Everbody Loves a Clown | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual ? )
Word Count: 5956
Warnings: Canon violence, canon gore, coping with parental death, clowns lol
A/N: Special treat since the first episode was kinda short! Happy reading, everyone!
Series Rewrite Masterlist
The only light in the middle of the clearing in the woods came from John’s wrapped, burning body. You stood wordlessly between Dean and Sam, watching as the pyre burned to ash. Dean stared silently while his brother fought tears.
It felt so odd to have spent so much time looking for John— a man you'd only met in passing during a hunt a little over a year ago— to now be standing in front of his burning corpse. It almost felt anticlimactic if you detached emotion completely from your situation.
On the very real and guttural side of things, though, you knew that having spent so little time with John after looking for him for almost a year was going to take a horrible toll on his boys, especially your Dean.
Sam spoke for the first time in hours. “Before he.. before... did he say anything to you? About anything?”
Dean refused to look at you or his brother, but said, “No. Nothing.”
An obvious lie.
***
Over a week after John’s funeral, you were watching Dean work on his car at Bobby’s. Bobby had been nice enough to let the three of you stay with him while Dean got the Impala back in working order.
Selfishly, every time you looked at Dean, you wanted to come right out with your feelings. Although, he was grieving, and you did not want to take advantage of his vulnerability. You wouldn't want your relationship to be born out of such a terrible tragedy.
However, you would continue to be there for him however he needed, even if that meant sitting next to him in the hot sun silently for hours and handing him a wrench every once in a while. You knew better than to ask if he was okay. You’d lost your father, too and knew he wouldn’t be okay for quite some time.
At first, he’d barely tolerated you sitting next to him. He fought you on everything you tried to do for him, but you got him to shut up after a few days. You knew he knew what you were playing at, and you could tell he appreciated it nonetheless.
Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t nearly as well-fortified against his emotions. You could hear him crying in the next room almost nightly, and it broke your heart. But you would rather Sam cry than build himself up against negative feelings the way his brother did. He was more into the touchy-feely-hug-it-out therapy style, and you were more than happy to give that to him. These boys needed you to be strong for them, and you would happily do so for as long as they needed.
“How's the car coming along?” Sam asked, approaching you and Dean, who was under his car. You sat next to where his boots stuck out with a tool box in your lap.
“Slow,” Dean responded.
“Yeah? Need any help?”
“What, you under a hood? I'll pass.”
“Need anything else, then?”
Dean rolled himself out from under the car and stood up above you. You looked between Dean’s face, set in hard lines, and his brother’s puppy-dog stare. “Stop it, Sam.”
“Stop what?” the younger brother asked innocently.
“Stop asking if I need anything, stop asking if I'm okay. I'm okay. Really. I promise,” Dean scoffed.
“Alright, Dean, it's just—” Sam took a deep breath. “We've been at Bobby's for over a week now, and you haven't brought up Dad once.”
“You know what? You're right. Come here. I'm gonna lay my head gently on your shoulder. Maybe we can cry, hug, and maybe even slow dance.” You knew the bite in Dean’s voice was all a mask.
“Don't patronize me, Dean,” Sam returned. “Dad is dead. The Colt is gone, and it seems pretty damn likely that the demon is behind all of this, and you're acting like nothing happened.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Say something, all right? Hell, say anything! Aren't you angry? Don't you want revenge? But all you do is sit out here all day long buried underneath this damn car.”
“Sam, let it go—” you tried, but Dean continued to talk over you.
“Revenge, huh?” Dean chuckled humorlessly. “Sounds good. You got any leads on where the demon is? Making heads or tails of any of Dad's research? Because I sure ain't. But you know, if we do finally find it— oh. No, wait, like you said. The Colt's gone. But I'm sure you've figured out another way to kill it. We've got nothing, Sam. Nothing, okay? So you know the only thing I can do? Is I can work on the car.” He got back down under it.
“Well, we've got something, alright?” Sam crouched down next to you and handed you a cell phone. “It’s what I came out here to tell you. This is one of dad's old phones. Took me a while, but I cracked his voicemail code. Listen to this.”
Dean pushed himself out from under the car again and sat up next to you as you played the voicemail. “John, it's Ellen. Again. Look, don't be stubborn, you know I can help you. Call me.”
“That message is four months old,” Sam explained.
“Dad saved that chick's message for four months?” Dean raised an eyebrow.
Sam nodded.
“Who’s Ellen?” you asked. “Any mention of her in your dad’s journal?”
“No. But I ran a trace on her phone number, and I got an address.”
***
You and the boys ended up taking one of Bobby’s beat-up minivans to the Roadhouse Saloon; the address Ellen’s voicemail led to.
“This is humiliating. I feel like a fuckin’ soccer mom!” Dean groaned as he parked the car.
“It’s the only one Bobby had running, dude,” you reminded him. You followed the boys into the purposefully dilapidated-looking building.
“Hello? Anybody here?” Dean asked loudly. No response ever came. All you could hear was a fly buzzing and a light popping. You caught sight of a man passed out on the pool table facing away from you.
“Hey, buddy?” Sam said. He turned back to you and Dean. “I'm guessing that isn't Ellen.” He headed into a back room to look around. You walked a little ahead of Dean, only turning around when you heard him say. “Oh god, please let that be a rifle.”
You whipped out your gun and turned to see a pretty petite blonde holding a cocked rifle to Dean’s back. “No, I'm just real happy to see you. Don't move.”
“Hey!” you said. She looked to you, but didn’t move her gun from Dean’s back. “You shoot him, and you’re dead,” you told her.
“Well, he moves, and he’s dead,” she replied.
