Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam's heavy footsteps pounded against the old gravel road as he ran, feeling his blood pumping through his veins and his bag slapping against his back with every step. He didn't even stop to look for directions, only running blindly until he found some kind of abandoned building in the dingy town that John had left him and Dean at while he was off hunting. The details were fuzzy in his mind, not something he was remotely focused on. His brain barely registered the fact that he had tripped over a rock until he was halfway to the ground, landing hard his now outstretched arms. He groaned and stood up, taking the time to rub the debris off of his arms.

He took the time to look around, trying to make note of his surroundings but the street signs were too hard to see and every tree, every house, every single thing was too hard to see. It wasn't too late to turn back, he thought to himself. He could go back to the motel room with Dean, even if he was a bit lost he'd find his way eventually. Dean would never give up on finding him, if he didn't make it back. Right? There's no way Dean would let him stay lost. That's what Dean's done Sam's entire life; keeping him safe. Sam almost cringed at the thought of how John would react when he realized he wasn't in bed, what the man would do to Dean. Their supposed father. What a father he was. He caught his breath slowly, and began running again.

The pounding of his shoes sunk into a familiar rhythm as his breathing quickened with his heart rate. Eventually, he stopped. He had found the perfect place. The sun still had not begun to rise, and it would be a long, hot, sticky day. That summed up most summers in the Midwest though. Humid. Sticky. He hated it, but at least early in the mornings like this, when the sun wasn't beating down on the backs of their necks and seeping through their clothes like unwanted rays of heat playing grab ass with your whole body.

The building Sam had stopped at was a church. It was ironic, considering what he was about to do. Demon summoning wasn't exactly something a member of church could approve of.

The church loomed over him, the old, rotting wood expressing silent judgement with every creak, repent, you don't belong here, LEAVE, it seemed to say, for you are no child of God you sinful, disgusting being. He watched the paint cracks as if they would reveal some form of secret before he began to approach the building's entrance.

"Oh dear God, our Lord, our heavenly Father, please let this go well, and maybe, not be the thing that kills me?" he whispered as he stepped into the church. The door was rotted and brittle, and didn't take much force.

The floor has been cleared of any pews, leaving what remained of the alter and any plants that had seeped inside. Paint was peeling off the walls and there was more broken glass than he could count. It was almost everywhere, as if a freakishly strong storm had blown in. Righteous fury. He had heard about this place before, the pastor had started to hear someone, a demon, he said, and long story short it ended with the mass killing of everyone there and himself. Parts of the ceiling had broken off, revealing the inner framework of the church. Debris was scattered on the ground, and the light pitter-patter of a mouse.

He took a box from the bag and grabbed a picture of himself, taking a moment to examine it. It was one of his baby pictures, with grubby little fingers reaching up to whoever was taking the picture, his face in a toothless smile. He put the picture into the box, as well as graveyard dirt, a black cat's bone and some yarrow. The church was built over where a crossroads was. That would work, wouldn't it? He was really cutting a lot of corners here, though.

He tore up the weak, rotted wooden flooring and buried the box underneath. He quickly stepped away when he put the floorboard back, trying to prepare himself for the appearance of a demon, but that wasn't exactly something anyone could prepare for.

Chapter Text

Crowley huffed when he was pulled away from the attractive woman that he had been flirting with. Not by choice, mind you. Who summoned him this time? He brushed off his suit and raised an eyebrow, his gaze fixing on the person that had summoned him. He had expected an adult, maybe an older man wanting to make a deal for his young girl toy to want to stay with him, or a woman looking for payback on the man that had stripped her of everything, or maybe someone that was neither, who just wanted to be able to be themselves.

He certainly had not expected to see a boy there. From the looks of him, he was at most 14, with shaggy hair that hung over his face like curtains that stopped just above his eyes, and was barely 5'0. He looked nervous, his gaze darting to the demon and then to the floor. His annoyance was quickly stripped away. What could a child possibly want from him? More candy? Maybe a later bedtime. He looked down at the ground, noticing the lack of a devil's trap. Maybe he needed some sense knocked into his brain, then.

"You summoned me?"

"Yes. I- you're a crossroads demon?"

"Aw, how'd you guess? I'm not just any. I'm the King of the Crossroads. So, to what do I owe the ... Pleasure, of this summoning?"

"I want to make a deal."

"Really? You do. I never would've thought. I mean, why else would someone summon a crossroads demon?"

The boy's face flushed with embarrassment and he focused on the ground, furrowing his brows as he frowned.

"Well?"

"Um, right. So, get this, for my deal, I want a better life with my brother and I. My, our mom, she died when I was a baby, and when Dean was four and ever since, our father has been on a hunt for what did it," Sam blurted out, the words seeming to spill from his lips like overflowing water, not willing to stop now that they had started. He hadn't had the opportunity to tell anyone about it, and now that he did, he didn't seem to want to stop. "He leaves us alone for days on end and we don't have much money. I want a better life. My older brother deserves a better life. Please."

