This particular oddspot takes place during 2x01 In My Time of Dying, and starts with John having just laid down that summoning spell in the hospital basement...
Call Divert
However things were going to turn out, John knew they were going to be painful.
But not in his wildest nightmares had he ever seen this coming.
He'd no sooner spoken the words of the ritual then there was the sound of heels on the concrete. He looked up, came face to face with a young woman. Long brown hair, heart-shaped face and God, she couldn't have been more than twenty. She must have been visiting someone in the hospital because John didn't see any staff ID or a patient's bracelet, just gold jewelry at her ears and wrist, tall heels and a blouse-and-pencil-skirt combo that made her look like some high-flyer's secretary.
"You rang?" she – it – asked pleasantly.
John brought the Colt up, sighted down the barrel.
"You and I need to have a talk," he growled.
It eyed the gun disdainfully. "Well, clearly."
There was a pause.
"What was it you wanted to talk about?" the thing enquired.
"You know," John ground out.
It looked amused, the corners of the girl's mouth going up. "I might, but I need to hear it from you. There's value to the spoken word you know."
John was becoming increasingly confused. This wasn't like the demon he knew. There was no gloating, no mocking. It simply stood there, hands folded in front of it, watching him with a look of polite interest on its stolen features. This thing was…courteous.
It was unnerving.
"I…" He swallowed. "I wanna make a deal."
The thing nodded. "Alright."
John's hackles rose. "I give you the Colt, you make Dean better."
He watched, heart in his mouth as the creature's fine brows drew together. Its lips parted, as though puzzled. The clear hazel eyes examined him from head to toe…and focused on the summoning seal at his feet.
"Odd," it murmured. "Before we go any further, could you tell me why you used that particular summoning ritual?"
John frowned. "What? Why?"
"Color me curious," it said, eyes still on the bold chalk lines. "This symbol is also known as the Seal of Saturn, whose creature is the Dragon." It looked back up at him. "The Dragon, in the Judeo-Christian creed at any rate, is another name for the Devil." It smiled. "Or a devil, anyway."
John cocked the gun. "Which means you."
To his utter shock, the thing laughed. Actually laughed! It choked a little, smiling as though trying not to laugh in his face but was unable to smother a bright giggle.
"Oh dear," it said, still chuckling behind slender fingers. "Oh dear, oh dear. Oh, Mr. Winchester, you seem to be under the impression that we have a preexisting relationship. Which we don't, you know. This is the first time I've laid eyes on you."
John felt like he was standing on sand that was rapidly washing away from under his feet.
"No," he said, voice rising. "No, that's not true! You're lying! You killed my wife, my son's girlfriend, dozens, hundreds of others!"
The girl's face went flat. "Now that's just insulting. I've done no such thing." Its eyes narrowed. "Mr. Winchester," it said firmly, "whoever or whatever you think I am…I'm not the creature that hurt your family. You believe me to be a demon, correct?"
John's jaw clenched.
"I see… Mr. Winchester, the ritual you used calls on the Dragon. One with eyes the color of the sun."
It closed its eyes. Opened them…
John's jaw dropped open.
They were gold. Not ugly, malignant yellow, but bright, luminous gold. Like she had lit candles behind her eyes, the buttery light spilling from pupil and iris, making the whites glow.
"Thousands of years ago, I was a dragon, and my eyes are still the color of the sun."
She smiled.
"There are more things on this earth to make deals with than just demons, Mr. Winchester. And luckily for you, not all of them want you dead."
It was dark here, the only light falling in stilted bars across his face and his brother's bed.
"Dean, are you here?"
No answer, not that he was expecting one. Still, some sign would have been nice, just…just something. He kept talking anyway.
"I couldn't find anything in the book. I don't know how to help you. But I'll keep trying', all right? As long as you keep fightin'…"
He tried for a low laugh, but it felt thin and uncertain in his mouth. A piecemeal sound.
"I mean, come on, you can't leave me here alone with Dad, we'll kill each other, you know that."
His smile faded, eyes burning… "Dean, you gotta hold on. You can't go, man, not now. We were just starting to be brothers again." He paused, unsure again.
"Can you hear me?"
Desperate times…
"Look, I'm sure you've heard this before…but you've gotta make an exception. You've gotta cut me a break."
…desperate measures.
"Stage three," Tessa murmured, eyes sympathetic. "Bargaining."
He felt the panic starting and fought it down.
"I'm serious," he told her. "My family's in danger. See, we're kind of in the middle of this…war. And they need me."
"The fight's over."
He should have known, really; reapers are relentless. It didn't stop him from trying, though. Have to keep trying…trying for Dad. For Sammy.
"No, it isn't."