“Ladies, Ladies, please,” Dean smirked. “You know, you should know something, miss. When you put a rifle on someone, you don't want to put it right against their back. Because it makes it real easy to do…” He turned around fluidly and grabbed the rifle. “That.”
The blonde punched him square in the nose and took back the rifle. You cocked your pistol, catching her attention.
“Sam! A little help, please!” Dean said.
“Sorry, Dean, I can't right now. I'm a... little tied up.” Sam walked out with his hands on his head and a shotgun pointed at the back of him. An older woman walked out holding it. “Sam? Dean? Winchester?” she said.
“Yeah…?” Dean said.
“Son of a bitch,” the woman muttered.
The blonde spoke up next. “Mom, you know these guys?”
“Yeah, I think these are John Winchester's boys,” she answered, lowering the gun and laughing. “Hey, I'm Ellen. This is my daughter Jo.”
Jo lowered her rifle as well. “Hey,” she smiled.
“Oh, we’re just supposed to be cool now?” you remarked, still pointing your gun at the blonde.
“(Y/N), cool it,” Dean warned. You did as told and slowly lowered your gun, still stand-offish.
“You're not gonna hit me again, are you?” Dean asked Jo.
Ellen handed him a small towel filled with ice.
“Thanks. You called our dad, said you could help. Help with what?” he asked as he took it from her.
“Well, the demon, of course,” she stated as if it was obvious. “I heard he was closing in on it.”
“What, was there an article in the Demon Hunters Quarterly that I missed?” Dean snarked. “I mean, who- who are you? How do you know about all this?”
The brunette scoffed. “Hey, I just run a saloon. But hunters have been known to pass through now and again. Including your dad a long time ago. John was like family once.”
“Oh yeah? How come he never mentioned you before?”
She looked down and softened her voice. “You'd have to ask him that.”
“So why exactly do we need your help?” Dean questioned.
Now you wanted Dean to cool it. “Relax, man,” you warned.
“Hey, don't do me any favors. Look, if you don't want my help, fine. Don't let the door smack your ass on the way out. But John wouldn't have sent you if—” Ellen stopped suddenly. “He didn't send you.” She looked frantically between Dean and Sam. “He's all right, isn't he?”
Dean refused to look at her, but Sam answered instead. “No. No, he isn't. It was the demon, we think. It, um, it just got him before he got it, I guess.”
Ellen looked sad. “I’m so sorry.”
“It's okay. We're all right,” Dean replied.
“Really? I know how close you and your dad were.”
“Really, lady, I'm fine,” he growled.
“Dean, relax,” you urged him quietly.
Sam continued the conversation with Ellen. “So look, if you can help, we could use all the help we can get.”
“Well, we can't. But Ash will,” she smirked.
“Who's Ash?” you asked.
“Ash!” she called.
You turned to the man on the pool table as he jerked up and flailed up. “What? It closin' time?”
Sam snorted. “That’s Ash?”
Jo hummed. “Mm-hmm. He's a genius.”
You looked at her, skeptical.
“Sit, please,” Ellen said, and she and her daughter moved around the bar opposite you while you slapped a folder down in front of Ash. He sat across the bar from you.
“You've gotta be kidding me, this guy's no genius. He's a Lynyrd Skynyrd roadie,” Dean remarked.
Ash grinned drunkenly. “I like you.”
“Thanks,” the older brother smiled, seeming slightly confused by the drunk.
“Just give him a chance,” Jo urged.
You opened the folder and pushed it toward Ash. “That’s about a year’s worth of John’s work. See if you can make heads or tails of it.”
Ash shook his head as he looked through the papers. “Come on. This crap ain't real. There ain't nobody can track a demon like this.”
“Our dad could,” said Sam.
“There are non-parametrics, statistical overviews, prospects and correlations, I mean, damn!” Ash’s cadence made you giggle. “They're signs. Omens. Uh, if you can track 'em, you can track this demon. You know, like crop failures, electrical storms— You ever been struck by lightning? It ain't fun.”
“Can you track it or not?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, with this, I think so. But it's gonna take time, uh, give me—” he thought for a moment— “fifty-one hours.” He got up to leave, but Dean stopped him.
“I, uh, I dig the haircut.”
He waved his hair around dramatically. “All business up front, party in the back.”
Jo walked around Dean, flirting a little. You could’ve killed her.
He offered Jo a polite smile, but you apparently were not doing a good job of hiding your jealousy.
“Easy, tiger,” Dean chuckled, shooting you a smirk.
You could practically feel Jo checking Dean out.
“She’s looking at you like a hunk of meat,” you replied, talking through your teeth.
“What, you mean, like you do?” he replied, smirking.
“I do not!” You paused at his deadpan look. “I mean, sometimes, maybe, quite possibly, but not right now.”
He nodded. “And you know, I, uh, I appreciate that.”
“Do you really? Sounded like you had a gun to your head when you said that,” you giggled.
He looked back at you sincerely. “You know I do.”
"I do just have... one question, though," you said, unable to stop the words coming out of your mouth due to the sudden, subtle flirting coming from Dean.
He nodded for you to continue.
"I'm assuming you pieced together what I was gonna tell you back at the hospital," you trailed off.
Dean nodded again, the ends of his lips tugging upward.
"You're not... freaked out?"
He shook his head, still smiling. "Opposite of freaked out."
You could feel your cheeks heating, and you looked down at the bar in front of you. Dean's chuckle was music to your ears despite the way it spurred on your embarrassment.
Then, Sam approached you and Dean. “A few murders, not far from here, that Ellen caught wind of. Looks to me like there might be a hunt.”
“Yeah. So?” Dean asked.
“So, I told her we'd check it out.”
