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stusbunker · 5 years

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Known: Topside Turvy

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean Winchester x Female OC, Dean x Demon!Reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: I have included dates relevant to air dates for reference points. I try not to repeat information you already know, but please ask if something doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu

Warnings: Torture, captivity, demons, Possession, necromancy, corpse disposal/ desecration, murder, eating raw beef, autopsies, animal death, angel kills, show level violence, Slow Burn. More warnings to come. Each Chapter will have its own warnings, because I am generous like that.

Earth Date: April 18, 2013

Location: Hell, and its Earth-level operations

The king knew the Winchesters were interfering with his domain; all too soon his rage reverberated throughout every corner of Hell. Your pacifism had somehow gone unseen, leaving you to ponder their motivations in silence as you focused your energy to quell your panic over betraying the crown. Crowley worked in secret with the kidnapped prophet under the strictest of security. Today the rumors started: he decided to use a new angle to break the petulant former honor student. The king of Hell was holding a casting call. Any demon who thought they had the chops to portray the Winchesters well enough to coax information out of the paranoid prophet. ‘Potential side parts available, real talent only apply.’

Curiosity got the best of you, after a few hours you tracked down the where and when. Upon breaching the portal to Earth, you had to recite your resume and why you thought yourself qualified to audition for the challenge.

“I was tortured by Dean Winchester.” You said it plainly, as if it was a long-forgotten past, and not a constant pining at the base of your every thought.

“When were you on Earth last?” the first gatekeeper asked, unimpressed.

“He tortured me here, before my, evolution,” You used your hands, hoping your point got across. When his dead eyes blinked back, you added. “Under Alistair’s tutelage?”

“Line B,” he nodded behind him. “Follow the stairs to the vessels. The boss wants us all in meat suits for the glamor to work.”

As you found the appropriate entry gate, you shuffled along the slight incline of the dusty floor. You had yet to find anyone ahead of you in your assigned queue. As the despair began to dissipate, you knew you had left the true confines of Hell behind. The magical bindings along the fences kept you weak, unable to flee and the atmosphere slowly softened your membrane sublimating you into a shapeless cloud. The Den of Bodies reeked of fresh death, human forms deposited like unwanted toys, empty from either recent possession or the tinny aftertaste of necromancy.

You soon found a male form close to Dean’s height and followed the cramped line illuminated with an icy blue letter “B”. Slowly you adjusted to the feel and weight of the vessel, it was hollow and odiferous in a way a corpse could only be. Walking came quickly and as you rounded the next bend you eventually found the demon ahead of you in the line, which thrice wrapped around a broad chamber. Within the darkened space more servants in human skin were transforming the old warehouse into a mirage of a crumby tugboat in a forgotten American freshwater harbor. Suddenly a fresh panic overtook you. Besides the very slim possibility of being transfigured into the man that was the focus of your emotions for centuries, what were you doing here?

In the end, you improvised. You didn’t make it passed the first round of auditions, didn’t even get a chance to perform for the king himself. But that didn’t stop you from observing the surveillance goons’ schedules and precisely orchestrated operation during the days you waited in line. On a whim, after your second rejection, you hung back and hid in the Wardrobe Department like a forgotten costume change. It was the quietest space you had occupied in decades, content to wait out the auditions like a rat waiting for the carnival to close.

And what a closing night; first they sent the last of the surviving actors back downstairs. All but one of the staggered portals sealed and secured by patrols. Since the Wardrobe Den was on this side of the portals, but out of the way of their duties, it was the last thing searched. So, when you heard voices whimpering about clean up detail; you got creative. Standing you dragged a body by its feet to the top of the heap.

“Wait, I thought we were on body dispersal?” A confused elderly Asian suited demon complained.

“I got sent from deliveries, figured we would take a handful so as not to draw attention once we are done with the project,” You shrugged, grabbing another body to stack.

“Whatever, man, let’s just fry the ones we need to before the boss comes back?” The first demon’s lanky partner bought your story, helping you even out the third body on your pile. You swung around, pulling the collected stack of bodies back the way they came, hoping to find a true Exit to the outside world. There was a goddamn sign, green like toxic ooze, lighting your way. The slow trudge of dragging bodies alleviated as you found an old dolly on the wings of a loading dock.