"And what's your name, boy?"

"Sam Winchester."

"And your father's?" Crowley suddenly asked. It was impulsive. Stupid, really. Why had he even asked that? It's not like he was going to do anything. Was he? Maybe.

"John Winchester, why?"

"Right. You see, normally I don't do deals with children."

"Does that mean you won't make one with me?"

Crowley studied the boy. If he squinted, in the low light he could swear he saw his son Gavin, but perhaps just a tad bit brighter. He was dead, though. He doesn't matter anymore. He hated the damned kid anyways. There was no use dwelling on it, but, seeing this kid, maybe he had been feeling a bit of remorse bubbling up. Maybe he wanted to help.

"No, lad, no, I'll make a damned deal with you. You're aware of what this means, correct?"

"That's right. You come to collect my soul after 10 years."

"Good lad," Crowley praised, his tone mocking. He ran a hand through his hair. "I'd assume you want a contract written up?"

"There's another option?"

"A kiss."

Sam's face screwed up, nose scrunching up in disgust.

Crowley snickered quietly. "First time? I'll write you up a contract."

The demon snapped, producing a contract like that. He skimmed through it for a bit-- even magic could make mistakes. He took a pen from his pocket and gave it to the boy, half expecting him to at least skim through it. He seemed so happy though, that he didn't read it, and just signed his name. If he had read it, he probably would have sooner noticed that the clause stated that his father's would be the soul Crowley was taking, and not his own. But, the boy, elated beyond measure—more so thank he had ever had been in his entire life—didn't think about it. Why would he ever think about there being a change to the terms?

That wasn't something that crossroad demons did.

Chapter Text

It hadn't hit Sam at first, but he was exhausted. He hadn't gotten any sleep that night (a habit he had found himself starting to grow into), and could feel his brain trying to simultaneously shut down and stay awake. He slumped against the wall, all of his adrenaline gone. Maybe it should've stayed a bit longer, considering the demon was still there. He should be alert, awake, not cotton minded and about to fall asleep. He noticed that the demon had begun to approach, and stood up straight.

"Stay back!"

"Relax. I'm not going to hurt you, Bambi."

Sam scoffed, bitch-facing Crowley. It was a weak attempt.

"Oooh someone doesn't like that."

Looking through the window, Sam noticed the sun starting to rise and was harshly reminded of what his father might do—of what he was capable of doing and had done to him and Dean before—and realized he had to get back to the motel.

Back at the motel, Dean had just begun to wake up. Normally, he woke up later, but something was off. He had assumed he'd see Sam in the other bed, but he wasn't. He was on high alert after that, and quickly got out of bed.

"Shit shit shit, Sammy?" he frantically asked as he ran to the bathroom. Maybe he was in there? Nope. Oh, shit. What am I supposed to do when Dad gets home? I'm supposed to keep him safe.

He didn't want to know what John would do when he realized Sammy was gone. He quickly got dressed (it was hot as hell in the motel that night, so he stripped down to his boxers just to avoid overheating), grabbed the most recent photograph of Sam that he had and ran out of the room. He ran down the street, yelling "Sammy! Sammy, where are you?" and asking anyone he passed if they'd seen Sam. Obviously no one had. Oh, where was he? He'd get his ass tanned if John found out.

Where would Sammy go? A library? No, it was too damned early for them to be open. Where else could Sam possibly go? Maybe he got hungry? No, Sam would sooner wake Dean up than run out. Oh, what if this was all his fault? Did he do something? Was it John's? Where did he go?

His footsteps pounded on the road as he ran. No time to think. He had to find Sam. Maybe Sam was in some abandoned building? They didn't know anyone in town. A sudden thought crossed Dean's mind, What if Sammy got kidnapped? He didn't want to think about that. Maybe he want to the gas station and someone took him. It wouldn't be hard. Against an adult? Sammy didn't stand a chance.

After he made the deal, Sam felt guilty and ashamed. He and his brother had practically spent their whole lives hunting demons, killing them. Not making deals. It weighed down on him like bricks slowly dragging him underwater, his throat tightening.

He staggered out of the church, feeling like he had to get out. He had to find Dean. Maybe he could say that he just went to Waffle House or something. He started running, not even realizing that the tall figure that he almost passed was Dean.

"Sammy? Sammy!" Dean yelled, trying to get his attention.

Sam stopped and looked up at Dean, tearing up. The guilt spilled through as he tried to push it down, and he couldn't believe what he'd just done. He tackle hugged his brother and cried into his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry Dean."

The older boy froze up, not knowing if he should hug Sam back or push him away. "Hey, c'mon Sammy, don't be a pansy. Stop that."

"Dean, I'm sorry. Please don't hate me."

Dread welled up in the pit of Dean's stomach. "Sam. What did you do?"

"I- I made a deal, Dean. With a demon. But it's okay, we'll- I wanted to make our life better! He's gonna fix it. Please don't hate me, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Dee."