***
Dean continued to grumble about the “stupid minivan” the whole way to your next hunt. Sam did research as you scribbled in your journal. Helping the boys was a task you wouldn't give up for anything, but it was beginning to bring up some negative emotions and memories for you. Journaling was helping to calm the storm inside you.
“You've gotta be kidding me. A killer clown?” Dean scoffed.
“Yeah. He left the daughter unharmed and killed the parents. Ripped them to pieces, actually,” Sam responded.
“And this family was at some carnival that night?”
“Right, right. The, uh, Cooper Carnivals.”
“So, how do we know it’s not some psycho in a clown suit?” you piped up.
“Well, the cops have no viable leads, and all the employees were tearing down shop. Alibis all around. Plus this girl said she saw a clown vanish into thin air. Cops are saying trauma, of course,” Sam explained.
“Well, I know what you're thinking, Sam. Why did it have to be clowns?” Dean mocked.
“Oh, give me a break,” the brunet muttered.
You smiled but refused to make fun of him, because “everyone is afraid of something.”
“You’re scared of clowns?” you asked.
“Yeah, he still busts out crying whenever he sees Ronald McDonald on the television,” Dean told you.
“Well, at least I'm not afraid of flying,” Sam deadpanned.
“Planes crash!”
“And apparently clowns kill!”
"Boys—!"
“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean mumbled. “So these types of murders, they ever happen before?”
“Uh, according to the file, 1981, the Bunker Brothers Circus, same M.O. It happened three times, three different locales,” the younger Winchester explained.
“It’s weird, though, spirits are usually bound to specific locales, y’know,” you said. “So how's this one moving from city to city, carnival to carnival?”
“Cursed object, maybe,” Dean suggested. “Spirit attaches itself to something and the, uh, carnival carries it around with them.”
“Great. Paranormal scavenger hunt.” You crossed your arms over your chest.
“Well, blame Sam. It was his idea. By the way, why is that? You were awfully quick to jump on this job.” Dean threw a look to his brother.
“So?”
“It's just… not like you, that's all. I thought you were hell-bent for leather on the demon hunt.”
You eyed Sam strangely, too.
The younger Winchester softened. “I don't know, I just think, this job, it's what Dad would have wanted us to do.”
“What Dad would have wanted?” Dean turned his face to Sam.
“Yeah. So?” Sam challenged.
“Nothin'.”
***
You and the boys decided to join the carnival after the second family had been murdered to get a closer look at the happenings during the carnival. “Friends close, freak-shows closer,” Dean had said.
When you entered yet another tent in search of the show’s organizer. You found a man throwing knives at a target; all landing near but not quite on the bulls-eye.
“Excuse me, we're looking for a Mr. Cooper; have you seen him around?” the older brother asked.
The man turned around and pulled off his sunglasses. “What is that, some kind of joke?”
“Oh. God, I'm— I'm sorry,” Dean said.
“You think I wouldn't give my teeth to see Mr. Cooper? Or a sunset, or anything at all?”
Dean whispered to you, “Wanna give me a little help here?”
You shook your head. “Not really.”
“Hey man, is there a problem?” a voice interrogated from behind you. You turned to see a very short man in a red cape.
“Yeah, this guy hates blind people,” the knife-thrower said.
“No, I don't, I—” Dean’s gorgeous smile was doing nothing to help him in this situation.
“Hey, buddy, what's your problem?” the short man scowled.
“Nothing, it's just a little misunderstanding.”
“Little?! You son of a bitch!” The man went to charge Dean.
“No, no, no, no! I'm just— could somebody tell me where Mr. Cooper is?”
You and Sam snickered.
“Please?” you asked.
The short man looked up at you, and his gaze softened. “Sure, sweetheart, follow me.”
“Thanks,” you smiled, looking back at the boys.
Dean’s jaw was clenched for a reason you weren’t quite sure of. When you asked, he said, “Just don’t like anybody else callin’ you that.”
You smiled lopsidedly. He could be really sweet when he wanted to be.
Mr. Cooper met you at the door of his office and invited you in. “You three picked a hell of a time to join up. Take a seat.”
You looked at the available seating options, and Dean motioned for you to take the normal of the two chairs. You obliged, and Dean stood behind you, forcing Sam to sit in the obnoxious pink chair with a giant clown face on it. He sat on the chair hesitantly and refused to relax into it.
“We've got all kinds of local trouble,” Mr. Cooper continued.
“What do you mean?” you asked.
“Oh, a couple of folks got themselves murdered. Cops always seem to start here first. So, you three ever worked the circuit before?”
“Yes, sir, last year through Texas and Arkansas,” Sam responded.
“Doing what? Ride jockeys? Butcher? ANS men?”
“Yeah, it's, uh, little bit of everything, I guess.”
Mr. Cooper eyed your group strangely. “You three have never worked a show in your lives before, have you?”
“Nope,” Dean grinned. “But we really need the work. Oh, and uh, Sam here's got a thing for the bearded lady.”
“You see that picture? That's my daddy.” The showrunner pointed to a black and white picture on the wall of a man in a fedora in front of a ferris wheel.
“You guys could be twins,” you pointed out.
Mr. Cooper smiled thoughtfully. “He was in the business. Ran a freakshow. Till they outlawed them, most places. Apparently displaying the deformed isn't dignified. So most of the performers went from honest work to rotting in hospitals and asylums. That's progress, I guess. You see, this place, it's a refuge for outcasts. Always has been. For folks that don't fit in nowhere else.
"But you three? You should go to school. Find a couple of girls. Marry this one, maybe.” The man gestured to you. “Have two point five kids. Live regular.”
Dean went to say something, but Sam leaned forward, his eyes serious. “Sir? We don't want to go to school. And we don't want regular. We want this.”
