it would be the first time.
Yeah.
Yeah, that's probably what's happening.
''Hello?''
''Laurel.''
It's bad.
''Sam.''
He doesn't say anything for a long moment, but she can hear his harsh, ragged breathing and that says more than you know. When he does eventually speak up again, his voice is wrecked. Like someone has taken his entire world and shattered it. ''Laurel.'' It's just a half sob of her name, nothing more, but it says everything.
Her vision blurs. There's a deafening roar in her ears and she can't catch her breath. ''No.'' Everything feels sideways all of a sudden. Her legs feel like jelly, she feels dizzy and she thinks she might throw up. Or pass out. Possibly both. ''No.'' She reaches out blindly for something to hold onto, placing a hand flat against the wall. ''Don't. He's - No. No, no, no, he's fine. He's fine. He's always fine. He always comes home to me.'' There is no answer. ''Sam, tell me he's coming home to me.''
Sam sucks in a breath. He sounds winded when he speaks. ''I'm sorry,'' it comes out in a croak. ''I'm so sorry.''
''No.'' She shakes her head. ''No, please, no.''
''I...tried. But I... I couldn't.'' Then he splinters and she's left listening to him sob.
She can't breathe. None of the air is reaching her lungs and her stomach is churning. She doubles over, gasping for breath, one hand on the wall. ''No.'' It's an agonized moan this time. She can't keep herself upright. Her already unsteady legs go weak beneath her and she collapses, sinking to her knees, trying to breathe. There is something in her throat. Something is crawling and scratching its way up. ''This isn't happening,'' she chokes out. ''This can't be happening. ...How - '' her voice cracks. ''How did it happen?''
Sam doesn't answer her.
She's not sure she even wants to know.
This was always how it was gonna end, Laur, she hears Dean's voice say in some sort of grief or shock induced auditory hallucination. It's like he's right next to her, whispering in her ear. We both knew that.
The tears don't come slow. There is nothing gradual about her breakdown. She breaks down completely, whimpers turning into guttural, howl-like sobs, tears streaming down her cheeks. She is still on the ground, shattered, sobbing, and shaking, when Oliver and Tommy find her.
.
.
.
Tommy refuses to let her go to Kansas alone.
It's probably for the best. Laurel is incoherent and can barely stand. There's no way she could make it through the flight by herself. Oliver has tickets for the red eye flight waiting for them by the time they reach the airport, he'll have a rental car waiting for them by the time the plane touches down, and he promises to stay with her father until her mother gets there. Tommy handles everything at the airport. He gets them checked in and through security without a hassle, and he doesn't let go of her hand. They're good boys.
It's not an extremely long plane ride, but it feels like it takes forever. Tommy tries to coax her into sleeping but she can't. Every time she closes her eyes, she sees something bloody, whether it's Dean's ravaged body or the memory of her father coughing up blood and telling her that he can't breathe. It's the worst three hours of her life.
She spends the time thinking of all the ways it could have happened.
Was he all clawed up? What about his heart? Was it damaged? Was he shot? Stabbed? Was his head bashed in? Does he still have his heart? Or did something rip it out of him? Does he have everything else? Is he in pieces? How much of him is left?
Was it quick? Or was it slow, drawn out and long? If it was slow, how much did it hurt? Did the pain pass quickly, leaving a numb, floating kind of feeling? Or was it excruciating until the very last second?
Did he choke on his blood? Did he choke on her name? Was he alone? Did he know what was happening? Did he see it coming? What were his last words? Were they about her? Sam? Castiel? What did he see? Right at the end, right before he went, what did he see? Did he see his mom? Was she there? Did she come and get him? Did that make it better? Is he in heaven? Was he able to get in? Is he at peace?
Was he scared?
His heart.
What about his heart?
She pictures it in her head. His death. She sees it again and again, in all different ways. She tries to think about what his last words could have been. She hears the words in her head. She hears his voice. And then she realizes, of course, that she will never hear his voice again.
By the time they're on the ground, the sun has risen and she just wants to see him, whether it's a pretty sight or not.
From the airport, it's about an hour long drive to Lebanon, where the bunker is located, which gives her more time to think.
In the car, she thinks about all of the ways this could be a false alarm. Maybe he was just severely injured. Maybe Cas healed him. Maybe Sam did something stupid and brought him back. Maybe this is all just a really cruel prank.
Maybe, when she walks in the door, he'll be standing there, healthy and alive, and waiting for her. He'll kiss her hello and apologize for scaring her. ''It was close,'' he'll say, ''but I'm here, pretty bird.'' She'll be too happy to be mad at him for putting her through this and she'll be so glad to see him, so glad that he's alive, that she won't want to stop touching him, just to make sure he's there. And then she'll tell him. She'll whisper it in his ear with a nervous smile and his eyes will cloud over with momentary shock and disbelief before lighting up with happiness. He'll pick her up and spin her around, calling out, ''Hey, Sammy, guess what?!''
And they'll live happily ever after and he'll come home to her always and he won't be dead.
He won't be dead.
She listens to the message twice on the car ride there.
''Hey, pretty bird... My girl... Listen, Laur... Laurel... Baby, you know that I... Uh, you know what? Never mind. I'll call you back, okay? I promise.''
.
.
.
She had slapped him across the face when he showed her the angry red Mark on his arm and explained to her what it meant. They had fought over empty wine and whiskey bottles, both less than sober, eyes red and raw. He had been determined and desolate. She had been angry and scared.
''You're going to die!'' She had screamed at him, right after she threw a glass at his head, because he didn't seem to understand how every word that came out of his mouth sounded like a goodbye. ''You're going to die and I'm going to watch!'' She had been hysterical that night. ''Why?'' She asked. ''Why do you keep doing this? Why do you want to die so badly?''