"It is for you." Her face was soft, but implacable. "Dean, you're not the first soldier I've plucked from the field. They all feel the same. They can't leave, victory hangs in the balance. But they're wrong. The battle goes on without them."
Something in his chest felt like it was rending in half. "My brother," he said, voice shaking a little, "he could die without me."
"A dragon?" John said.
"Yes."
"Really?"
"For the fifth time, John," Que said, smiling, "really."
"And you name is…Chinese?"
She snickered delicately. "No, I'm not that kind of dragon. Asia's dragons are sky-dwellers. Heavenly creatures. They consider themselves above deal-making. Mind you, they don't have much of an interest in this world anymore, whereas I do."
John could feel his interest piquing. "What kind of dragon are you, then? And what kind of dragon has an interest in the modern world?"
"What do you know about the Aztecs?"
"Not much," he admitted.
"Well, what you need to know is that one of their objects of worship was a serpent. A great rainbow-feathered python named Quetzalcoatl."
"A dragon with eyes like the sun," John said. "You."
"Exactly." Que smiled. "Of course I was bigger then. I could wrap myself twice around the middle of the Empire State Building and cut it in half with one flex of my sides. My wings blocked the sun when I spread them and flew, and so people used to see by the light of my eyes as I passed over them. I wore feathers the color of every jewel on the planet but when I wanted to disappear they could be any color in the universe."
"You were a pagan god," John said softly.
Que smiled and ducked her head as though he'd told her she was pretty. "I was," she said softly. Then she looked up, and there was a glint of gold behind her pupils. "I am, however diminished. And now… now, I make deals with mortals to keep the species from annihilation."
John shook his head, incredulous. "This is insane. It is. I'm in a hospital boiler room with a fallen god." He narrowed his eyes at her. "And I'm yet to see how saving Dean is its own reward. There's always a catch. There has to be."
She sighed, exceedingly long suffering. "Look. You, your wife, your boys, you're all part of something bigger."
Her gaze was intense, touching something inside of John that made him catch his breath, freezing like a creature hiding in the grass that has unexpectedly met the eyes of a predator.
"I could be killed for telling you this," she tells him. "I could be ripped from existence and strewn across the galaxy never to be whole again. Eternal torment beyond human understanding. You need to know how much I'm risking, how much I'm investing in you, John Eric Winchester."
He nodded, breathless. He'd never been so terrified in his life.
She studied him for moment before nodding to herself.
"Alright. You and I both know what Azazel has planned for your youngest. What you don't know is that his trial by fire will be the first stage of the Judeo-Christian Apocalypse."
"The end of the world?"
"The end of the world as you know it. The first stage is brought about by the death of one of your sons. Either Sam becomes a demon in human form and kills his brother, or he dies and Dean sells his soul to bring him back."
John swallowed hard. Its one thing, to know your children are part of plans made by a creature that has torn your family apart, it's quite another to hear a pagan god tell you. John knew it was going to be horrific, but he never could have conceived of this…
"And me?" he asked, full of trepidation.
"As far as I can tell? Dead. If the one you intended to show up had gotten this call instead of me, he would have demanded your life. He would have to be monumentally stupid not to."
He nodded. "I understand. What do I have to do to stop it?"
Que gazed at him sadly. "It's not what you have to do, John, it's what you have to give up."
"…No. I'm not goin' with you," Dean told her, resolute. "I don't care what you do."
Tessa just watched him sadly, maybe a little resigned. "Well…like you said; there's always a choice. I can't make you come with me. But you're not getting back in your body. And that's just facts. So yes, you can stay. You'll stay here for years, disembodied, scared. And over the decades, it'll probably drive you mad. Maybe you'll even get violent."
Dean stared at her, horror filling him, sour as curdled milk. In his mind's eye, he saw the glass of water going over, the looks of surprise on Dad and Sam's faces.
"What are you sayin'?"
"Dean…" she said, and her distant empathy just curdled his fear further, "how do you think angry spirits are born? They can't let go, and they can't move on. And you're about to become one – the same thing you hunt."
He stepped away from her, feeling like the world was slipping out from under his feet again. Pulling away, falling…
John stared, unseeing, at the chalk lines at his feet. He never could have foreseen this, never dreamed that this would be how it would end…
"And he won't…he won't remember…?"
Que shook her head, watching him from were she leant against the wall.
"No. Not a thing." She tilted her head to the side, gaze sharpening as John let out a low sigh. "I could swear you look relieved."
John looked up at her, weary, and though the guilt coiled hot in his stomach – will he ever forgive me? – he nodded.
"I am. Heaven help me, I am."
"Heaven," Que murmured thoughtfully. "No, John, do not beseech heaven…" A small bitter smile curled one corner of her mouth. "Beseech the Fates instead. Beg for us all. Then maybe your pleas won't fall on deaf ears."