You turned to him skeptically, as did Dean.
Mr. Cooper told the three of you to return in a few hours for training, which you were a little surprised by the suddenness of.
“I guess they really are desperate,” you said as the three of you left the carnival holding your uniforms to go change into.
“Were you serious?” Dean asked his brother.
“What?” Sam furrowed his brows at him.
“That whole, uh, I-don't-want-to-go-back-to-school thing. Were you just saying that to Cooper or were you, you know, saying it?” Dean pressed further at his younger brother’s hesitance. “Sam?”
“I don't know,” he replied.
“You don't know? I thought that once the demon was dead, and the fat lady sings ,that you were gonna take off, head back to Wussy State,” Dean deadpanned.
“I'm having second thoughts,” was all the younger brother answered with.
“Really?”
“Yeah. I think. Dad would have wanted me to stick with the job.”
Dean stopped Sam. “Since when do you give a damn what Dad wanted? You spent half your life doing exactly what he didn't want, Sam.”
“Since he died, okay? Do you have a problem with that?”
Dean’s voice hardened but remained sarcastic. “Naw, I don't have a problem at all.”
***
Later that day, you returned with the boys wearing a bright red “Cooper Carnival” jacket to begin your “janitorial job.” You were waiting for Sam or Dean to call you to tell you when to meet up with them for further investigation.
Before you had gotten a call from either, you noticed a little girl tugging on her mother’s jacket. “Mommy, look at the clown!” She pointed at something off in the distance.
You followed her line of sight only to see nothing.
“What clown?” the mother asked. “Come on, sweetie, come on.”
You called Sam immediately. “Hey, dude. I got something.”
***
The three of you then chose to stake out the family’s home that evening. Dean had just relayed to you how the blind man overheard him calling Sam about the case and had to tell him you three were writing a book about the supernatural.
“Dean, I cannot believe you told Papazian about the homicidal phantom clown,” Sam snorted.
“I told him an urban legend about a homicidal phantom clown. I never said it was real,” Dean argued. He pulled a gun and cocked it. You jumped over the seat and shoved his arm down. “What are you, nuts? You’re gonna get us busted.”
“Oh, and get this,” Dean continued. “I mentioned the Bunker Brother's Circus in '81 and their, uh, evil clown apocalypse? Guess what.”
“What?” you and Sam asked.
“Before Mr. Cooper owned Cooper Carnival, he worked for Bunker Brothers. He was their lot manager.”
“So you think whatever the spirit's attached to, Cooper just brought it with him?” Sam questioned.
“Something like that.” The older brother shook his head and sighed. “I can't believe we keep talking about clowns.”
***
You and the Winchesters had been stalking these poor people’s home for hours now. Well, you and Sam had, at least. Dean, on the other hand, was dozing in the front seat. You shook him awake when you saw a phantom clown appear at the front door.
“Dee, look,” you said.
He hummed and sat up, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He turned and looked at you when he saw the girl leading the clown inside.
You jumped out of the car and went through the back entrance of the house. You hid around a corner down the hallway from where the little girl and the clown were.
“Wanna see Mommy and Daddy? They're upstairs,” you heard the girl say. At that moment, Sam leapt out and grabbed the young girl who screamed.
Simultaneously, you shot at the clown while Dean cocked his shotgun again. “Sam, watch out!” he yelled.
The clown leapt out the window, turning invisible as it shattered the glass of the front door.
The parents ran downstairs and began shouting at you and the brothers. You and the brothers dropped the girl and sprinted away, hearing the girl whine, “ Mommy, Daddy, they shot my clown!” as you headed out.
***
A while later, you and the brothers pulled off the side of the road and ditched the crappy van Dean had been driving you around in. You pulled the license plate off the back of the van and stuffed it in your duffel bag.
“You really think they saw our plates?” Sam asked you.
“I’m not taking any chances,” you said.
“I hate this fuckin’ thing anyway,” Dean grumbled. He began to lead you and his brother off the side of the road. “Well, one thing's for sure.”
“What?” you asked.
“We're not dealing with a spirit. I mean, that rock salt hit something solid,” Dean responded.
“Yeah, a person? Or maybe a creature that can make itself invisible?” Sam suggested.
“I don’t know, man, I’ve never heard of a creature like that. And it’s definitely not a person. I have no idea what the hell it could be,” you huffed.
“Did it say anything in Dad's journal?” Dean asked.
Sam cleared his throat and said, “Nope,” pulling out his cell phone.
“Who are you calling?” you asked him.
“Maybe Ellen or that guy Ash'll know something. Hey, you think, uh, you think Dad and Ellen ever had a thing?” Sam smirked.
“No way,” snorted Dean.
“Then why didn't he tell us about her?” retorted Sam.
“I don't know, maybe they had some sort of falling out,” the older brother shrugged.
“Yeah. You ever notice Dad had a falling out with just about everybody?”
You chuckled, but Dean simply nodded and looked at the floor.
Sam lowered his phone. “Well, don't get all maudlin on me, man.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean this ‘strong silent’ thing of yours, it's crap,” Sam answered.
Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh, god.”
“I'm over it. This isn't just anyone we're talking about, this is Dad. I know how you felt about the man.”
Dean started walking a little faster. “You know what, back off, alright? Just because I'm not caring and sharing like you want me to.”
Sam caught up with his brother easily. “No, no, no, that's not what this is about, Dean. I don't care how you deal with this. But you have to deal with it, man. Listen, I'm your brother, all right? I just want to make sure you're okay.”
“Dude, I'm okay. I'm okay, okay? I swear, the next person who asks me if I'm okay, I'm gonna start throwing punches. These are your issues, quit dumping them on me!” the older Winchester said gruffly.