His voice had been remarkably calm, albeit hoarse and unusually quiet, when he responded, ''You ever think maybe you would be better off? You ever think maybe everyone would be better off? I'm poison, Laurel. What have I ever done for you that's good?''
She had burst into these incredibly undignified sobs at that, hands coming up to cover her mouth, because it was one of the scariest things she had ever heard him say. It was terrifying that he thought that about himself, that life and the people around him had both knowingly and unknowingly beaten it into him that he was better off dead, that he was always going to be the bad guy, that every choice he made was the wrong one and his pain didn't matter as much as Sam's or Castiel's or hers. ''What have you ever done for me?'' She asked incredulously. ''You love me, Dean. Why don't you ever think that's enough? Why can't that be enough?''
He had looked regretful, not because he didn't mean it but because he had made her cry. ''Laur...''
She crossed the room to kiss him. She stood on her tiptoes and took his face in both of her hands, pulling him down so she could kiss his lips, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his forehead. ''We're not,'' she told him. ''We're not better off without you. We're not. You have no idea, Dean. You have no idea how dark this world would be without you in it. You have no idea how dark my world would be.''
He wound up burying his face in her hair, not crying but close to it, breathing shallowly and whispering apologies into her hair while she held him.
But he never took it back.
He never took back the fact that he legitimately believed the world would be better off without him.
.
.
.
Sam is drunk when he opens the door to the bunker to let them in. He's wobbly on his feet, his eyes are bloodshot, and he smells like whiskey. He looks like a ghost. ''Laurel,'' he slurs out a greeting and gives her a shaky smile. He mumbles out her name again, ''Laurel'' and then looks behind him, waiting for Dean to come and greet her.
Dean doesn't come.
''I... I don't...'' Sam looks helpless. She has never seen him look so helpless before. ''I don't know what to do.''
Laurel chokes back a sob and closes the small but big distance between them, wrapping her arms around him.
Sam Winchester is older than her, tougher than her, significantly larger, he has been through hell (both literally and figuratively) and the amount of loss he has suffered is insurmountable. He is not a little boy. He has never been a little boy. Not to her. Dean always saw him as his baby brother, his kid, someone who needed to be protected at all costs, even if it meant giving his life so Sam could live. Laurel always saw a grown, capable man. She has never faulted Dean for his view of Sam because to her, Sara is and always will be the giggling little girl with scraped knees and wild hair, chasing butterflies in the summer sunset. It's just that she's never seen Sam like that. She's never seen him the way Dean does.
Until now.
She thinks she gets it now.
There's a boy in her arms, lost and shaking, and he's in pieces, and he's not okay and he's not going to be okay.
Laurel knows what it feels like to be an older sibling who loses a younger sibling.
Being an older sibling is like having a piece of your heart and your soul walk around outside of your body, and when you lose them, the entire world goes with them. You don't just lose the woman who got on the boat or the man in the hospital bed; you lose the girl who chased butterflies and the boy you rode to the ER on your handlebars. There's zero chance of ever being whole again when you're an older sibling who loses a younger one because you have failed the most important job you have ever been given, and they have taken your heart, your whole heart, with them; to the bottom of the ocean where she fell, to the church where he gave up.
A younger sibling who loses an older sibling, though.
Laurel has no idea what that's like.
Is it like losing your strength? Is every bit of courage stripped away from you? Do you die with them? Or is it like losing the one thing keeping you here on the ground and without them you're left struggling to find solid ground before you float away? Is it like being taken off life support? Can you breathe without them?
Do you want to?
Sam is a heavy weight in her arms. He melts into her like he's a child seeking comfort from his mother and, just this once, Laurel decides she can be that for him. ''I know,'' she whispers, carding her fingers through his hair. ''I know, sweetie, I don't either. But I'm here, okay? I'm here.''
Sam exhales shakily.
She holds him tighter. She thinks this is what Dean would've wanted.
.
.
.
He doesn't look like he's sleeping.
It's a common misconception that dead bodies just look like they're sleeping because in TV shows and movies, the grieving family member/love interest - undoubtedly someone beautiful who cries delicately without ruining their makeup - always says, ''He looks like he's just sleeping. He looks so peaceful.''
Dean doesn't look like he's sleeping. And he sure as hell doesn't look peaceful.
He looks dead.
Tommy and Sam didn't think it would be a good idea for her to see the body.
''It's not him,'' said Tommy. ''It's just a body.''
''He wouldn't want you to see him like this,'' said Sam.
They're both right, of course. Dean wouldn't have wanted her to see him like this, and it is just a body. But it's Dean's body. It's Dean's face, and his hands, his arms and legs, his dried blood, his closed eyes, and she needs to see. She won't believe it until she sees.
So here she is, standing beside the bed, in the room he decorated, with the memory foam mattress that remembers him. Tommy's in the doorway, there's a picture of her on the nightstand, and a body in the bed. None of it feels right. This is someone else's life, someone else's grief, someone else's other half lying dead. It can't possibly be her life. This mourning can't possibly belong to her. ''He...'' She reaches out to touch him, to run her finger through his hair, but she stops before she can, fingers curling away. ''He doesn't look like Dean,'' she says. ''He doesn't look like my Dean.''
''That's not Dean, Laurel,'' Tommy says from his spot in the doorway, where he can't bring himself to look at the body, especially not the face.
Her eyes water. ''I know.''
Probably one of the most disturbing parts of this nightmare is that Laurel knows what's going to happen to him. She knows what happens to a human body in the hours and the days after the heart stops. She looked it up once. After Sara and Oliver. It was a strange and morbid thing to do and she had known that, but there was a part of her that just needed to know. She needed to know what would happen to them. So she knows. She knows how the skin gets purple and waxy, how the lips grow colorless, how and when rigor mortis sets in. She knows about how dead bodies begin to bloat, how they supposedly smell like rotting meat, how after three days...
