w h a t . y o u . o w n

What You Own
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG

Summary: "That's it? It took you a whole freaking year of research to come up with that?"

Spoilers: None

Notes: Thanks to luzdeestrellas for looking it over. Inspired by a prompt she gave me the other night.

Word count: 1,840 words

Date: September 9, 2007

Dean looks over at the empty passenger seat, imagining that it still retains the heat of Sam's body, the scent of his skin in the new-old leather. He remembers the other times he's been alone--the endless years while Sam was at Stanford, and Dad had sent him out on his own; the night on the road to Burkitsville, watching Sam recede in the headlights, fading into the fog like he'd never been there at all; tracking him down in Lafayette after he'd left to sort things out, and then again when he'd been possessed.

This time is different. This time, for the first time, Sam's not the one leaving.

Dean had thought about stealing a car, leaving the Impala for Sam, but he can't do it, can't leave them both behind, and at least he knows the car won't do anything stupid when the hellhounds come for him.

He reaches the crossroads, not the one in South Dakota where he made the deal, but he figures it won't matter, she'll find him wherever he is, and he wants to go out standing on his own two feet, not cowering behind a diminishing line of salt and goofer dust, dragged to his death by evil, overgrown puppies.

The night is dark--they've been doing a lot of jobs in cities the past few months, cleaning up after the demons Jake released in Wyoming, and demons like people, like wreaking havoc where the chance of collateral damage is high--and he's forgotten what the stars look like without the streetlights outshining them. The humidity is making him wish he'd left his jacket in the car, but he's not sure he could face her without his armor on; he's always felt bulletproof in his leather jacket, though time and again it's proved no protection at all.

He hears the car long before he sees it, and sees the headlights shining through the trees before the car itself makes its appearance. He's ready to warn whoever it is off--this crossroads is closed for a private party tonight, please come back to sell your soul tomorrow--when Sam unfolds himself from the driver's seat, jaw set and face twisted in anger like Dean hasn't seen on him since he killed Jake.

"You are a fucking asshole," Sam shouts before Dean can get a word out, and Sam takes a swing, huge fist connecting with Dean's cheek, the one free shot he's had in reserve since the thing with the vampires in Montana. Dean rocks back on his heels, pain blossoming in his face, but Sam's not done.

"The fuck?" Dean manages, blocking the next punch and getting in a solid hit of his own.

Then he's too occupied to talk, or even think, because Sam is angry, relentless, and dangerous, and even though Dean taught him almost everything he knows, he's still got four inches and twenty-five pounds on Dean, and he knows how to leverage that advantage.

They go tumbling to the ground, still kicking and punching, fighting dirty--Dean's pulling hair now, and Sam's not afraid to use his teeth (he's always been a biter, the little bastard)--and finally, finally, Sam gets on top of him, sits on his chest and refuses to move, perching there like a big stone boulder with a fat lip and a nasty shiner starting to purple around his left eye.

"You stupid fucker," he growls, his left hand fisted in Dean's now dirty and blood-stained t-shirt, his right cupping and squeezing Dean's chin, which hurts like a bastard, thanks to the bruises he's got from that same hand hitting him repeatedly. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Sam--" Dean glares up at him. He doesn't want to go out like this, doesn't want Sam's last memory of him to be full of anger and guilt. Doesn't want his last memory of Sam to be of yet another way he failed him.

Sam lifts his left hand to scrub at his nose and eyes, which are running, and then he wipes his hand on Dean's shirt. Dean wrinkles his nose just on principle. "Dude, my shirt."

"I thought you believed me. I told you I was gonna save you and--"

"And you tried, Sam. I know you tried. Believe me, I do. But--"

"But nothing, you stupid jerk. I--"

The air around them whooshes softly, making the leaves on the trees rustle like old ladies whispering behind their hands in church, and they both freeze for a second.

Sam creaks to his feet, knees popping, and gives Dean a hand up, as well. Dean licks his thumb and reaches up to wipe some of the blood off the corner of Sam's mouth and Sam smacks his hand away gently, like he used to when he was a kid.

"As fun as it's been watching you, boys, I think we have some business to transact." The demon is hot--long, dark hair spilling down her back, smooth café au lait skin exposed by the skimpy black dress she's wearing, full lips red and glistening and pulled back into a wide grin that's more like a baring of teeth than a smile.

"No, I don't think we do," Sam says, slinging an arm around Dean's shoulders, the tips of his fingers skimming Dean's collarbone. "You should have done your research," he says, and the smile on his face makes Dean think of scary things in the dark--of a shark scenting blood or a snake rearing back to strike--scarier even than the demon's, if only because he's never seen it on Sam's face before and he'd thought he'd known every expression Sam's ever worn. "His soul was never his to sell in the first place."

