My daughter requested Blangst (Blaine Anderson from Glee angst) stories on her birthday. She also loves Supernatural, so this is one of the stories I wrote her. Be warned--she loves stories with angst and not-necessarily-happy endings.


Cousin Shelley

Sam buried the box, his heart pounding in his ears, but his head—his head feeling better and calmer than it had in a few years. When the demon appeared, Sam told her what he wanted. She ate it up, delighted at one last morsel of Winchester self-sacrifice to feed on.

“Tall order, Sammy boy. All that and keeping the angels away from him for good? Tell you what—I’ll make the deal,” she said, “but I’m afraid I can’t give you ten years. We’ll have to negotiate on that point.” She pushed herself against him, stretching her neck up to kiss him.

Sam held her back by her shoulders. “I don’t want ten years. I want … I want this done as soon as possible. Just give me enough time to say goodbye … in my way.”

By the time they sealed it with a kiss, Sam had a month at most. If he hadn’t called on her in that time, too bad. He was sure he wouldn’t need that much time.

Two weeks later, after an uneasy day of Dean’s ever-concerned looks caught out of the corner of his eye, and growing dark circles under Dean’s eyes from worry, Sam bought beer. They were between cases in a cheap but comfortable motel with a decent television. It would be like that Christmas before Dean … .


Sam swallowed hard, what Dean had suffered for him knotting his throat, as always. It would be like that Christmas: the brothers enjoying a beer, a game, conversation about things that didn’t matter … only without Dean knowing what was coming the way Sam had.  It would be a good night—he’d make it one—and then he could go, knowing that he would get what he’d bargained for at that crossroads.

Conversation was awkward at first. Dean had some lingering doubts and grudges and pain, and Sam didn’t blame him. Eventually, after most of the beer was gone, Sam laid it all out. How much he loved Dean, how he was sorry for anything and everything he’d ever done that let his brother down. How sometimes he hadn’t shown it enough, or said it as often as he should have. They cried. They hugged. A punch or two were thrown leading up to all that, but that was the Winchester way. They talked about their childhood and their dad, and hugged some more. They settled things. Dean gave him that half-smile with a sparkle in his eye that Sam hadn’t seen in months. They were good again.

Before Sam fell asleep, he called out for the demon he’d dealt with. This time, things would stay good. Dean wouldn’t have to worry about Sammy anymore, wouldn’t have to rescue him, and would never have to doubt his brother again. He would never be disappointed in him again. Dean could move on and have a life without that stone around his neck, with the memory that before it was over, they were okay.

When the demon came to him, she was surprised. “Two weeks early, Sam? Are you sure?” she asked with a hell-bitch smile. “The deal was a month.”

“I’m ready now,” he said, looking over at Dean sprawled across his bed, still dressed, snoring lightly. “You get my soul … and he’s at peace. He can’t ever deal with demons, he’ll never go to hell, he’ll never be attacked or tormented or hurt by any of you bastards—demon or angel or anything in-between—ever again. That’s the deal,” he said, slurring his words slightly. He rose from the bed and put his hand gently on Dean’s hair. I love you so much.

“By now, you know how this works, Sam. I have to live up to my end. Your brother will mourn you, he’ll suffer incredible pain at your passing.” She smiled at that. “But then—”

“But then he’ll accept it, and he’ll be at peace.”

“Yes. That’s why I’m here instead of the hounds. He won’t know.” She reached out her hand for Sam to take.

When his heart stopped, he gasped. The air he inhaled wasn’t tinged with the slight scent of beer and popcorn from the motel room. It was hot, sulphurous. It burned. Agony radiated from where the hooks held him immobile. In his mind, he screamed for Dean, but he kept his mouth closed, and then closed his eyes. All he would know was unspeakable pain and torment, fear … hell. But even knowing that, the part of him that had always hurt was still and numb. Dean wouldn’t have to fear for or take care of his little brother anymore. He had a chance to be happy.


Dean felt someone behind him. He’d made a hysterical call to Bobby but it would take him at least a few hours to get there. He hadn’t even called 911 yet. There wasn’t much point. When he’d woke, Sam was already cold. He felt that someone behind him lean forward, a shoulder almost pressing against his back. Only one person besides Sam ever got in his personal space like that without raising his hackles and making him want to punch.

“Why, Cas? Why now? We’d just … everything was gonna be okay.” Dean could barely understand his own words, his voice shook so much. He wiped both hands down his wet face, but the tears kept flowing. “He’s done something. He did this! He must have made a deal, but for what?”

The demon behind Dean shook his head and spoke in Castiel’s grim monotone. “These things happen, Dean, without deals or any kind of supernatural intervention. I am sorry for your pain.”

“Sorry for my pain?” Dean shouted. “Then help me. Fix this. Bring him back.”

“I can’t.”

“A couple of weeks ago … damnit, I should have known. There were a few hours … he was different when he came back. He did something, and I have to figure out what.”


“Damnit, Cas, I can’t just … I have to fix this.”


Dean put his hands on head and squinted, as if thinking hurt. “I’ll summon a demon, deal this away.”

“Heaven will not allow you to do that again, Dean.”

“Then I’ll get myself sent to hell by other means, and somehow I’ll drag his ass out. I … I have to protect him. He can’t suffer like I did. Oh, God, he can’t.” Dean dropped to his knees next to Sam’s bed and hung his head, weeping uncontrollably at the thought of it.

“That’s not necessary, Dean. Sam died of natural causes. It was simply … his time. I promise you, there’s no need for your concern.”

Dean looked up at Cas. “You’re sure. You swear to me … he’s not suffering? He’s not in hell?” Dean could barely breathe now for the pain—pain that wouldn’t stop no matter how Cas answered, but pain he might be able to bear, if only he knew Sam wasn’t going through what he’d gone through.

False Cas put his hand on Dean’s shoulder. “I swear. Sam … is finally at peace.”

Dean looked at him for a long time before relief snapped something inside him. He dropped his forehead to Sammy’s shoulder and wept for them both, for their stolen childhoods and stolen lives, for so many things. And finally, because his brother would never be hurt again.

June 19, 2012