She knows these things. She's just never seen it happen up close.
''Tommy,'' her voice is a croak. She tries to turn to look at him, but she can't bring herself to look away from Dean. ''I think I...'' She swallows. ''Can you give me a minute?''
''Laurel - ''
''It's fine,'' she tries. ''Just... Can you go check on Sam? Please? Please, Tommy, please.'' She waits until she's sure he's left before she even tries to come up with something to say. She wants to say something that means something.
In the movies, there is always a speech. Something epic about death and how Character A is better now because they had the chance to know deceased Character B. How they're going to carry the dead person around with them in their heart for the rest of their life. ...Maybe that's the funeral scene.
What she really wants is to scream and cry and plead with him to wake up, to open his eyes and come back to her. She can't think of a single thing to say. Tears well up in her eyes and spill over, trailing down her cheeks. She covers her mouth with her hands and tries, unsuccessfully, to keep a sob in.
''We're not better off,'' she says to the body in the bed, the one with the pale fingernails and the dried blood making his shirt stick to his skin. ''We're not better off without you. Don't you understand that?'' She closes her eyes.
She takes three deep breaths.
''You were laughing,'' her voice is unsteady. ''When I fell in love with you,'' she clarifies. ''You were laughing.'' She inches closer to the bed and slowly, carefully, brushes her fingertips over the back of his hand. He's cold. A strangled whimper escapes her lips, pushing up her throat and out into the open, hanging between them. ''We had been dating for a month,'' she says, ''and I was going to break up with you because you... You scared me. It wasn't what you did. It had nothing to do with your past, or your drinking, or your recklessness. It was the way you made me feel. It was terrifying. You were terrifying. I-I wanted you so much and I couldn't...'' She shakes her head. ''I didn't like how much I wanted you. I thought it was dangerous. I thought I wasn't ready. But then I heard you laughing.'' She takes his hand and tries to thread her fingers through his. His hand is not limp, like one might expect, but stiff and the fingers don't... She settles for placing her hand over his and thinks maybe she can warm him up. ''I don't remember what you were laughing at. It was probably something stupid,'' she chokes out a laugh. ''But... I had never heard you laugh. Not like that. It was straight up full body laughter. Eye crinkles, all teeth. And I fell in love with you. ...I loved your laugh. I...I won't hear you laugh again.''
There's a part of her that wants to get as far away from this body as possible. It's cold and stiff and not how she wants to remember him. That's not what she does. She crawls onto her side of the bed, next to Dean, and she curls into his cold body. ''I love you,'' she kisses his bloodless, cracked lips. ''I love you,'' she kisses his cheek, his jaw, his neck. ''I love you so much.'' He smells like blood. The scent is so strong she swears she can taste it. The silent tears streaming down her cheeks turn into weeping and then she's sobbing into the crook of his neck, clutching at him desperately. ''Don't do this,'' she begs. ''Please don't do this.''
His arms don't wrap around her. There is no warmth, no steady, comforting beat of his heart. When she lays her head on his chest, he is still. There is nothing soothing about this.
''Hey,'' she lifts her head. ''I have something to tell you.''
And then she tells him.
She whispers it in his ear. She half expects his eyes to blink open and for him to turn his head and say something like, ''Are you sure? Talk about your bad timing, huh?''
There is no response.
He doesn't open his eyes. Logically, she shouldn't be disappointed by this. She is anyway. She lets out a sigh and puts her head back down on his chest. The silence in the room is deafening. ''You were supposed to fix the heater,'' she blurts. ''You promised you would call me back.''
Dean doesn't answer.
.
.
.
Sam is standing in the doorway, pale and swaying.
Laurel is still curled up next to Dean. She doesn't know how long she's been here, if she actually did drift off to sleep for a few minutes or if that was her imagination, but she knows he's getting colder. ''I should get up,'' she slurs, so worn out she can barely get the words out.
Sam nods. ''Probably.'' He takes a swig from the bottle in his hand.
''I don't want him to be alone,'' she says.
Sam says, voice cracking, ''Yeah.''
''His skin...'' She trails off and clamps her mouth shut to keep from throwing up.
''It's the blood,'' is the weak answer she gets. ''His blood. It's pooling to the bottom of the - the body.''
''I can't warm him up,'' she says, and there's a note of genuine distress to her voice, even though she knows it would be impossible to warm him up. ''It doesn't feel right. Dean was always like a furnace.''
A stunned, trembling laugh forces its way out of Sam's throat. ''He was.''
''My hands and feet are always cold,'' she says. ''They get cold so easily.'' Her voice sounds completely devoid of emotion. She can't even summon up the energy to care. ''Didn't matter how hot it was, whether it was summer or winter. Every night, my hands and feet would be so cold. But he never complained. I would tangle my feet with his and he'd be so warm. And he would never complain. In the winter, when I forget to wear gloves, which is almost always,'' a few tears slip out of the corners of her eyes, but she barely even feels it, ''he always wraps my hands up in his to keep them warm.''
Sam doesn't respond and she doesn't look up to see if he's still there. She's too tired. She does hear liquid sloshing around in the bottle he's holding. She thinks she should probably tell him to stop. When he speaks up again, his voice is oddly controlled. He's trying really hard. He's trying really hard for her. ''He kept trying to say something.''
Her blood runs cold. She lifts her head. ''What?''
''At the...'' Sam winces. Shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. ''At the...end... The very end... He kept trying to...'' He has to stop, raking a hand through his unruly hair. His eyes close briefly and then snap open, wild and unfocused, his breathing speeding up. Flashbacks. ''He told me some, uh, some stuff. But then he tried - He kept trying to... Tell her. That's what he kept saying. Tell Laurel. Tell her, tell her, tell her. But he never - he never finished. I don't know if - if maybe he didn't know what to say. If he was trying to come up with some great last words for you. It...'' He looks at the ground, barest of smiles on his lips. ''That sounds like something he would do for you. Try and give you some peace, you know? Leave something behind for you.''