The demon laughs and tosses her head. "Of course, Sammy. It's all very darling, how you've owned his soul since he was four, and how much he truly loves you, and all that nauseating bullshit, but that's not really a binding agreement."

Sam's smile widens. "Maybe not," he says, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. He slips a folded piece of loose leaf paper out, the scotch tape holding it together at the creases shiny in the darkness. "But this is."

He unfolds the paper, fingers shaking just enough to make it rattle in the silence, and Dean suddenly recognizes it, his own cramped twelve-year-old handwriting staring up at him.

I, Dean Winchester, do pay to Sam Winchester my soul in exchange for his new Sony Walkman.

Dean has to bite his lip to keep from letting loose the bubble of hysterical laughter rising in his chest. He remembers how upset he'd been, that Sam had gotten a brand new Walkman for Christmas in his class's Secret Santa exchange, and all Dean had gotten in his was a stupid umbrella with giant purple flowers on it. Sam hadn't even had any cassette tapes, while Dean had already begun taping stuff off the radio on the little boom box he'd liberated from the AV lab at their last school.

Dean had convinced Sam his soul for the Walkman was an even exchange, and Sam had been pretty pissed when all he'd gotten out of the deal was a piece of paper, while Dean sat in the front seat of the car listening to AC/DC on the way out of town.

"He wasn't old enough--" the demon starts.

"Oh, I think he was," Sam says, his voice all slick confidence even though his hand on Dean's shoulder is tight enough to hurt, and Dean wonders if this is a snapshot of what he'd have been like as a lawyer. "If we were Catholic, he'd have made his confirmation that year, been old enough to confirm his standing in the church. And we both know local laws don't mean much to demons anyway. You certainly would have taken it from him if he'd offered it to you at twelve."

"But--"

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus," Sam says, Latin rolling off his tongue like gunfire.

In the past year, both of them have memorized more versions of the Rituale Romanum than the Vatican even knows exist, but it sounds like Sam's going for the standard, no-frills version, and Dean joins him, convinced now that it's safe to do so, that opening his mouth won't result in Sam's death. "Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio."

Before they can go any further, the demon vacates the girl, cloud of oily black smoke spewing into the air and dissipating.

Dean takes a deep breath, feels it shudder into his lungs, knows he's shaking as much as Sam is, and knows one of them has to keep control. "Dude, you kept that? You are such a freaking sap." His voice breaks, though, and he has to look away, goes to help the confused girl who'd been possessed.

"I hoped it might be useful someday," Sam answers, and his voice is kind of scratchy too. He shrugs a shoulder, and Dean nods in understanding.

As they're walking back to the car, Dean says, "That's it? It took you a whole freaking year of research to come up with that?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Saved your sorry ass, didn't it? Ungrateful wretch."

"Yeah, man. Really, I--" Dean doesn't know what to say, can't articulate the relief, the gratitude, the sheer happiness he's feeling.

"I know," Sam answers, saving him again, and goes to wipe down his stolen Toyota.

They drop the girl off at the nearest hospital, and head out of town, sun rising at their backs.

Dean's knuckles are bloody and sore, and he uses the heel of his palm to steer, easy on the straightaway of the service road, heading for the nearest highway. He doesn't know what to say, too many words that don't mean much at all, so he just reaches out, taps Sam's knee and says, "Thanks, Sammy."

Sam smiles at him, wide and genuine, goofy-looking, like he didn't just go all Daniel Webster on a demon. "So, you know, I've been thinking. Since I do officially own your soul, I think you should be nicer to me."

Dean looks over at him, eyebrow raised in curiosity. "Do you really?"

"I do. You can start by buying me breakfast, doing my laundry, and clearing my laptop of all the viruses you downloaded."

"I see."

Sam taps his chin, still crusted with dried blood, thoughtfully. "And I'll be using the shower first from now on, I think."

Dean bites the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing. "Oh, will you?"

The corners of Sam's mouth are twitching, too. "Yeah, I think so. And also, you're gonna let me drive."

"Oh, hell no," Dean says, letting the laughter loose. "You may own my soul, but you're never getting my baby."

Sam's laugh rings out loud and clear, free of shadows for the first time in forever, and Dean thinks that's a pretty good way to start the rest of his life.

end

Prompt: you left my heart empty as a vacant lot for any spirit to haunt ~"Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses" - u2

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