sweet chili glaze

Fade to Black - Chapter 7

Sequel to Black Velvet. Dean is no longer a demon, but he’s still cursed with the Mark of Cain, and the lure of that darkness grows stronger as time goes on.

Missed the beginning? It’s here

“Dean?!!” You stagger back a step or two, and you notice absently that you and Sam are wearing the same expression – shock.

“Yeah, yeah – I know. But it’s me. For fucking real.”

It is completely disconcerting to hear Dean’s speech – if not his voice – coming out of that mouth.

You stumble back towards the table and almost fall down onto the seat of the chair. “What the hell? How?” at the same time Sam is stuttering, “W-wait a second. Y-you’re a…”

“Uh-huh.”

“How?”

“No clue. Some scarface-looking dude, bright light.” This – kid – the kid with all of Dean’s mannerisms - is loading Dean’s gun, stuffing it into the back of his jeans under his – hoodie? You shake your head, trying to clear it, as he continues. “Next thing I know, I wake up looking like Bieber.”

“Why would someone turn you into…”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. Hey, we got any grenades?”

“What?” Sam reaches out to stop him as he tries to walk past, clearly focused on something other than answering questions. “Wait. Wait a second. Talk to me.”

This small version of Dean stops and fires off a bitchface that would do any fourteen-year-old proud. “Really, Sam? Now? I got no grass on the infield, and a girl’s gonna die. Sorry if I’m not in a chatty mood. Now, come on.”

Your wide eyes meet Sam’s, and as mini-Dean opens the door and heads out, Sam gestures with his head to follow. You blow out an incredulous breath and rush to join them, pulling the door shut behind you.

Riding in the back seat with Sam at the wheel, you are now struggling not to laugh at the ridiculous situation. Watching Sam thank the woman at the motel when she told him how polite his ‘son’ was, and then seeing Sam folded up like origami as Dean moved the seat up for his much younger, shorter legs – well, you can’t help but see the funny side of it all.

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