She almost bursts out laughing at that. She can feel these hysterical bitter giggles rising in her throat.
Leave something behind.
Ha.
Imagine that.
''Or, I don't know,'' Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. ''Maybe he just couldn't get all the words out. But that's what he... Right before he... That's what he kept saying. Tell her.''
Laurel would love to feel something following his admission. She should be wondering about what it was he wanted to tell her. Was it that he loved her? That he was sorry? All she feels right now is numb. It is all encompassing. ''Guess we both have things we never got to tell each other,'' she whispers.
They don't say anything else.
Laurel lies next to the cold, unnaturally stiff body of the man she was supposed to spend the rest of her life with. Sam stands in the doorway and tries to drink away the brother he doesn't know how to live without. In between them, Dean is still dead, still unmoving, still gone and never coming back. Every person in this room is a broken mess and none of them will heal. The silence eats away at them while Dean deteriorates and decays.
She pulls away from the body and pushes herself up into a sitting position slowly and carefully, biting back a grimace. Her entire body feels sore and heavy with exhaustion. She needs to sleep. She draws her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on her knees. She glances at Sam, but he's looking down at the ground, rubbing at his temples with one hand, the other still gripping the bottle of alcohol he's apparently using as his crutch. She looks at De - the body.
Laurel licks her lips slowly and then leans over and carefully, reluctantly, digs her hand into his pocket. Despite the fact that she has been literally cuddling with a corpse for the past who knows how long, this suddenly feels creepy and invasive and so, so awkward, mostly because his body is so stiff that it's difficult to reach his back pockets. Rigor mortis has set in. The body will start to smell soon. His face will... Finally, she produces his wallet and flips it open. Inside are a few bills, a few scattered receipts for liquor stores and gas stations, a bit of loose change, the fraudulent credit cards she pretends she doesn't know about, and two pictures. Because Dean was an old man who still kept pictures in his wallet instead of on his phone.
One of them is of her. She's laughing in the picture, eyes off to the side, one hand reaching up to fix her hair. On the back of the picture it says:
Laur
my pretty bird
The other picture is older, crinkled and faded. It's been folded and unfolded. It looks like it has survived a lot. It's a school picture of a smiling little boy with a mop of unruly dark hair and a missing front tooth. He can't be older than five or six and he's positively beaming, eyes lit up as he poses nicely in front of the generic blue background. On the back, written in permanent black marker, unmistakably written by a boy not a man, it simply reads:
Sammy
She starts laughing. She starts laughing hysterically, which quickly dissolves into tears and then turns into some sort of messy in between.
Sam pushes off the doorframe. ''Laurel.'' He looks deeply concerned. He probably thinks she's having some sort of breakdown. ''What... What are you doing?'' Without a word, she hands him the picture and keeps laughing and crying, fingers digging into the comforter on the bed. As soon as Sam sees it, he goes pale. His face twists and contorts in pain. Apparently, Sam did not know about this picture. ''I didn't know he - '' Sam breaks off and looks up at her briefly, then over at the body. ''This was in his wallet?''
She nods, hysteria turning into harsh gasps as she tries to regain control of her breathing. She crawls out of the bed, grasping the nightstand for support. The picture of her flutters back onto the bed, next to Dean. ''He loved you,'' she says simply. Over his shoulder, she catches sight of another picture. It's the one Dean kept in his wallet for over thirty years, the one she had framed the previous year, the one that is sitting on the desk right now. Mary Winchester and her little boy are smiling at them from the other side of the room. Laurel gently brushes past Sam to get to the picture, picking it up and looking down at the happy little boy in the picture. She swallows painfully.
''I - I know he...loved me,'' Sam says, ''but he kept this in his wallet for - What? Twenty seven years? Who - Who does that?''
''I don't know why you're so shocked, Sam,'' she says. She places the photograph of Mary and Dean face down on the desk.
I'm sorry, she wants to tell Mary. You shouldn't have to see him like this. You shouldn't have to see either of them like this. They wouldn't want that for you.
''Dean's always thought of you as more than just his little brother,'' she turns around to lean against the desk, folding her arms. ''You were his kid. You've been his kid since the night your mother died. Since your father decided to mold him into a parent because he couldn't be bothered to raise his own kids. You were his entire world. You were his whole heart. How do you not get that?'' She feels like maybe she is being a bit too harsh. Too cold. She doesn't mean to be. That's not who she is. Sam's hurting too, probably more so than she is. She just feels so empty right now. It's hard to be warm and loving when the world has scooped out your big heart and replaced it with something mangled and twisted and wrecked.
Sam sinks into the chair by the bed and stares down at the picture. His eyes are dry but wide and there's something that she can't quite put her finger on. Something about the expression on his face that's dark and determined. It's...worrying. She knows Winchesters. She knows what they do when one of them dies. She picks at the hospital bracelet that's still on her wrist and watches Sam. The hospital bracelet rips and falls to the floor. She looks over at Dean, at the blood and the wounds.
She doesn't really want to know, but she has to ask.
''Sam,'' she clears her throat. ''Tell me what happened.''
He looks up. ''Laurel...'' He shakes his head. ''No.''
''Sam.''
''Dean wouldn't want you to - ''
''Yes, well, Dean is dead,'' her voice is sharper than intended. ''He doesn't get a say.'' She pushes off the desk and takes a few steps towards him. ''Just tell me what happened,'' she pleads. ''Tell me everything you know about how he died.''
.
.
.
She shouldn't have asked.
.
.
.
Tommy finds her in the bathroom.
