#like bear with me. i EAT UP dean trauma fics

[howldean]

i need more fics where cas is “more” traumatized than dean

[superninjaviolinist]

The Girl With the Black Dragon Tattoo, Chapter One

Disclaimer: Supernatural is owned by other people that aren’t me.

SPOILER WARNING : This fic begins at the beginning of Season Five and will contain spoilers for all subsequent seasons.

CAUTION: The following is rated DSLV. It will contain strong language, sexual situations, and violence. Eyeball to device discretion is advised.

My name is Evangeline Chung, thirty-five years old. Long black hair, 5’6”, athletic (but not bulky)…

Currently collared and chained to the Throne of Hell like some kind of dog.

The situation sounds terrible, I know, but it could be worse. I mean, the deposed King is on the other side, similarly bound, being treated as if he were a dog, right down to the “Heel! Sit! Lick the floor!” commands. All I’ve gotten so far are gentle strokes to my hair and face, reminders from Lucifer of why I’d submitted to being bound. See, contrary to popular belief the Devil isn’t a demon; he’s an archangel. It means whatever body he inhabits on Earth must belong to a willing participant; those are the rules for heavenly denizens (by contrast, demons can swoop down the throat of whomever, or whatever, they want). They call them their vessels or, more crudely, their meatsuits.

His current vessel is the man, no, the angel who fell in love with me, and I fell in love with in return.

Castiel owed me a big fucking explanation for why this had gone down. There had to have been other options, something that would have prevented this scenario where Lucifer was keeping his little brother’s vessel hostage against my and the Winchesters’ good behavior.

Ah, Sam and Dean Winchester. If it weren’t for them I would have never been anywhere close to this mess. I mean, sure, I would have probably ended up a drained corpse in the middle of a vampire nest, but that’s neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is this: the warm, oh so familiar hand of Castiel is resting on my cheek, and if I don’t submit to Lucifer’s every demand I get to watch my lover and my friends die slow.

This is so fucked up. And it all started with a chance encounter six years ago in Garber, Oklahoma.

I made it into Garber at the same time as the men I had so lovingly dubbed the Douchebag Trio: Steve Bose, Reggie Hull, and Tim Janklow. We had history. At that point in my life I was unabashedly promiscuous. I know now that it was a product of the trauma I’d experienced, but at the time I’d convinced myself that it was my body and I was going to do whatever the fuck I wanted with it.

The four of us used to have a pleasant working relationship, but after I’d begun sleeping with Reggie I discovered that the man wanted more than just sex. When I blew him off the other two turned Mean Girls on me and suddenly we were no longer friends. I swear to God, men can give teenage girls a run for their money in the bitchiness category.

If I’d known Bobby had called these guys I’d’ve shrugged off the request. Well, maybe not. I might have loathed these assholes, but a) no one deserves the kind of brutal end demons were apt to give, and b) I owed Bobby Singer my life. Kind of made me obligated to fulfill any and all of his requests.

The four of us ended up squaring off in front of one of the local dives, Hoyt’s Bar, where Bobby had said the informant was working. “Run along, girly,” came Tim’s opening salvo. “Don’t want you gettin’ hurt.”

“Go to hell.”

He and his cronies exchanged amused smirks. “Aw, she wants to play with the big boys.”

“Maybe we should let her play,” Steve suggested. “And when we’re done, she can kiss all our boo-boos better.”

Tim and Steve guffawed while Reggie and I got busy glaring at each other. “C’mon,” he said finally, “leave the slut alone and let’s go.” As I followed them in, I considered how funny they’d look headless.

Hoyt’s Bar was almost cliche in appearance. Wooden tables and walls, sports on the television, darts, pool, and alcohol. The Douchebag Trio was settling down at a table where a tall, well-built, shaggy-haired young man was joining them. I sat nearby and flagged the blonde waitress for a beer.

“Bobby called,” Tim said.

“And?” asked the stranger.

“You were right. Major demon block party going on.”

That was the first time I laid eyes on brooding, empathic, guilt-ridden Sam Winchester. Bobby had outlined the man’s fucked up situation. Sort of. Something about Sam and his brother separating. Made me wonder about what happened. I mean Josie, my sister, and I didn’t talk because… well, there were plenty of reasons, first and foremost being that she spent most of her time either drunk or high. Her normal state of mind didn’t make for very stimulating conversation.

I was too busy brooding over my family and finishing my beer to notice that the other table was looking at me. Reggie cleared his throat. “What?” I snapped.

He rolled his eyes. “I said: you coming with us?”

“Who’s this?” Sam asked.

“Eva Chung,” Tim answered for me. “Thinks she’s a hunter.”

“Yeah?” I threw back. “I bet you think you don’t have a micro-peen. We all have our delusions.”

The three I knew bristled, but I saw Sam lift his hand up to hide a smile. It made me warm up to him. A little. “I’ll come,” I told Reggie.

We all stood. “Good luck,” Sam said quietly.

“Beers are on you when we get back,” Tim said amiably.

“Yeah, you bet,” Sam replied halfheartedly. “And it was nice to meet you,” he said to me. I gave him an appraising look from head to toe before smiling in acknowledgment. Nice body. Handsome. Maybe when all this was done… Unfortunately, there were demons to check on first.

We headed outside and towards the Douche-mobile. Steve was Tim’s best friend, but I sincerely thought that Tim kept him nearby because the man had the sweetest setup in his camper. It had all the bells and whistles: stove, fridge, shower, bunkbeds, even WiFi and charging stations.

