Title: nine-tenths
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun.
Warnings: takes place sometime in season 3
Pairings: NotJohn/Dean
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 460
Point of view: third
Notes: my immediate response to 3.4, "Sin City"
Tell me something, Dean.
He turns, looks at Dad with yellow eyes, knows it's a dream. Can't wake, though, so there's nothing to do but play along.
Tell me a secret, son. Something no one else knows.
And why would I do that, you demonic bastard?
It laughs with Dad's stolen voice, smiles Dad's proud-of-my-boy smile, and Dean wishes he could resurrect his parents' killer just to kill the son of a bitch again.
Because I have something no one else does, something you want quite a lot.
Dean scoffs. Oh, yeah? And what's that?
It steps close, and it smells like Dad. Dean wishes like hell he could wake up now. I have your brother, Dean, it purrs, leaning in close. He's still my boy, just like he's always been. Like he'll always be.
But you're dead, Dean says, stepping back. I fucking killed you.
It laughs again, coldly and darkly, reaches up with Dad's stolen hand to touch his cheek. Dean jerks back but doesn't go far, and Dad's hand—warm, familiar—tightens around his bicep. Yes, you killed me. But, Dean, haven't you noticed that people tend to resurrect around you?
Dean can't think of a single coherent response. The demon in Dad's skin smirks. Keep the faith, boyo. You think killing me changes anything?
It caresses his cheek, ruffles his hair. I'll always be back for him, Dean. In one form or another.
Dad's eyes are golden-yellow and his breath smells like cinnamon, and it's not Dad at all. It leans in, hand still on his face, and Dean knows what's coming—he's seen the signs before.
But this—this dream, this fucking nightmare—is a new depth of Hell.
Dad's lips are warm, his tongue demanding, and Dean tries jerking back, tries waking up.
It's a war, Dean, Dad's voice murmurs into his mouth. And my side will win, because we can't lose. Know why?
Dean says, Why don't you tell me.
Dad's voice gets deeper, the demon giving him an inflection Dean's never heard before.
He knows the answer before the demon speaks, has known since that night of fire and death, since he brought Sam back, since the fucking murdering son of a bitch that took Mama and Daddy asked, You sure what you brought back is one hundred percent Sam?
Dean knew then and he knows now—Sam's the same he's always been.
We have Sam, it says.
And Dean wakes up, a laugh lodged in his throat.
Yeah, he thinks, glancing over to Sam's bed. You sure do.
He rolls out of bed and walks to the bathroom, muttering, "But so do I. And I had him first, you bastard." He looks back towards Sam before shutting the door. "He's mine."