She's sitting on the ground by the toilet, afraid to move. The last time she ate was yesterday. She hastily scarfed down some oatmeal in the hospital cafeteria and grabbed a muffin when she ran home to change her clothes and check if Dean was home. There's really nothing in her body to throw up. That didn't stop her body from rebelling on her when Sam told her what happened to Dean.
It's not just the thought of him dying. It's not the blood or the sounds he must have made as he was dying or the things he said. It's the thought of him dying in that much pain. There is nothing glamorous about dying, not ever. There's nothing peaceful about death. Even when you're one hundred years old and you die in your sleep there is still something so frightening and final and disturbing about death. But... To think of Dean dying like that. So bloody and brutal and violent, beaten all to hell and then stabbed and still dying slowly, trying to hang on long enough to say the things he needed to say. How is that fair? Why would the fates, the powers that be, God, put him through so much for it to end this way?
Tommy takes a seat on the floor across from her and lets out a tired sigh. ''I told him not to tell you.''
She looks down at her hands. ''I wanted him to tell me that it was quick,'' she mutters. ''That he didn't suffer.''
''I know.''
She glances up at him through her hair, but his eyes are looking up at the light. She wonders how he's taking this. Dean was his friend, after all. Tommy was the first person in her life who openly liked Dean. Her father took over two years to fully warm up to him, her mother didn't meet him for a year, Oliver and Sara don't like him, and other than Joanna, none of Laurel's other friends (colleagues; she doesn't have friends) have ever understood why a woman like Laurel chose to be with a guy like Dean. Tommy was different. Tommy met Dean before Oliver came home, when he was still trying to fill a space. Dean was never going to replace Oliver, of course, but when Tommy made an obscure pop culture reference that only Dean understood it was the beginning of a...really weird and kind of dorky friendship.
Tommy lost Dean, too.
Laurel closes her eyes.
She doesn't know exactly what went down. She wasn't there. She didn't see it. But when she closes her eyes, she sees the blood. She sees the blade; sees it sink into his body. She imagines what the look in his eyes must have been like. There would have been pain and there would have been surprise and fear, but... There also would have been relief.
It's Dean.
All he wanted was to rest.
In her head, she can hear him say it, ''It's better this way.''
She was never going to be enough to make him stay. She has never been enough to make any of them stay.
Her stomach lurches. She pushes herself up over the toilet quickly with a moan.
''Shit. Hey,'' Tommy's voice lowers into this comforting lilt. ''I gotcha.'' His hands pull her hair away from her face and his hand moves to her back, rubbing it in soft circles.
She breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, knuckles turning white. After a minute, she sits back on her knees. ''Okay,'' she says. ''It's okay. False alarm.''
He is staring at her worriedly. ''Laurel,'' his hand is still on her back. ''When's the last time you slept?''
She snorts. ''I don't know. What day is it?''
He looks mildly horrified. ''Laurel.''
''I know,'' she groans, and covers her face with her hands. ''I know, okay?''
They don't move. They sit there on the floor for what feels like forever. Until she hears it again in her head, his voice, clear as day.
''I'm poison, Laurel. What have I ever done for you that's good?''
Her stomach jolts again. She clenches her fists and breathes slowly but doesn't move, doing her best to will it away. There's nothing left in her. She just needs to sleep.
''Hey, pretty bird... My girl...''
''You ever think maybe you would be better off? You ever think maybe everyone would be better off?''
''Tell Laurel...'' ''Listen, Laur... Laurel... Baby, you know that I...''
''Tell her, tell her, tell her...''
''Uh, you know what? Never mind. I'll call you back, okay? I promise.''
''It's better this way.''
Goodbye.
That asshole was going to say goodbye to her.
There's a flood behind her eyes that she can't let out or she'll drown. She closes her eyes. All she can see is blood. Her eyes snap open and she scrambles forward over the toilet and this time, something comes up. It's mostly just stomach acid and bile, but her body still spasms, stomach twisting terribly as it brings it up. Tommy dutifully holds her hair back for her and she thinks he might be saying something to her but she's not exactly in the right shape to try and concentrate on his voice. Vomiting brings no relief from the torturous nausea. Usually, you feel better after throwing up. This doesn't work like that. She still feels sick and tired. She is still retching and spitting into the toilet bowl when his phone begins to ring. And then keeps on ringing. ''Just answer it,'' she gets out, trying to catch her breath.
He hesitates, especially when she starts gagging again, but finally answers it when she pinches him. ''Oliver,'' he greets, rather roughly. ''Now is so not a good time.''
Laurel rubs her stomach and tries to think about something else. Anything else.
Tommy still has one hand holding her hair back and his body is pressed close to hers. So she can feel him tense. She can feel his body stiffen. His voice is tight when he says, demands, ''What?''
She reaches up to flush the toilet. When she pulls her hair away from him and turns, he is staring at her with round, stunned eyes and there is pity written all over his face. She already knows what he's going to say. ''Okay,'' he says, watching as she grabs a piece of toilet paper to wipe her mouth with and settles back against the wall to wait for the back news. ''Okay, I'll tell her. We'll be home as soon as possible. Just keep us updated.''
She steels herself for yet another devastating blow.
''Um,'' Tommy's voice is gentle and unsure, as if she is some wounded wild animal he is being forced to approach. ''Laurel, that was Oliver. It's - Something's happened. It's about your father.''
And the hits just keep on coming.
Somebody out there must really hate her.
.
.
.
Laurel doesn't want to leave Sam.
She doesn't totally trust Sam, if she's being honest.
This is different than the lingering animosity they have had for each other over the past however many months due to certain things that have transpired; something that has never really been discussed or dealt with, just buried underneath love and awkward, stilted conversations. This has nothing to do with anyone's feelings or anyone's attitude or anyone's overprotectiveness. This has everything to do with the fact that Laurel straight up does not trust Sam alone with Dean's body. She doesn't trust him not to do something stupid. She doesn't want to leave him alone. She shouldn't leave him alone.