“What are you talking about?” Sam questioned.
“I just think it's really interesting, this sudden obedience you have to Dad. It's like, oh, what would Dad want me to do? Sam, you spent your entire life slugging it out with that man. I mean, hell, you, you picked a fight with him the last time you ever saw him. And now that he's dead, now you want to make it right? Well, I'm sorry Sam, but you can't, it's too little, too late.”
“Why are you saying this to me?”
“Because I want you to be honest with yourself about this. I'm dealing with Dad's death! Are you?”
You looked between the boys and knew Dean was handing Sam a load of bullshit. However, you decided to stow that conversation until you could get him in private.
Sam swallowed harshly, looking upset. “I'm going to call Ellen.” Sam walked a little ahead of you and Dean on the phone.
While Sam spoke to Ellen, you walked beside Dean wordlessly.
“(Y/N), you don’t have to act like I’m a bomb about to go off,” Dean said.
You looked up at him. “I’m not. I just thought you’d appreciate a little silence instead of me asking you to ‘share and care,’ as you put it.”
He nodded. “Thanks.” He intertwined his fingers with yours, allowing you to support him in that simple way. He rubbed his thumb over yours and continued to walk next to you.
When Sam got off the phone, he turned back to you and his brother. “Wha—” He looked down at yours and Dean’s entwined hands and shook his head. “Nevermind. Rakshasa.”
“What's that?” Dean asked.
“Ellen's best guess. It's a race of ancient Hindu creatures. They appear in human form, they feed on human flesh, they can make themselves invisible, and they cannot enter a home without first being invited,” Sam explained.
“So they dress up like clowns, and the children invite 'em in. Why don't they just munch on the kids?”
“No idea. Not enough meat on the bones, maybe?”
“Well, that’s grotesque,” you noted.
“What else'd you find out?” Dean questioned.
“Well, apparently, Rakshasas live in squalor. They sleep on a bed of dead insects.” The younger brother grimaced.
“Nice,” you deadpanned.
“Yeah, and they have to feed a few times every twenty or thirty years. Slow metabolism, I guess.”
“Well, that makes sense. I mean, the Carnival today, the Bunker Brothers in '81—”
Sam cut his brother off. “Right. Probably more before that.”
“Who do we know that worked both shows?” You raised a brow.
“Cooper?” Sam replied.
“Yup.” You thought for a moment. “That picture of his father looked just like him. Maybe it was him.”
“Well, who knows how old he is?” Sam added.
“Ellen say how to kill him?” Dean asked.
“Legend goes, a dagger made of pure brass,” the brunet explained.
“I think I know where to get one of those.”
“Whoa, whoa,” you said. “Before we go stabbing Cooper, I wanna make damn sure it’s him.”
“Oh, you're such a stickler for details, sweetheart,” the older Winchester teased you. “Alright, I'll round up the blade, you two go check if Cooper's got bed bugs.”
***
You and Sam followed instructions and went to Mr. Cooper’s trailer. Dean had left the two of you to go find the blind man. Inside the trailer, you didn’t find any bugs he was nesting on. Just a plain, old twin mattress.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” a voice called from behind you.
You wheeled around to see Mr. Cooper. “Oh, hi! Just the guy I wanted to—”
“Save it,” Mr. Cooper told you. “Get the hell out of here. Oh, and uh, you’re fired.”
You nodded. “I figured.”
You and Sam dashed out of Mr. Cooper’s trailer and over to where Dean had told you he’d be. When you arrived at the blind man’s tent, Dean stumbled out of the door.
“Holy shit, hey,” you said after he’d scared you.
“Hey.”
“So, Cooper thinks we’re Peeping Toms, but it's not him,” Sam explained.
“Yeah, so I gathered. It's the blind guy. He's here somewhere.”
“Well, did you get the—”
“The brass blades? No. No, it's just been one of those days,” Dean sarcastically replied.
“I got an idea. Come on,” Sam said. You and Dean followed him to the funhouse. As you began to go through, the door slammed behind you between you and the brothers.
“Great!” you groaned.
“(Y/N)!” Dean yelled, banging on the door.
“(Y/N)! (Y/N/N), find the maze, okay?” Sam called to you.
“Okay!” you called back. You somehow stumbled your way through the maze and found the brothers. “Oh, thank god,” you sighed.
Sam broke a pipe off the organ a bit ahead of you.
“Where is it?” you asked.
“I don't know, I mean, shouldn't we see its clothes walking around?” Dean answered. A knife flew right past your head, clipping your ear. “Fuck!”
“(Y/N)!” Sam called. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know, Sam, the thing’s invisible!” You jumped up, reached above your head, and grabbed a lever. When you pulled it down, steam poured out of the vent.
“Sam, behind you! Behind you!” you heard Dean say. You began to run in the direction of Dean’s voice through the steam. When you arrived at him, there was a bloodied lump of clothes on the ground with a pipe sticking out from its chest. You turned to Dean who was pinned to the wall by two knives on his arm and helped him free himself.
“You okay?” he asked you.
You nodded as you pulled the last knife out of his jacket.
“I hate funhouses,” he grumbled.
***
You sat next to Dean at Ellen’s bar, and she laid a few beers in front of you. “You kids did a hell of a job.” Ellen nodded at the brothers. “Your dad 'd be proud.”
Sam half-smiled. “Thanks.” He got up to walk over to Ash, and Jo took his place.
“So,” she cleared her throat.
‘Damn, this girl is bold,’ you thought.
“So,” you said.
She ignored you and focused on Dean. “Am I gonna see you again?”
Dean turned to her, surprised. “Do you want to?”