“What are you doing?” A demon with a security uniform on asked as you plopped the last lifeless corpse on to the metal cart.

“Hiding bodies, what does it look like I’m doing?” You sighed, breathing in the outside air for the first time in a century, so close to freedom you could taste it. An unraveling sense of possibility exploded among your thoughts.

“Okay, on your way, grab some Pad Thai? The golden boy in there is getting pretty obscure with his food requests. We got another truck handling the rest of the laundry list.” He handed you a scrawled-on shred of paper. You took the assignment in slight disbelief as a dubious grin broke onto your vessel’s face. Could demons get any stupider?

Earth date: April 21, 2013

Location: Janesville, CA

It was oddly damp and cool, but out in the open the afternoon sun gave off such warmth you would have stayed out until sunset. The dead man you had been wearing since Hell had caused some trouble and you were in the market for a new ensemble as you strolled down the gravel drive toward the ramshackle homestead, just enjoying the spring day. The bull had sensed you coming, an agonizing moan tore through its massive throat before it sunk to the ground. Its fear was the dinner bell, you quickly hopped the pasture fence to play with the anguished creature.

A shotgun blast shot out in warning behind you, the old farmer calling out as he approached, “Get back now!”

The beast’s blood had soaked the dirt beneath your knees, your hands and face caked with the sticky liquid. The knowledge that this was its true death and that it had happened at your hands flowed through you, an unbridled power. The muffled shriek that came from the man’s mouth as you spun to face him was icing on the cake. You quickly approached him, the urine snaked down his jeans and on to his shaking legs. He couldn’t form words before his heart gave out with your tendon-riddled smile. You left him for his Reaper and marched to his backdoor.

“Was that really necessary Harold!” The old woman bellowed from the next room. “I swear I need to hide that gun, with your eye sight,” her voice trailed off as she looked up to see all the blood-soaked six feet of your vessel in the door way. She crossed herself, before you smoked out of the mess and into her praying throat. Hopefully, you had caused enough mayhem for those pesky little hunters to start poking their noses around.

You cleared her throat and went for the phone, dialing the emergency line. “Yes? Hello? Oh god, this man attacked Simon, and now I think Harold’s had a heart attack. Please, send help—” You waited on the line, frantically trying to give the dispatcher the details. Before the sirens were on the horizon, you walked your old vessel back out to the pasture and planted two solid blasts to the body. Your short stay in the old woman had given her quite the headache and she quickly passed out beside the telephone. You jumped into Harold before he was loaded into the back of the ambulance and taken to the county coroner.

Earth date: April 23, 2013 (Just before Pac Man Fever)

Location: Lassen County Government Office, Susanville, CA

Chloe Collins tightened the belt of her trench coat, realizing it would be too warm to use soon. Her etched blade rested carefully on her belt, hidden yet accessible in its personalized leather sheath. She checked her watch before taking another sip of her gas station coffee-hodge-podge of regular Colombian roast cut with their water and powder cappuccino concentrate. She was waiting on Roger or Geoff, not sure who would draw the short straw, and therefore would have to put forth some effort in the appearance department. While the other got lucky and was due to be scoping out the cleared crime scene. She hadn’t slept in two days when the omens came up on the radar. She had gotten into town early the night before, allowing her some rest before back-up or county offices were ready for her.

She was giving Geoff/ Roger ten more minutes, or she was going in alone, slackers. When her phone rang, she didn’t even check the caller ID. “If you are going to bail, save it, I would have been done here if I wasn’t waiting on you two.”

“Well, good morning to you too, Cease,” a rich baritone replied. She froze and pulled her face away to check her guess.

“Yup, just did the assumption ass thing, whatcha need Winchester?” She leaned back against the driver’s side door of her pick up as she listened to his very detailed request. “If you had a prophet all this time, how come you didn’t share some winning lotto numbers?”

She heard the exhaustion over the phone, the snark was to draw out the conversation as Roger had finally shown up. CC relished in making him listen to her side of the line as he stewed in apologetic, if not awkward intrusion.

“Nah, not that kind of prophet, think decoder ring. Anyway, you see anything or if you get a demon talking, send a line. Alright?” Dean wrapped up his request.

“Alright. Take care.”

“Yeah, you too.” He ended a little too sadly.