But it's her father.
What choice does she have?
Sam refuses to come with her and there isn't enough time to make the arrangements necessary to bring the body home with her. In theory, Tommy could stay behind and watch Sam, but there's no chance that he would be able to stop him from doing anything. She could handcuff him to a table or knock him out, but that's more something a Winchester would do and Laurel is not a Winchester. She just loves a Winchester. She has no idea where Cas is and, quite frankly, she's not sure she would trust him either. She barely trusts herself. The only thing that's stopping her from fixing this somehow is that Dean wouldn't want her to.
Laurel is completely out of options.
So she leaves.
She makes Sam promise not to do anything, not to try to bring Dean back, and she leaves.
While Tommy is making the flight arrangements, she goes into Dean's room one last time. He looks even worse than he did before. He's... The body... It's starting to... The skin is grayish now. She doesn't look at the face. She plucks the wallet off the bed where she left it. She takes the money and the credit cards out, places them on the nightstand, and then slips the picture of Sammy and the picture of her back into the wallet. She pauses, fingers hovering, and then she pulls a folded photograph out of her back pocket and slips it inside. She puts the wallet back in his pocket with some difficulty. Wherever he's going, whether it's in the ground or a hunter's funeral pyre, they should be with him. He would want that.
She takes a few items of clothing from his closet without really thinking about it. Mostly things that still smell like him or things she bought for him. She takes the picture of them that she didn't even know he kept on his bedside table, that one Zeppelin record with their song on it, and that pink iPod that Charlie got him and filled up with an odd mixture of sugary bubblegum pop, indie rock, and classic rock. You need to expand your music taste, Charlie had said when she slipped the iPod in his shirt pocket and kissed his cheek. Don't be a dinosaur. Next time I'm here, I'll put some punk rock, hip hop and metal on there, okay? Charlie had laughed for three minutes straight when Laurel called her to tell her that she had caught Dean singing a Robyn song while washing the dishes.
Oh, god.
Charlie.
She doesn't know.
Someone will have to tell her when she gets back from Oz. If she gets back. And Garth. And Jody Mills. Krissy Chambers. Linda Tran, maybe. If she cares. Sonny. Thea. Laurel knows Thea and Dean had at least something of a bond for awhile, probably because Dean can't resist being a big brother and before Oliver came home, Thea was in desperate need of a big brother. It hasn't exactly been as strong this year as it once was, but it was strong enough for Dean to be very adamant that Roy Harper was not good enough for her, and it will be strong enough for Thea to feel that loss. Oh, and then there's Castiel. Jesus Christ, Cas. If he doesn't know already. How is she supposed to tell him his best friend is dead? He's going to be completely devastated. Her father doesn't know yet either. He cared about Dean, too. Maybe he didn't quite love Dean like the son he never had, but he was at least used to having him around.
She's probably the one who is going to have to make those phone calls. She rakes a hand through her greasy hair. How is this where her life has gone? How has any of this happened? Laurel glances down at the duffel bag she's hastily stuffed things into. His red and blue plaid flannel shirt is lying on top. Without a second thought, she pulls off her sweatshirt and replaces it with the flannel. It's not as warm as the sweatshirt, but it still smells like him. She's sure there will come a time where reminders of him will hurt - three weeks after the boat went down, she couldn't stand to even look at anything that reminded her of Sara and her old room in their parents' house was closed up and wasn't opened until long after her mother had left and her father moved into an apartment - but right now, it's comforting.
She lingers in the room for just a few minutes longer, unable to leave, and then she kisses his cold hand goodbye and walks out the door.
It's the last time she will ever see Dean.
.
.
.
Or rather, it's the last time she will ever see Dean human.
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.
.
They're driving when it happens.
They've been driving for about twenty five minutes on their way to the airport. She hasn't said a word since they left and Tommy keeps throwing her these concerned looks, opening and closing his mouth. He wants to say something but he doesn't know what to say. They're driving past trees, trees and more trees, and the sky overhead is an ugly gray. The wind howls against the car and the clouds roll in fast.
There's a storm coming.
It happens fast.
It comes out of nowhere and barrels into her at full force. There's a pull in her chest, a tugging in her gut, and an aching kind of need that pulsates through her whole body and surrounds her entirely. It's like a craving only stronger and she has no idea what it is that she's craving. It's not alcohol. Or pills. She knows what that kind of need feels like. It almost feels like something inside of her is burning, only instead of outright bursting into flames it just simmers. Whatever it is, it takes over every inch of her.
She squirms uncomfortably in her seat, trying to ignore the sweat breaking out on her forehead or the way things start to spin around her. Her entire body is buzzing with some sort of otherworldly concoction of pain, pleasure, need, grief, anger, and also the world's worst nausea.
It's... a panic attack? Maybe?
Either that or she has lost every bit of sanity left in her.
''Tommy,'' she's barely in control of her own voice. ''Tommy, pull over.''
He turns to look at her sharply. ''What? Why?''
''I need you to pull over.''
She must look as bad as she feels because Tommy pulls over without another word. She fumbles for the door handle and throws open the door before the car is even stopped. She unbuckles her seatbelt with hands that are shaking so badly they're nearly useless and goes sprawling out of the car, onto her hands and knees. Gravel cuts into the palms of her hands but she can barely feel the sting of the pain, still too focused on whatever is coursing through her right now. She can hear Tommy talking to her very faintly and then not at all, the beat of her heart and a strange rushing sound drowning out the sound of his voice.
She tries to vomit, dry heaving, body desperately attempting to get something out, but nothing comes up. There is sweat trickling down the back of her neck and she feels lightheaded. She feels like she has lost all control of her body. It is the most extreme case of physical and emotional need that she has ever felt, to the point where it's agonizing, only she has no idea what it is that she needs. Sleep, maybe? Food? Is this a low blood sugar thing? Or is it Dean? Is something telling her to go back?