“I wouldn't hate it.”
You rolled your eyes and got up from your chair, heading over to Sam and Ash. You could feel Dean’s eyes on you as you walked away. You knew you had no reason to treat Jo poorly; she was just a young girl with a crush. She had no idea that you and Dean were at all involved. You truly didn’t even know if you and Dean were legitimately involved to begin with.
You noted Ash’s bizarre-looking laptop with exposed wiring and his stack of papers. “Whatcha got there, Pinky?”
He snorted at you. “I’d say I’m a little more Brain than anything, but where ya been? Been waitin’ for ya.”
“What, Ellen didn’t tell you about the clowns?” you asked.
“Clowns? What the fuck—”
You snickered as Dean walked up behind you. “You got something for us, Ash?”
“You find the demon?” Sam questioned.
Ash shook his head. “It's nowhere around. At least, nowhere I can find. But if this fugly bastard raises his head, I'll know. I mean, I'm on it like Divine on dog dookie.”
You laughed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, any of those signs or omens appear, anywhere in the world, my rig'll go off. Like a fire alarm.”
Dean reached for his laptop. “Do you mind…?”
Ash gave him a look, and Dean pulled his hand back from the keyboard.
You smirked a little at the sight. “Ash, where did you learn to do all this?”
“M.I.T. Before I got bounced for... fighting.”
“No way!” you exclaimed.
He smirked at you and took a sip of his beer.
“Okay. Give us a call as soon as you know something?” Dean said, suggesting to you and Sam it was time to go.
“Si, si, compadre.” Ash took the beer Dean had placed down and chugged the rest of it.
You followed the brothers to the door. Ellen stopped you before you could leave. “Hey, listen— if you kids need a place to stay I've got a couple beds out back.”
“Thanks, but no. There's something I gotta finish,” Dean said.
***
“So, you get Jo’s number?” you asked back at Bobby’s junkyard. You sat cross-legged on the hood of one of the cars next to the Impala Dean was working on drinking a beer.
“What?” he asked incredulously. “Why would you think that?”
“Well, she obviously likes you. Kid was shamelessly flirting with you, so I just assumed—”
“No, (Y/N).” He put down the wrench he was holding. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, okay, I just thought—”
He walked over to you and stood between your knees. He ran his hands up and down your thighs. “I’m telling you, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Dean, stop it. You don’t have to come over here and flirt with me just ‘cause I got jealous” you said.
“I’m not,” he assured you. “Look, we haven’t had a chance to talk about everything—”
“And I don’t need us to. I know you need time after your dad—”
“Would you let me finish?”
“Yeah, sorry,” you muttered.
“But I have no interest in Jo. She’s layin’ it on a little too thick for my taste,” he smirked.
"I don't know, Dean, your bar hookups always lay it on pretty thick," you reminded him.
"Yeah, guess you're right. But she's not you. So I'm not interested."
You rolled your eyes playfully. “Okay, well, I’m gonna go get some more beer. You want one?”
He nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
You headed back inside and passed Sam on the way. You found Bobby inside and began to update him on the situation with the brothers.
“I don’t know, Bobby, neither of them are doing well,” you said. “But it’s Dean I’m the most worried about.”
“Why’s that?” the older man asked.
“He’s just… bottling it up. He wouldn’t even let me sit next to him while he worked on his car for the first week we were here. He’s worrying me.”
“Sounds like Dean,” Bobby nodded. “But I think if anybody can get ‘im to open up, it’s gonna be you.”
You eyed him strangely. “What makes you say that?”
“He’s just… different with you. I think he puts up a bit of a front with Sam. But never with you.”
You nodded. “I’ll keep trying.” You grabbed two beers and again passed Sam as he came back into the house with tears in his eyes. As you approached Dean’s car, you heard slamming metal on metal and Dean grunting. You quickened your step to get to him, holding a beer in each hand. When you arrived, you saw him hitting the Impala’s trunk with a crowbar over and over again.
“Dean, what the f—”
He looked up at you and fought back tears. You put the beers on the car behind you and slowly approached him. You opened your arms to him and wrapped them around his torso, and he finally responded by burying his face in your hair. You could feel him still trying to stifle his tears, but it was clear he was unsuccessful. You let him hug you for as long as he needed to.
Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld
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The Devouring of Prometheus
Ohh boy this fic has been over a year in the making and by golly am I proud of it. It was mostly an attempt to imitate Mary Shelley’s writing style while adding more classic lit vore into the world cause oh boy do we need it. This fic is a little darker than my usual fluffy stuff because. You know. It’s Frankenstein. But everything is still safe despite what Victor thinks. Anyways, please enjoy and let me know what you think!
Warnings: Contains soft, safe, unwilling vore, mentions of digestion, mentions of dying, mentions of cannon character death, minor injury, and vomit
Characters: Victor Frankenstein and the Creature
Word Count: 2,830
Mankind has no greater fear than that of being devoured. It is an instinctual fear, engrained deep within our very beings from the moment we are born, as it is in every living being, and yet it is perhaps one of the most uncommon fears to experience in its true, unaltered form. We are quite familiar with the notion of being killed and eaten by a wild beast, since such a thing, while not terribly common in the more civilized parts of the world, is often talked of in books and by explorers returning from long voyages to strange, wild lands. It is a threat to be sure, but perhaps not the most fear inspiring one. A hungry lion might indeed pounce upon you with his teeth and claws bared as if to shred you to ribbons while you lay awake in agony, but in truth he is far more merciful than even most men and will end you swiftly with a bite to the neck before he ever starts to feed. The fear of being eaten in this way, then, is diluted by the promise of a swift death at the claws of a creature who bore you no more malice than you do a butchered duck.