CC slid the phone into her pocket to smile innocently at Roger. “Since you’re late, you get body duty, I’m going to catch up with the Sheriff.” He rolled his eyes and nodded, letting her lead the way.

The refrigerator was nearly empty when they slid the body of the old man you rode into the middle row, chest height for easy access. You were fascinated by the vivisection and organ removal, leaving the doctor to do his job. The Sheriff was friendly despite being extremely uneasy about the details of the case. You had to hold back from giving him the scare of his life more times than you could count. “Psychopaths are bad for PR,” you heard as the evidence was verified and files were exchanged. Now, in the cold and the dark you waited, hoping you had hit all the neon warning lights that would bring somebody useful within arms’ reach.

The coroner began muttering under his breath, something about the Feds and not having time for this. He quickly brought out the focus of the investigation, the body of your escape vessel that had been dead for weeks when it mutilated a prized bull and took two blasts to the torso. Another man’s voice began asking questions, weird substances and oddities in the coroner’s findings.

“Yeah, you know what, I haven’t gotten it sent out yet, but his ears were lined with this powder,” there was scraping and shuffling before he handed the vial to the investigator. “Besides the whole, eating a cow raw thing, that was weird.”

“Right.” The stranger listened as the coroner read all the medical jargon from the report back to him. “Thanks, Doc, I think I will just check the other body quickly while I wait for my partner to finish up with the Sheriff.”

“Harold Simmons, not much weird there, poor guy,” the door opened, and you felt the tray jostle the stiff that you were squatting in. Resisting the urge to tear open the eyelids and treat both the men to their own wet shorts, you laid still, waiting for the hunter to show his true colors. The funny thing about Hell was that it hadn’t taught you how gullible and disposable humans were. The constant torture and regeneration of the soul made any act possible, but back on Earth a hang nail could practically do them in. You had yet to perfect the art of handling them properly, your own strength and distaste winning over patience and inconspicuousness. When the coroner finally shut the door behind him, the hunter dug the vial of sulfur from his pocket, cracking the safety seal and sniffing away like any asinine teenager in chemistry class.

“Blech, should have known.” Roger capped the sample and put it back among the doctor’s collected evidence on a cart.

“You know, you don’t smell like daisies either,” you replied, sniffing the air haughtily from your seat on the metal rack.

The hunter balked at you before throwing a baggie of salt at your face. The slight residue on the exterior of the plastic seal smarted, but the contents remained secure as the bag bounced off the grizzled jaw of your meatsuit and fell to the floor. You jumped from your perch at the man who was know fumbling with his phone and aiming a useless handgun at your head. You sighed, reaching out and snapping his wrist effectively liberating his weapon. He cried out, a whimper more than scream.

“Now, I don’t have to kill you,” you crooned, sliding the barrel of the gun along his jaw, “just want to talk. I was hoping some of your kind would come sniffing around.”

“I ain’t gonna talk, man, I don’t make deals,” He groaned, rocking his shatter joint on his chest. Well, he was playing tougher than you gave him credit for, which just made it more exciting.

“Oh, no, honey, I’m not here to upsell you for the soul suite of your choice,” you bent over, cold skin flush against his greasy forehead, instantly he kicked away, disgusted. A guttural laugh broke from the old man, lungs that weren’t, wheezing with the effort. “No, but how ‘bout you tell me about them Winchester boys, eh?” The toothless mouth loose with a hapless grin.

Just as you finished whispering a flash of metal caught your eye, a spell blade slashed against the sinewy forearm of your vessel as you spun to face your attacker. The flesh bubbled, the air soon filled with it. Now this was a hunter, she was crouched down, her weapon rolling between her fingers as she circled you for another opening. You had lost the gun in the distraction before her arrival. Her hair was pinned back, but it was dark and coarse, her professional full-length coat floating behind her like a cape. She tried signaling her partner, but you kicked the gun out of reach of his good hand.

You taunted her, “Look-y here boys, the big girl is bringing the hurt. Fancy blade you got there, where’d you get something like that? Two for one deal? The coat and the dagger free with purchase?”

“I fucking hate mouthy demons,” she snipped through clenched teeth.