All she knows is that she wants it to stop.
It hurts.
And then, just like that, it stops.
She is left panting on the side of the road, just as the rain comes. Aside from a hollow and somewhat hungry feeling somewhere deep inside - and also the mind numbing grief - she feels fine. She doesn't know whether to blame this on grief, sleep deprivation, lack of food, nausea, or her poor emotional state. She has no idea if she can logically blame that on any of those things.
...She's going to anyway.
It was probably just an overflow of emotions. It was probably just a panic attack.
What else could it have been?
.
.
.
It's not that he wakes up.
It's how he wakes up.
There is no gasp of air as old life returns to the body, as the heart starts beating, the blood starts pumping, and the lungs fill with air. The eyes snap open, a brand new endless black, and the fingers twitch around the blade that has been placed in the hands, but there is no gasp, no movement, no breath of life. Because there is no life.
There is still a dead body lying in the bed.
It's just awake.
''You're going to be disoriented for awhile,'' a voice says. ''Give it a few minutes.''
The body in the bed does not know the name of the person talking to him, nor does he remember his own name. In the first few moments after awakening, he cannot remember anything. Not his name, where he was born, who he loves, who he hates, his mother's name, nothing. But he can see. He can see in ways he thinks - knows - he couldn't before. He can see everything.
It's horrifying.
Terror is the first thing that comes back to him. It's the first thing he's able to remember, the first emotion he feels, and it is something familiar. The terror feels like coming home. Whoever he was before, he must have been terrified all the time for it to be this familiar, for it to fit in his skin so seamlessly. The air is next. It slams into him like a gut punch. He gasps and wants to move but he can't. He gulps in as much as he possibly can, lungs filling with much needed oxygen, burning from lack of use. He can't get enough air. He keeps gasping and choking on it but it's never enough. Is this what drowning feels like? The heart starts slowly, and then gradually speeds up until it's pounding hard and fast in his chest, overcompensating after being still for so long. There's a name on his tongue when his voice comes back but he can't get it out around the choking. He doesn't recognize it anyway, not at first, but the names keep coming and coming, filling up his head and he can't put faces to them.
He can't move his arms, can't curl his fingers, can't even feel his legs. He's paralyzed. Stuck. Trapped in his own body. Something is wrong with him. Something happened. He doesn't know what has happened to him. He can't remember. It's right there. He can feel it. He just can't remember.
But he remembers a boy named Sam.
(Take your brother outside as fast as you can! Don't look back!
A boy in the backseat with his toy airplane, waiting for him.
A boy on a bus with his backpack, running away from him.
I see a light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't - I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it.
I believe in you, Dean.
No, Dean, I wouldn't. Same circumstances... I wouldn't.
You've convinced yourself you're doing more good than bad. But you're not.
A boy dying in the dirt.
A boy dying in a hospital bed.
Most important?
Watch out for Sammy.)
A woman named Laurel.
(Excuse me, are you Dinah Laurel Lance?
Um, yes. Yes, hi. I actually just go by Laurel, though. Laurel Lance. And you are?
She's wearing a blue dress and twirling for him.
There's a flash of white teeth, dimples, eyes that shine, soft hands and an 'I love you'.
I get tired of you leaving. I feel like there's more leaving than coming home.
Her lips were soft, always soft, and she tasted like cherries.
Well, I'm here. You've got me. You've always got me.
Are you sure you can't stay a little while longer?
Honey, I really can't talk right now. I'll call you as soon as I can, okay?
Hey, pretty bird.)
An angel named Cas.
(Good things do happen.
We're making it up as we go.
A blinding white light and the shadow of huge, unearthly wings.
You don't think you deserve to be saved.
There's an explosion, a splash of water. A trench coat floating in the water.
Nobody cares that you're broken!
You can't save everyone, my friend. Though you try.
You're just a man. I'm an angel.
What a brave little ant you are.
Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?)
He thinks he loved them. He knows he did. His name comes last, this faint little whisper from somewhere inside of him.
His name is Dean.
He moves.
Dean lurches off the bed with a strangled, guttural sound that comes from deep in his throat, and he goes down hard on his hands and knees. His body feels wrong, like it's caught somewhere between stiff and limp. He can't make it work the way it should. He's cold, too. So cold he's shivering. His hands feel like ice. This isn't right. None of this is right. There's a hospital bracelet on the floor. He's in his room, he notes, while his body is busy shuddering, trying to get used to breathing again. This is not where it happened. This is not where he died. He remembers now.
Dean Winchester. His name is Dean Winchester. He has a brother named Sam, a friend named Cas, and he has been in love with Laurel Lance for over five years, going on six. He even remembers when their anniversary is. His mother's name was Mary. His father's name was John. His life has ended. He remembers that. He remembers death. He remembers pain. There was no numbness. There was no peace. There was only pain and blood and he couldn't get all the words out, no matter how hard he tried. And then it was over.
And there was a house.
It was dark, and there were no stars. There was no moon either. Just the porch lights from the house in front of him. It was comforting. The porch lights. They felt like coming home. He felt warm there. His mother was inside the house. She was waiting for him.
She was very beautiful.
He wanted to go inside. He wanted to see her, to feel her, to wrap her up and never let her go. She was waiting for him, he had to be there. Why wouldn't he go inside? Why couldn't he open the door? He was done. He was finished. He wanted to rest. He wanted to go home to her.
He had been ready.
Why is he still here?
He looks around the room wildly, panicked, searching for the picture of her that he knows is here somewhere, just to see her. But it's not on the desk where it usually is and he can't find her face. Every part of this is excruciating. The air returning to his lungs, his heart banging loudly in his chest; gasping and choking and clawing at the carpet like an animal while the blood pumps and the brain tries to catch up. Being alive is excruciating. Every movement feels like torture, breathing is painful and it's worthless, and he doesn't understand why this is happening. Did Sam do this? Did Laurel? No. No, they couldn't have. They don't have the power to do this.