"God DAMNIT, Sam. You sold your soul?" Dean demanded as he pushed the teenager away.

Sam cringed at his brother's tone. He knew he had done the wrong thing but at the same time, this would be great for them. Dad would be nicer and maybe they would live in one house, without all the moving. Maybe he'd have friends? He risked a glance up at Dean before he answered.

"Dean, please. You have to understand. I did it for a good reason!" he pleaded.

"Good reason my ass, Sammy. You know what'll happen in 10 years? They'll come to kill you. Hellhounds will come to kill you, Sam. God, how can you be so stupid?"

"I just wanted us to have a normal life," Sam mumbled, his shoulders hunched.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, exhaling through his teeth. He had always been quick to anger. He grabbed Sam's hand and dragged him along as he started to walk. "Come on. We're going back to the damn motel."

Chapter Text

Dean couldn't blame Sam for what he'd done. He'd thought of it a lot. But Sam just didn't understand how bad John was. How much worse he made everything, how quickly he escalated situations. He noticed how Sam seemed to be trailing behind more than usual, and lightly tugged on his arm.

"Come on."

"Dean, I'm tired."

"Okay. Hello tired, I couldn't care less."

Sam frowned, giving Dean his puppy eyes. "Pleaseeeee carry me Dee."

Dean gave Sam a slide long glance, utterly exasperated with his younger brother. But he couldn't blame him. They were all tired. Those lumpy, hard motel mattresses weren't easy to sleep on. But Sam especially. Sometimes he had nightmares, or just didn't sleep. John wasn't around to police them anyways, and he was a total sucker for when Sam used his puppy eyes. How could he say no?

"Fine. Just this one time," Dean sighed. He stopped walking and crouched down, and Sam hopped onto his back, locking his legs around the older boy's waist. Dean stood up and held onto the underside of Sam's knees. Sam's head fell down against the back of Dean's neck and before he knew it, he was finally asleep.

"Sammy?" Dean asked as he walked. He finally realized Sam fell asleep and went silent.

When he got back, he saw the Impala in the small parking lot. Oh, shit, shit, shit. They'd be in for it now. He put Sammy down and shook him awake.

"Sam, Sammy, wake the fuck up."

"What? Dean?" he murmured.

"Wake the fuck up. Now. Dad is back."

That alerted Sam instantly, the hairs on his neck standing up. Yelling at him, Danger, danger, flee. Was he going to listen? No. Obviously not. This was all his fault. Dean was going to get hurt because of him.

Dean slowly opened the door, trying to anticipate their father's wrath. What would he do this time? Whatever it was, it would hurt. The stench of beer welcomed the brothers when they stepped into the room, tickling at their noses. There was beer spilt on the floor, broken bottles, so much broken glass that Dean could almost feel himself falling into them, poking into his skin. He shuddered at the thought. His gaze locked onto their fathers body.

"Where the fuck—" John burped "—where … where the ffffuck were you two?"

"Dad, I-- we- were getting food. We got Waffle House."

John stepped forwards and grabbed Dean by the wrist, leaning in close enough for him to smell the the beer on his breath. "Don't you fucking lie to me, you pansy."

Dean's voice was coming out quickly, tumbling over his words in panic, "Dad, I'm not, I'm not I swear."

John tightened his grip, his sharp nails digging into the boy's skin. "Don't you fucking bullshit me, you cocksucker. I'm going to ask you again. Where did you two go?"

"I'm serious, we just went to Waffle House."

John suddenly snapped and punched Dean, the sound echoing in the room as Dean fell back from the force of the punch. It would leave a black eye, he could already tell. He brought his hand up and winced. Even though he knew that this was how John was, it still hurt. He couldn't let Sam see this. He deserved better than that.

Sam couldn't do anything but watch. He was frozen in place like a fawn instead of helping his brother like he should be, but the thought of being the person John directed his anger onto scared him. John already hated him, hated that Sam could express his emotions, didn't mind crying.

To John, the boy may as well be a girl. At the same time, he was proud of Sam, of his intelligence, his empathy. All the true monsters were usually men in disguise, and he knew that as well as anyone.

But now? John was pissed off. His sons had been gone for God knows how long, doing God knows what, and the oldest had the gall to lie to him about it. He grabbed Dean by the arm, his grip bruising. Dean pushed him away and punched the man in the jaw.

"Oh, you're finally fighting me back? Growing balls and manning the fuck up?" John scoffed. He pushed Dean down, the boy falling onto one of the many aforementioned glass shards that littered the floor like a dark mosaic on the floor stained with beer (and possibly other bodily fluids from previous tenants).

Dean let out a choked sound, having fallen onto his back. The air had been knocked out of him, and he sat up. He could feel some bits of glass in his skin with every flex of his arm, a sharp, stabbing pain that felt more like large needles, or fishhooks had been stuck in instead.