She turned from him, raised her hand and began to paint lines of light upon the stagnant, humid air.
"Go to your sons, John," she said over her shoulder. "Go say your goodbyes."
It was like distance. It was…it was like looking behind you, and seeing something familiar on the horizon, but not wanting to go towards it. Pulling away…
"It's time to put the pain behind you."
He was…he was, but, "And go where?"
"Sorry," she murmured. "I can't give away the big punch line." He felt her hand gently squeezing his shoulder. "Moment of truth. No changing your mind later. So what's it going to be?"
Moment of truth…stay here, become something to be hated and hunted, or go into the unknown. He remembered his mother's words, so long ago, almost another life away; angels are watching over you, baby, go to sleep…
But Mom was dead, and if he left… if he left, what? His body was unusable. He wasn't going anywhere.
He turned to her, ready and –
Overhead, the lights flickered.
Cautious, the pair of them climbed to their feet.
"What are you doin' that for?" he asked, and the fear was back, sickly sweet as it bit into his sides and belly.
He saw it reflected back at him in Tessa's face, in her eyes. "I'm not doing it."
"No," a voice breathed through the dimly lit room, bringing the scent of jasmine and rain with it. "That would be me."
Every light bulb in the room shattered, sending down showers of white sparks. The showers became torrents, whirling dervishes that in turn became the coils of a massive body. Dean saw scales forming along its sides and the white light breaking up into brushstrokes of brilliantly colored feathers, twin arcs becoming wings that filled the room.
While the body roiled, the head remained perfectly still; the skull of a giant snake, swiftly fleshed with glinting scales and a mane of rainbow feathers, its eyes filled with the sweet, burning light of the sun.
"Que?" Tessa breathed.
"Tessa," the feathered serpent said, its voice at once a roar of wind and singing of chimes, "there has been a change of plans."
Its ancient, ageless gaze switched to Dean, who stood rooted to the spot, transfixed. A smile seemed form on the great creature's mouth.
"You have somewhere to be, Dean Winchester."
There was a rush of light and movement. He heard Tessa gasp and closed his eyes against the sudden brightness, opening them a second later to find himself wrapped in those shining coils, the massive wings cocooning him. The thing's face was inches from him.
"This is the end of the world as you know it, Dean," it – no, no, she – breathed. "Though you will not remember it…"
Everything went white.
There was something in his throat, something choking him!
He lurched upwards, coughing violently, trying to reach for the thing. Above him, someone was yelling powerfully for help and he silently agreed.
"Dean," the someone said, and through the blurring of his tears he made out a face with green eyes. Familiar, unfamiliar. What…what was going on?
Then there was someone else there, someone in a white uniform, telling the other to step back, please. Tape was pulled from his face, the tube removed from his throat – thank God – and then there was a tall man by his bed, looking at him with those brilliant green eyes, all full of hope.
"Dean, it's going to be okay…"
"Great," he rasped in reply. "now, who are you?"
The first thing Sam did upon seeing his father was sock him in the teeth.
"What did you do?" he roared as John bent over his bed spitting blood. "What did you do to Dean?"
His father cast him a sidelong look and cautiously wiped the red staining from his face. "You know I'd almost forgotten what your right hook felt like."
"Don't you dare change the subject! What did you do!" Sam snarled.
John sighed and shook his head. He looked…he looked tired. Tired and very, very sad.
"I fixed things. As far as I can, I fixed things." He sighed deeply. "Although I don't know how much good it will do us. She wasn't very clear on that…"
Sam's hackles went up in warning. "Who wasn't clear on what? You're being goddamned cryptic again, Dad."
"I know. I know, Sammy, and I'm sorry. Look, would you just sit down already. Sit down and I'll explain."
Sam froze. "Explain what?"
His father held his eyes, gaze deep and steady and something in Sam's brain clicked over. This was big. This was so big…
"Everything," John said softly. "Sam, I've been bull-headed about this, I know it. But someone very old and very wise gave me a few home-truths –" he smiled ruefully – "and she wasn't gentle about it. There are things you need to know. Stuff I need to tell you."
Sam cautiously sat down, feeling for the chair in an effort not to take his eyes off his father. "Dad, what things?"
"You asked me if I knew what sort of plans the Demon has for you."
Sam nodded. "And for all the children like me. You said you didn't know." He narrowed his eyes. "But you do know, don't you? You lied, again."
John looked down, regret lining his face. It made him look older, and something about that frightened Sam.
"Yeah," his father murmured, voice rough. "Yeah. Sam, I don't expect you to forgive me. I don't. But I need you to listen to what I'm going to tell you, because it will help you survive, and it'll help me help you…"
AN2: And that was where I ran out of steam and the whole thing collapsed in on itself. Fun times.