Demon Deconstructed @khkorossy
Chapter 1

Demon Deconstructed
K Hanna Korossy

"So," Sam said. It'd been five days since Dean had become Dean again, and they were overdue for this talk. But he was a smart guy, and had waited until Dean was busy cooking so his brother wouldn't have to look at him and couldn't easily leave. "Were there others besides Lester?"

Dean's back stiffened. His voice was bland, however, as his knife kept chopping. "What?"

Sam gripped his coffee mug in his good hand and kept his own voice even, non-accusatory. "Just, you know, wondering if there are any other bodies out there we should be worried about?" It wasn't like demon-Dean had tried very hard to cover his tracks. And Sam had both a shovel and a lot of experience hiding tracks.

"No," Dean said shortly. He dumped whatever he'd been working on into the hot skillet, and the sound of sizzling filled the kitchen.

Sam involuntarily winced. "Okay, so…what did you do all those weeks you were…?"

"Demoning it up?" Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam, head tilted. He turned back to his task. "Hung out at that bar. Beat up some guys. Was a douche to a nice girl I was cowgirling it with. Killed a couple of demons. And, oh!" He turned this time, spatula in hand. "Went after my brother with a hammer. That count?" Giving Sam a hard look, he turned away, flipped the contents of the pan a few times, then brought it over to the table. From the expert way he slid half the stir-fry onto his brother's plate and half onto his own, Sam would've been tempted to think Dean had spent his demon days apprenticing in a kitchen.

He started laughing.

Dean, fork halfway to his mouth, stopped and stared at Sam like he'd broken into an opera. "That funny to you?"

Sam couldn't help it, he cackled until he was wiping his eyes. "Seriously, man? Okay, so," he spread his hand on the table, "you die and turn into a demon. Not just any demon," he raised a finger, "some kind of Mark-hopped, scary…uber-demon. And you're telling me, instead of going out and sowing chaos and destruction, you, what? Sing bad karaoke, get into bar fights, hurt a waitress' feelings, and kill a couple of demons?" He was still snickering.

"And Lester," Dean added darkly.

"Right, right. The guy who sold his soul to kill his wife. Yeah, that's really evil, man." Sam shook his head and stabbed a piece of chicken. "Dude," he moaned a moment later, "how did you learn to cook like this?" The stir-fry was worthy of that place in Maryland they both loved.

Dean's knuckles were tight around his fork, first bite still uneaten. "And then I came after you, Sam. With a freakin' hammer."

He couldn't resist taking another bite before he responded, mouth mostly full but whatever. He wasn't on a date; he was eating with his brother in their home. The thought still made him smile, softly this time. "Yeah, about that. We've got, like, a hundred weapons in this place, right?" Off Dean's reluctant nod, he continued, "Guns, flamethrowers, an honest-to-God grenade launcher. And you grabbed a hammer, man. You ever think maybe deep down you didn't really want to kill me?" He wasn't even mentioning Dean's parting note, Sammy let me go, which they'd never discussed and he wasn't even sure Dean remembered. But it was one of the reasons Sam had hung on to hope that his brother was still salvageable. Even demon-Dean had called him Sammy. Sam took another bite, then sat back as he chewed. "Face it, dude: you made a lousy demon."

Dean rolled his eyes but didn't crack a smile, just stabbed at his chicken like he was practicing.

Sam knew when to quit. And that his brother would turn his words over and over in his head until he had to acknowledge their truth and, maybe, forgive himself a little. Sometimes that was the best he could do. That, and act like Sam himself had nothing to forgive. Which really wasn't an act.

They ate in silence a few minutes. Then Dean threw him a glance. "You torture anyone else besides a couple of demons?"

Sam suddenly had a hard time swallowing. Turnabout was a bitch. "No. But Lester—"

"—was a scumbag 'who sold his soul to kill his wife,' remember? He made his own choices and got what was comin' to him. Is that the worst you did, Sammy?"

Sammy again. And Dean's gaze was piercing but utterly without condemnation. So different from the accusations the demon had chucked at Sam. He rubbed his slinged arm and nodded, silent.

"Okay, then." Dean took a long sip of his beer, then pointed it at Sam. "Seems to me like both of us kinda sucked at Darth Vadering it, then."

Sam took a second. Then he picked up his own beer and slowly tilted it to clink against Dean's.

Dean raised an eyebrow at him. "And, dude, I am awesome at karaoke."

Sam snorted another laugh.

And this time, Dean joined him.

The End

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