Supernatural One Shots

Angel Dean

It's not really something Dean ever thought would happen to him; he didn't even know it was possible, really. But when it does, it doesn't surprise him one bit. Because he's a Winchester. And when it comes to luck, the Winchester's definitely got the short end of the stick.
But it's a no brainer, saying yes, because it's Sammy and he'll always say yes for Sammy. So when the witch reaches into Sam's chest, pulls his beating heart right out and holds it in her palm, her fingers curling around it threateningly it's like she already knows Dean will give himself up for his brother.

"What would you do to save your brother, Dean?" she asks him studying Sam's heart like it's her fascinating new pet.

Dean's eyes are on his brother writhing on the ground, clutching at the bloody, gaping hole in his chest. He would step forward to kneel at his side, grasp Sam's arm for support but he's rooted to the spot. Literally. And isn't that just the damndest?

"Anything," he chokes out, sparing a glance at Sam's heart. She's squeezing it now, slow and steady. Grip vice like, wringing it dry of blood and how Sam is still living, breathing, crying out in agony, Dean's not sure. All he knows is: it has to stop.

The witch cocks a brow at him, her full lips upturned in such a way that Dean just knows shit's about to hit the fan.

"Anything?" she asks him. Sam isn't crying out any more; his screams have been reduced to moans, the life being squeezed right out of him.

"Anything," is his reckless reply, because Sam is dying right in front of his eyes and Sam cannot die. Not on Dean's watch. Not without doing everything Dean can to save him. "What do you want from me?"

The witch smiles at him then, or at least, Dean thinks it's a smile. It looks more like a snarl than anything else.

"Your soul," she reveals. Dean's eyes snap to hers.

"What like another 40 years in Hell?"

The witch throws her head back then, laughs at the ceiling, her neck a long column of pale skin, the green of her veins running up her neck in thin eerie strips. Dean wants to grab her, shake her, demand she get on with it already but his feet remain irksomely still.

"Always so quick to jump into the jaws of death," she tsks then fixes her cold grey eyes on Dean. "But no, I'm more merciful than that Dean. What if I told you you could stay on earth with your brother? Live out the rest of his days with him?"

"Soulless?" Dean wonders and reflects on when Sam was soulless and what an absolute picnic that was to deal with, "I'd rather serve in Hell."

"You're missing the point, Dean," the witch says then, her voice flat and bored. Clearly she expected a little more resistance and a lot more brains. "I'll replace your soul. With Grace."

"You wanna turn me into an angel? How is that even possible? I thought only God could create angels."

"The God you don't believe in?" The witch snarks and Dean has to hand it to her. She's got a point. "And do you really want to discuss the nitty gritty details of my dark magic while I hold Sammy's heart in my hand?" she continues, "It's getting cold, you know. He has two minutes left of life in him. Maybe three."

Dean's brain kicks into protective-older-brother mode and he stands up straighter, balls his hands into fists and squares his jaw, "I'll do it," he says. Because it's Sammy. His moose of a brother. What else is he supposed to do?

The witch doesn't hesitate in approaching Dean, hand outstretched, eyes a vivacious sea of grey, a spell canting from her lips but Dean interrupts her.

"Him first!" he demands watching his brother's skin lose its pigment. Without a heart to pump it through, the blood flow slows to almost nothing in his veins.