“CC!” The man bellowed, he had left his path for the gun, instead going back to the forgotten sack of saline. The bag flew through the air and just as she caught it, you ejected from the dead man’s jaw and into the air, you aimed for the injured man in hopes to play on the woman’s sympathies. But he was somehow warded. Frustrated, you snaked back, finding her throat much more accommodating. Being inside a living vessel was like jumping onto a moving train, her thoughts and instincts fighting every piece of your presence and prodding.

“CC? Can you hear me?” All the color had drained from Roger’s face as she shuddered underneath your weight.

“My knife, Rog,” she stammered, she sure was strong. You stood frozen, willing her to grab her gun and put five rounds through the back of his skull, to scream for the Sheriff, to do a twostep; the bitch wouldn’t budge. You roamed her memories, floating through the day at the farm with the Sheriff, her annoyance that the man she was working with was late, a phone call about a prophet. Kevin Tran. A request from an old friend, a mutual acquaintance as it were. You were stopped before you could go deeper, a sharp jab of iron to her thigh shot you right back out of her tense jaw.

Fascinated and annoyed, you disappeared out of the open door and into the hallway that ran the length of the municipal building. You dove into a spherical clerk who was overseeing marriage licenses and stayed put.

“What the hell was that?!” Roger screeched.

“That,” CC panted, “was a demon, dumb ass.” She kissed the iron face of her trusty knife as it had just saved her from being a sulfur buffed surfboard. CC stood, helping the gangly man to his feet. After quickly realizing how impossible it would be to find the demon among the building full of office staff and deputies. They, instead, cooperated to ease the vacated corpse back onto the gurney-like bed he had sprang from. They worked quickly, not wanting to bring any more suspicions to the small town’s doorstep.

After a day next to the police scanner while cruising the simple farm highways in either direction, Roger, Geoff and Chloe called it a night. They would stay up in shifts, salt lining the door and windows, waiting for the murderous damnation to leave a trail of bodies. It was three days without any sign or circumstance that would warrant further investigation. They had lost it, best to move on and pray a better hunter faced it next.

The orthopedic lifts in the rubber soled shoes rubbed mercilessly against the woman’s high arches as she shuffled down the frontage road to the outdated pick up truck. She was sticky with sweat, and the dry air didn’t help her breathing. Her thin top clung to the lumps and rolls as she waddled along, hoping she would catch the Federal Agents before they left town. She had no idea how she knew where they were staying or why she needed to see them, but she hurried all the same. At the tarnished number twelve she stopped, chest heaving and permed hair clinging to her temples. She raised her doughy hand to knock when the door swung back, a gun level with her face as she lost her voice, “Don’t shoot!” came later as her eyes clamped shut and her hands raised in surrender.

“What do you want?” The female agent spat, lowering the weapon into the back of a pair of jeans, the large leather knife case obvious on her hip.

“Just wanted to stop you before you left, my name is Darlene Woods, I work at the Sheriff’s office.” The older woman’s voice was shrill and persistent. “Now, why did I come all the way here?” the woman held her hand to her mouth, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Do you need me to call someone for you? Ms. Woods? Is everything alright?” Chloe Collins rested against the motel room door, worry for the older woman only slightly overtaking her paranoia.

“Just give me a minute, dear,” Darlene looked at the ground, her hands on her hips as if her memory would surrender to her grimace. “Oh, silly me, I remember!”

And she smiled with a darkness in her eyes that Chloe knew all too well.

Earth date: April 30, 2013

Location: Albuquerque, New Mexico

She had been heading East on nothing but a hunch, the news stories and tips fading to white noise as she let the mile markers lead her onward. Chloe sat at the Biggersons’ counter nursing her second coffee refill. She could have asked for a box for her leftover lunch, but she was going to hit the road anyway, might as well eat as much as she could because it was who knows how long until her next stop. There was an ironic rebellion to her giving the monstrous restaurant chain her business, since they had been slowly poisoning a third of America not a year earlier while the Leviathans roamed free. One more monster invasion she had survived and now lived to enjoy their sweet potato fries another day.

Her waitress stormed out of the backroom in sobs, the entire room quieted as her predicament spread throughout the dinning area.

“Margie!” The manager chased after her from the kitchen, his face worried with a mix of personal pain.