The anger that begins to soak into every inch of him feels different than it once did. Stronger. There is rage and sick, twisted little impulses finding a home in his body, burrowing into his head and his heart like they think they can fool him into believing that they have always been there, a part of him, just waiting to be released. There's a blade in his hand that wants him to do bad things, to be bad, to be someone else, and every second is a struggle to not give in, to not want these things.
He can't pretend to be the same Dean he once was, he knows this. He tries. That Dean is dead and gone, a rotting memory, and this is all that's left. He knows, you see. He knows the second he opens his eyes. He can feel it in his blood, in the way his heart beats differently, the way he breathes, the way his hands curl into fits. It's in the way he sees things now; how everything is dull and bright all at the same time and how it is all harsh and confusing and loud.
He's not human.
Not anymore.
''Welcome to the world, kiddo,'' a smooth, accented voice says from the other side of the room. ''Isn't this so much better?''
Dean's head snaps up and he looks at the source of the voice.
Crowley.
He's grinning. He looks like a little boy on Christmas morning who has just unwrapped the biggest present under the tree and it's everything he ever wanted and batteries too.
Dean's black, expressionless dead eyes don't give anything away but the way his lips curl back into a snarl and the furious growl that erupts from his chest seem to give Crowley an idea of what's about to happen because he takes a step back. There is a brief flash of an out of place emotion that skitters across his face for half a second. It's fear. Crowley is afraid of him.
He should be.
Dean is faster than Crowley. He's across the room in three strides, grabbing onto Crowley's jacket and slamming him back against the wall hard. Something cracks.
Crowley is laughing. ''Oh, the places you'll go,'' he hums out. ''Look at this.'' He meets Dean's eyes. ''A blank canvas. Ready for a masterpiece. You know,'' he offers him a toothy smile. ''The one good thing your father ever did was shape you into a mindless soldier. You've always been a wonderfully obedient puppy. I wonder what you'll be like now. I'd very much like to see it. Tell me, soldier,'' his voice drops down to a low murmur. ''Would you like an order?''
Dean cocks his head to the side and stares at Crowley, blank. Emotionless. Before Crowley has a chance to give another smarmy speech, Dean's hand has wrapped around his throat. He lifts Crowley off the ground with one hand, squeezing, nails digging into his skin until he draws blood. He holds his other hand out, twitches his fingers, and the blade - the one that is part of him now - sails into his outstretched hand, where it belongs. He presses the tip of it right above Crowley's heart, ready to slam it down. ''You think you can make me a monster?'' They're the first words he's spoken and they come out in a barely audible rasp. He doesn't sound like himself. As he speaks, the black slowly drains from his eyes, for now, leaving behind tired green eyes that are probably not nearly as intimidating as he wants them to be. ''You think I'm going to let you do this to me?''
Crowley chokes out a cruel laugh. ''You think I did this to you? I didn't do anything to you, you foolish coward. You did this to yourself,'' he spits out. ''You did all of this because you hated yourself and you wanted to die. Well, congratulations, Dean. You're dead. You just didn't think about what would happen after, did you?'' Another laugh. ''Can't even kill yourself right, can you? But that's all right. This is going to be so much better. You're going to love this,'' he gasps out. ''Good men make the best monsters.''
Despite the fact that every fiber of his being is telling him to end this, Dean - or the thing that used to be Dean - lets Crowley go. Just drops him right at his feet and clenches his jaw, waiting. There is blood on his fingers and it feels warm and wet and good. He clutches the blade tighter as Crowley rises to his feet, body poised to attack.
''Oh, Dean,'' Crowley shakes his head. ''Dean, Dean, Dean. We're going to have so much fun together,'' he says, smoothing down his coat. ''Trust me on that.''
''We?'' Dean sneers. He points the blade at him. ''Crowley, I may be a demon, but I am not yours.''
''I beg to differ actually,'' is the pleasant conversational response. ''You're going to be my best. My greatest weapon. My good boy.'' There's a disconcerting twinkle to his eyes. ''Every king needs a faithful knight, after all.''
''Why would I do that? Why would I ever - ''
''Simple, really.'' Crowley takes a seat in the chair next to the bed and crosses one leg over the other. ''I have something you don't.''
''And what's that?''
With a pause clearly meant for dramatic effect, Crowley produces something from his pocket. As soon as Dean sees it, the bottom drops out and the air around him thins. No. Not her. Anyone but her. Crowley hums thoughtfully and licks his lips, staring at the object in his hands. He looks up at Dean's defeated, still quite pale face, watching as his eyes, hungry and hollow, follow his every movement, even as he tucks the item away. ''What I have,'' he practically purrs out, ''is leverage.''
.
.
.
We say jellyfish
have no hearts.
We say we do.
Jesus said, ''Forgive them, Father
For they do not know what they are doing.''
Is that true?
Do we not know what we have done?
ANDREA GIBSON | ACTIVIST
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end chapter one
AN: Holy moly, I can't believe I finally have the first chapter posted.
The posting schedule for this fic (yes, it even has a posting schedule) is going to be every other Friday. Like I mentioned, I have several chapters already written but they need to be edited.
One more thing that I have to mention: Demon!Dean is, obviously, going to be slightly different from the Demon!Dean that appeared in canon because this fic was started before season ten. And Crowley is actually going to be a competent villain, not the pathetic lovelorn waste of a character he is in canon these days.
OKAY! Phew! *wipes sweat away* I think that's it.
Also, HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Halloween has always been my favourite holiday but unfortunately, I'm sick this year. So I hope you all enjoy it for me. :)