The terror of being consumed lies not in the act of consumption, but in the method. Stories full of giants and ogres who devour men whole and alive fill the countryside and take captive the minds of all who hear them, filling their dreams with images of gnashing teeth and slavering mouths, capable of sending a grown man down, kicking and screaming, in a single swallow. I must confess I never heard much of these tales growing up, aside from a few Clerval was so fond of telling, and when they did reach my ears, I simply scoffed, laughing such frightening images away in the clear light of day when nothing could seem more ridiculous. They were children’s tales, I thought, simply meant to frighten and entertain, for nothing, man or beast, could swallow whole a living man. Oh, how I wish I had been right.
He came for me in the night. I was asleep, or nearly so, when a sudden noise at my window startled me awake. At first I assumed it to be the scratching of a branch or perhaps even some night creature making its rounds through the garden outside. After all, I was far more unfamiliar with the Oxford landscape than my dear friend Clerval, who had spent much of his afternoon exploring the grounds, so I felt there to be no need for concern. Indeed, I had nearly turned over to drift back to sleep when I saw his eyes. Those wretched, sunken, yellow eyes staring as if into my very soul through the dusty window I had neglected to lock in my naivety. I might have screamed had fear not grasped my throat and strangled my voice, and though I longed to run, terror turned my legs to lead and forced me to watch as the fiend pried open the window with a delicate ease that seemed almost laughable compared to the rest of his hulking mass. I pulled my sheet up to shield my chest like a child might, entertaining fantasies that perhaps this was simply a nightmare, and if I remained still in my bed then he would be unable to harm me, but when he began to climb through the window with the elegance of a lion stalking his prey, eyes never once leaving me, panic settled over my heart and I realized this was no mere conjuring of an overworked mind. The beast was here, looming over me in my chambers as I trembled in bed with naught but a thin sheet and even thinner night clothes to protect me.
“Devil! What do you want from me!” I cried at last, terror loosening her claws from my throat. “I have not forgotten our agreement, so why do you insist on tormenting me so!”
I received no reply, the beast more than content to simply stare at my trembling form. Perhaps he enjoyed how weak I must have appeared before him as his eyes flicked over me, almost sizing me up for reasons I could never have comprehended in that moment. Cold and yellow as they were, I could see an inkling of some mysterious emotion behind those eyes, but it’s identity I couldn’t say. Nor did I care. My thoughts were quickly preoccupied as he advanced upon me, padding forwards like some great and terrible cat, until he stopped just shy of the side of my bed, so close I could have reached out and touched him.
Again, I saw that strange emotion flicker behind his dead eyes, but before I had time to ponder it he wrapped his hands around my chest and lifted me from the safety of my bed with terrifying ease, like one might lift a small child or a doll, and while I screamed and writhed in his hideous grasp, his hold only tightened. My ribs creaked and complained under the pressure and my cries became strangled and choked. With a ghastly popping sound he opened his grotesque mouth, jaw hanging at an angle too wide for any human to achieve, and to my upmost horror he quickly stuffed my head inside with the terrifying efficiency of a ravenous beast. The slimy muscle of his tongue lapped against my face and my body convulsed in disgust as I desperately fought not to be sick. Revolting as my situation was, I did not wish to add my own vomit to the mix, even if it might have disgusted the fiend enough to free me.
I could see nothing but darkness, each desperate gasp for oxygen only supplying me with the barest sliver of foul air. Teeth ringed my neck like a terrible collar, and for a moment I entertained ideas of those teeth, the very same I had picked and sorted by hand, crashing together to sever my head from my body like some terrible executioner. Before my thoughts could spiral much more in this direction, his grip changed and I was suddenly shoved against the slick, fleshy opening of his throat. My blood curdled and, with a sudden, crushing pressure, my head was crammed downwards in the most painful manner which caused me to cry out in despair. My skull felt as though it would shatter, and I screamed a horrible, terrible shriek of agony and terror as my shoulders were crushed down after me, the tight gullet of the beast threatening to break them into splinters. My vision swam, stars of pain and lack of breath sparking and dancing before my eyes, and though no light followed me into my hellish prison, I could still see the blackest pitch wavering at the edge of my vision, threatening to drown me in its inky embrace. For a moment I wished it would, if only to keep me from the terrible suffering I knew lay before me, but fate is a cruel mistress and before I could sink into that comforting ocean of darkness a terrible pressure bloomed upon the crown of my head and forced me into an open pocket of stinking, putrid air.
Coughing and gaging I struggled to draw even a single breath. My ribs, now horribly compressed, creaked and shuttered terribly under the pressure of the creature’s throat, and though my legs still flailed outside, and my hands desperately scrambled for a hold on what I felt to be his chin, I did not dare move the length of my compressed torso for fear of inflicting more damage upon myself. Another painful swallow jolted me down, my face jamming roughly into what I presumed to be the bottom of the creature’s dreadful stomach, and the grotesque flesh not only yielded to accept my presence, but did so with an almost pleased sounding groan, if stomachs can be pleased, as if I really were simply a morsel of food to be consumed and forgotten. The sound filled my heart with a terror I’ve never known, and I cried out, though my voice was quickly silenced by the slick flesh as more of my body was squeezed through that terrifically tight ring of muscle and forced to bend and twist to fit my new prison like some sort of contortionist.
I know not how long it took the devil to consume me: the darkness of my surroundings and constant pain dulled my senses and left me disoriented to the point where I no longer could even tell up from down. I remember no longer feeling the cold air on my body after some time, my entire being now encased in sweltering heat, and searing pain as my legs were crushed down against my ribs. Finally, it was all over. My entire body had been fully compacted into the creature’s stomach, and although this new development was arguably a much worse position than my previous one, I was far too preoccupied with gulping down precious lungfuls of oxygen to care.