Just then the televisions all changed to a live news broadcast, the sister franchise in flames in Santa Fe. CC watched the wreckage as the drama from the backroom became clear. Just as the news shot panned out in order to get the reporter back in the shot, she caught it: a mysterious figure amongst the flames. A tiny voice in the back of her head told her to ignore it, that it wasn’t worth her time. She promptly ignored the voice, bemusedly noting that the next leg of her trek would be much shorter than she originally thought.

CC left two twenties under her saucer and shrugged into her suede leather coat. Some days a generous tip was all it took to turn a server’s day around and Chloe had more money than time.

*^*

Next Chapter: Crowley and the Queen

#known series #dean winchester #dean winchester x demon!reader #dean winchester x female oc #dean winchester fanfic #dark fic #demon!reader #hell #blood #animal death #demon possession #demons #dean x you #dean fanfic #dean fic #spn dark fic #spn #supernatural #spn fanfiction

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la---llorona · 7 years

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nickles and dimes

Ten,twenty, ....nighty..nighty five. Mama aqui esta un dollar!

I say after counting the dimes and nickels I had in my drawer. I had checked my piggy bank but mama had already emptied out last week for laundry. The nickels and dimes that sit on my hand will be enough for the four loafs of the bolillo deal at the supermarket near me. Four pieces of warm bread to keep my bowl of frijoles company. I’m excited for the change of ingredients in my diet.

The money we collect for the local church food bank is from the miles my mother walks collecting recyclables from bins and the streets of SELA. The sight of an empty bottle can meant to her a full stomach for her children and herself. She loves to take long walks, she always has.

The food bank is two dollars. It’s a lotto. Where you stand on that line will determine what type of foods you will have on your table for the next two weeks. My community waits in the long lines in the burning sun. Trying to see over the gate, hoping the fruits left are still fresh. I stand in that line like a child does under a Christmas tree on the morning of Christmas Eve. My mother wants me to stop smiling. She wishes not to be seen here.

The fridge is filled with the leafy vegetables, half brown, half green. Luckily, we have a rabbit who would be really pleased to eat them. Additionally there are Four cans of tuna, three potatoes, five slices of Kraft cheese and four jars of gravy. My mother says the church keeps the best items and the employees distribute the best foods to their friends and family.

Black coffee is amazing when you add the right amount of canela to it. The one in the shaker of course. I toast the bread in my toaster, grab two slices of the kraft cheese, and cut up a potato in my hand. The sink is broken, so I can’t use the cutting board. The old season shakers that use to get in the way in your cabinets become the key components to your meals. I season the boiled potato in garlic powder and place it into the microwave.

I’m extremely satisfied with the sandwich I've created but my mother scorns me for taking so much pride in being poor. She said if I was really smart I’d find a man who would pay my meals and provide me with allowances. I think she’s crazy. Gender roles suck. I mean if she’s so okay with expecting a man to pay my bills because he’s a man then would she be okay with a man expecting me to cook his meals and do his laundry because I’m his woman?

I feel my mother’s craziness would have flourished into great things if she had the same opportunities I grew up with. I mean imagine if she had taken Chicano studies 47? Mexican American women in contemporary America? What if she learned about the constant harassment placed on Mexican American women like her and me? How we are forced to choose between motherhood and our careers. What if my mother would have known that she’d be just as great of a mom if she continued taking those afternoon English classes? What if my mother knew that it wouldn’t have made her any less of a mother if she had our father take care of us for a day while she took care of herself.

My mother and I are both radical in our own realities.

In our own generations.

Her spirit of resilience resides insides my own.

I take pride in our struggle as I know it is the product of a resilience against the machismo in our families. I know that my plate would have been full if she had chosen to continue to put up with my father’s constant toxic existence. But I'm glad the fridge is empty rather than her body being broken down with his degrading actions. I know that the broken sink would have been fixed if she had chosen to continue to be broken by a man who didn’t love her like I do. Like the way she deserves to be loved.I know that the broken items in my house came at the expense of my mother’s individuality. And I want her to know that I’d choose her individuality over any luxury.

For her generation. Leaving her husband despite what the church says and what the women her age say is a resistance I will always admire. Choosing to walk away from a “stable” life for her personal freedom and healthy state of mind from the generation she walks in will always be revolutionary to me,

And although we can’t agree on anything anymore.

I hope she knows...

Her spirit of resistance resides inside my own.

#chicana #mama

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