I grabbed my sword and its sheathe, a samjeongdo that was given to my grandfather after World War II, out of the saddlebags of my Yamaha before joining the others. Best place to sit was Steve’s dinner table where Reggie was already perched. We ignored each other.

“Got your ching-chong weapon from your ching-chong ride?” Tim asked from the passenger’s seat. I gave him the finger.

Why don’t I have a gun like the rest of these mouth breathers? Frankly, it’s a matter of finances. Bullets cost money. Well, okay. Not a lot of money, but enough. It also involves flashing ID’s and possibly credit cards; both dangerous things to do when your job involves killing creatures that wear human faces. I’ve heard some hunters carry around a bullet forge and use scrap to make their own. I went my own way and sprang for a collapsible bow. Arrows are retrievable, bullets are not.

Okay, I think I’m painting myself as some kind of cartoon heroine, with my Asian weapons and all. Trust me, it’s all either practical or a product of my upbringing. Growing up in a Korean household in San Francisco sort of slates you for certain stereotypes: you eat kimchi, you play the piano, and you learn to be frugal. I did ballet and gymnastics, and after I started hunting I discovered that the flexibility and athleticism translated well to sword fighting. It was a natural progression to my current state.

Reggie checked the clip of his gun while Steve and Tim argued about the destination. I peered out of the blinds. Usual nighttime small town streets. Woods in the background, no people. Peaceful and pleasant if you didn’t know what creeped about in the shadows.

Eventually Steve pulled into the parking lot for the Hawley Five and Dime, one of those twenty-four hour knockoffs of 7–11s. I looked curiously at Reggie. “Cashier is a demon,” he explained.

“And?”

“Trap him,” Steve called as he pulled his shotgun from under his seat. “Make him tell us what’s going on.”

“Here,” Tim said as he tossed me a spray can.

“Where?” I asked.

“Doorway. We’ll drive him out.”

I nodded and the three boys headed inside. I got out of the van a few minutes afterwards, ducking low so that the demon couldn’t see me, and did my job. Star, circle, scribbly runes.

While I was painting I smelled sulfur. The yellow powder had been liberally dusted onto the doormat. At least Larry, Curly, and Moe had gotten the location right, but something struck me as wrong. I got down on my hands and knees to peer a little closer. Was it me or was that too much sulfur for just one demon…? My hackles rose. I stood up and cast my eyes about. Nothing. Yet.

I drew my sword from its scabbard. This didn’t feel good, not one bit. A shotgun blast echoed inside the store and killed the opportunity to do a quick recon. Moments later, a scraggly young man bearing black eyes came pelting out of the glass doors. He smacked into an invisible wall and went down. It was almost comical. “Bitch!” he yelled at me.

Nobody likes name calling. I stabbed the thing in the shoulder. Demons can be hurt, despite rumors to the contrary, and I’d had my sword blessed by Pastor Jim (rest in peace). I had the demon shrieking by the time the others made it outside. I twisted the blade just for the hell of it before jerking it out of his flesh.

The trio just grinned approvingly. Sadists. “Now you got yourself some options,” Tim said down to the demon. “You tell us what we wanna know and we don’t let the young lady here stab you no more.”

“Fuck you,” it spat.

Tim nodded at me. I was loathe to take orders from him, but for this I’d make an exception. Into the other shoulder went my steel. A good, long howl erupted from the demon, but when I pulled my blade out again it started laughing.

We all glanced at each other uneasily. “What’s so funny?” Steve demanded.

“You came here because Sam Winchester told you about us, didn’t you?” The voice came out high and thready: this guy was riding a teenager. “I figured by now no one would be listening to him.”

“Why not?” asked Tim.

“Say please.”

I jabbed the thing in the eye. “Why, please and thank you,” Tim said over the wet sound of its eyeball popping from the socket.

“Why do you think he’s here?” the demon screamed as I whipped the orb off my blade. “Because he and his brother are having marital issues? He’s probably trying to get another fix of demon blood. Got himself addicted to the stuff. Made him feel good and strong. Strong enough to pop Lucifer’s box for us.”

The others were looking flabbergasted by the revelation. I merely frowned before uttering, “Demon’s lie.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he crooned at me, “not all the time. In fact, I’ll even give you another truth, just because you’re so pretty.” It stood up, blood seeping from both shoulders and the empty hole in his face. “I’m not alone.”

There was a wet thump and squelch. We all looked at Steve. His eyes slowly drifted down to his stomach… where a woman’s lacquered nails were now protruding. Their owner yanked them out and spun Steve around before plunging her fingers back in.

And then she pulled.

Whenever I’d been told about a body being “torn apart” I’d always imagined the sort of bloody explosion on a video game. Random pieces of meat flying every which way, no recognizable pieces, red spattering randomly everywhere. But it wasn’t like that. Not at all.

Steve folded over, his guts literally spilling onto the concrete with a splat. Blood emptied out of his body in a steady stream, saturating his organs with a thick, crimson liquid. God, the smell. Piss and shit and copper all at once in a horrible concoction that caused bile to rise up in my throat. And he was still alive. We watched, horrified, as he tried to put his intestines back, desperately scraping and scooping at the mess and gurgling for help.

We all stepped away. The female demon licked blood from her arm, her eyes black from iris to sclera. In another moment there were eight more of them.

Ten demons against three human hunters. We were fucked.

Acknowledgement : Some lines of dialogue are taken directly from the episode “Free to Be You and Me” (SPN 5.03).