Then, all at once, the reality of my situation came crashing down upon me and with the fervor of a cornered beast I began to lash out and fight, twisting and turning in the confined space in hopes of causing my captor at least the slightest bit of discomfort.
“Fiend! Devil! Release me at once!” I panted, gnashing my teeth in fear and anger. “This is no way to treat any man, let alone your maker!”
I had no doubt that he could hear my cries and feel my struggles, confined as I was, and yet no answer came. Despite the nature of my location, I was completely and utterly alone, for what man pays attention to his food after he’s eaten it. Again, I tried to call out, to plead for release as I fought against the smothering flesh, and again I was ignored, save for a light pressure against my back from which I hastily jerked away. It was his hand; I knew it instinctively. The brute was no doubt relaxing after so fine a feast of human flesh, and that touch was nothing more then the satisfied gloating of a predator now sated with a filling meal that would last him far longer than any morsel of bread or wine. I was merely something to be enjoyed, digested, and forgotten.
How many more, I wondered, would be lost in the same way once I had perished. Clearly my current location indicated my captor had grown fond of the taste of human, and with a heart wrenching shudder I suddenly realized I had no way of knowing wether I was the first victim of the monster’s appetite, or if he had already glutted himself with other gentle country folk, just as he had done to me, and I was now resting in their grave. The thought was too much for my already distraught and troubled soul, and the disgust which filled me suddenly became too overwhelming to sustain. With a thick heave I proceeded to retch onto myself, my sick mixing with the beast’s own bile, and I sobbed bitterly for my home.
“Oh, my dear mountains and precious lake. Will I truly never again delight in your sweet air and radiant beauty? Am I to perish so far from all that is fair and wholesome, without even the cold stars to bare witness to my demise?” I lamented; my voice thick with the grief of a man who believes he is to die isolated from everything he once held dear.
The spongy flesh seemed to mute my voice effectively as a heavy curtain might, and my words fell upon deaf ears, for no reply came from my creation. My captor. My killer. Was I really to meet my end as nothing more than a meal? My last breath tainted by the stench of bile and vomit? The pressure to my back returned, and although the touch revolted me, I was far too exhausted from my fear and the quickly thinning oxygen to do more than twitch in protest. What difference would it make anyways, my fate was already sealed.
Each breath I drew grew more ragged and gasping with every passing second, my panic having done nothing but quickly use up what little air I had in the stale cell, and in some fever, I realized that, although my air was quickly thinning, I had not yet begun to feel the slightest tingle of digestion. Oh, what sweet twist of fate was this! I still would meet my end as nothing more than a morsel of food this was true, but I would be long since unconscious and perhaps even suffocated before acids truly began to work on me and thus spared the sensation of digesting alive. It was a small assurance, but so consumed was I by grief and terror of my fate that even the small mercy of a painless death brought me comfort. It was more than a man like me deserved after all I’d done. The innocent blood on the creature’s hands stained mine as well, and I thought bitterly of poor darling little William and dear Justine. Their blood has been spilt on my account, and yet, while their deaths had been horrific tragedies, I took solace in knowing they had left the world far quicker than I would, and that I would be seeing them again soon.
My vision swam before me, and with one last shuddering sigh I slumped against the slick walls, no longer attempting to catch my breath, for what would be the point in trying to breathe when there is no air left to fill my lungs. The stomach clenched around me with a disgusting squelch, smothering and squeezing my helpless form as it worked to knead what I presumed to be caustic acids into my sodden clothing and soft flesh, preparing for the undoubtably difficult task of liquifying my un-masticated body. With a gasping, barely audible sob I pressed a trembling hand out against my churning prison walls, cursing my creation and praying my end would be swift. Then the darkness engulfed me, and I knew no more.
Due to the circumstances in which I had fallen unconscious I fully expected to never wake again, so when I started awake some unknown amount of time later in the very bed I had been snatched out of, I could seldom comprehend what was happening. My first thought was that my horrendous experience had been naut but a dream; an apparition brought upon me by the dreadful task I knew I would soon be required to complete. Then I became aware of the disgusting film of sticky, foul smelling sick coating my body and the dull, yet throbbing pain in my ribs, and my blood ran cold. It had been no dream. My creation truly had assaulted me in the night, swallowed me whole and alive, and, by some miracle, vomited me back out before his digestive system could process me. In fact, aside from my ribs, which were badly bruised, I appeared whole and unharmed. Not even a drop of acid had singed my clothes, and my skin was fair and unblemished as it had always been. I pressed a hand to my cheek as if to make certain of my unharmed state, and then, to my own surprise, I began to laugh. It was not a mirthful laugh, but rather one of incredulous shock and relief as I grasped at my warm and unharmed skin. So certain had I been that those final moments filled with slimy blackness and foul reeking air inside the creature would be my last that the cold air of my room and the sting of my nails against my face might well have been gifts from Heaven itself. Even now I marvel at my incredible escape and wonder what could possibly have prompted the monster to give up as filling a meal as I surely must have been. I do not think I shall ever know, but judging from the healthy nature which I possessed upon waking, I can only assume he realized he could not process me as he intended and his body expelled me, though wether such an expulsion was voluntary on his part I still could not say. Nonetheless I knew I was no doubt incredibly fortunate to have survived such an encounter and my resolve had the been strengthened. Where before I had postponed my promise, I vowed to not do so again, for who knew how long the wretched beast would be content to wait and leave me and others be. As soon as I was able, I would set to work creating another who would contain his terrible urges and put this dreadful encounter behind me forever.
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