Black Dog (IMTOD AU), Dean doesn't take death lying down.

Title: Black Dog

Genres: AU/Horror/Demon

Characters: Dean, Sam and John Winchester

Spoilers: "In My Time of Dying" (obviously)

Notes: I usually try not to write notes, but I feel the need to explain this fic. I know it goes without saying that writing an AU doesn't necessarily mean that I'm dissatisfied with canon, but I'm going to say it anyway. I really like what's happened so far in Season 2. As much as I love John Winchester (and the actor who portrays him) I think his death was necessary for the growth of his sons and for the growth of the show. So. This AU isn't a protest or anything. Just an idea I had that wouldn't go away until I wrote it down.

Also, the title won't make sense unless I write more. I hope I'll write more, but just in case I don't (which often happens) just ignore the title and pretend it's a oneshot. Er. Twoshot. Whatever.

Okay, okay. One last thing. I cleaned the language up a bit so I could post here. Wasn't sure if I could just use asterisks or what. When ff.net is working for me, I'll post an uncensored ^ _ ^ version there. I just really think Dean has a much bigger potty mouth than network television allows.

BLACK DOG

Hey. Take care of that car. Or I swear, I'll haunt your ass.
-"Faith"

My grandma always said, "When life gives you crap..."
What? Make crap-ade?
-Penny-Arcade

Chapter 1: When Life Gives You Crap...

"And you're about to become one. The same thing you hunt."

Dean stared at the reaper and tried to find the words to deny her. They didn't come. She had just reached into his soul, pulled out his fear, and showed it to him. It was creepy enough being temporarily stuck outside of his body; if it became a permanent condition he probably would go insane. Become what he hunted. Crap.

He took a shaky breath and tried not to think about the fact that he wasn't really breathing. Instead, he focused his thoughts on the problem at hand. He couldn't afford to ignore the possibility that the reaper had raised. But could he trust everything the spirit said?

"You don't know that," he answered finally. "Besides. Sam would never let that happen."

He turned from the reaper's deceptively pretty face so violently that he stopped following flesh-and-blood rules for a second. He moved without thinking, without crossing the space in between where he'd been and where he wanted to be. The experience took his nonexistent breath away, and he realized that he was already leaving behind the conventions of mortality. How long would it take him to forget what it had been like to be human?

He could practically feel the reaper's smirk against his substanceless shoulders.

"Shut up," he snapped without turning around.

"I didn't say anything," came the placid reply.

"You were thinkin' it."

"I'm only telling you the truth, Dean. I'm only telling you what you already know."

"Yeah, like I'm going to take advice from you. Hell, you probably work on commission. If there is a way out of this, you're sure as hell not gonna tell me."

"I'm not going to tell you because there is no way out. You have to accept-"

"I don't have to accept crap," he replied angrily.

"What are you going to do, Dean?"

He turned back to the beautiful lie of a spirit, stared her in the made-up face. He cast about desperately for some way out, for something he could use to forge a third option out of the two crappy ones he had been offered. He had no idea what he was going to say until he said it.

"I'm going to haunt my freakin' car is what I'm going to do."

Once the decision was made, there was no going back. The reaper disappeared and the hospital dissolved into a single thought. Violent emotion poured through him, the maelstrom of fear and grief and anger and love and hate that gives rise to spirits. He'd spent a lifetime controlling his rage when it counted, channeling it into a protective barrier between his family and the world. Now he unleashed every violent thought, every unhesitating, cold, deliberate emotion.

His transitional spirit-body was gone, replaced by a vague but far-reaching consciousness. He couldn't exactly see his brother, but he knew Sam was sitting by his bedside when his heart stopped. He knew Sam was calling his name and he wanted to reassure him, but there was something else that demanded his attention. Something going down in the basement of the hospital.

He didn't have to move. He simply thought and he was there, staring at the dark design chalked on the concrete floor, watching in horror as his father tried to trade his own life for his son's.

"So we have a deal?"

"No, John. Not yet. You still have to sweeten the pot."

NO.

When Dean's dying soul screamed, John Winchester heard it - and so did the demon. The Colt rose in John's hands of its own accord until the long barrel was lined up with the forehead of the poor jerk the demon had possessed. John's finger slid inexorably towards the trigger, despite his struggle to control his own movements.

"Looks like you're too late," the demon said. Yellow eyes flashed once with what might have been amusement or frustration, and then it was gone, leaving behind only a frightened janitor.

John's arms, under his control once again, fell weakly to his sides. His right protested painfully, but he barely felt it through his horror.

"Dean..."

His son's name left his lips in a strangled whisper, a plea, a protest. The silence, the emptiness in the boiler room was oppressive, and pregnant with unpleasant implications. Ignoring the wide-eyed stare of the man the demon had possessed, John began walking slowly out of the basement, knowing what he would find in the hospital above and dreading it more than death itself.

Chapter 2: Fire and Salt

For the second time that day, Sam watched a team of doctors fight for his brother's heartbeat. He waited for the rhythm to start again like it did before, but seconds stretched into minutes and then someone was calling a time of death.

It felt like one of those nightmares where a memory gets distorted, where something that turned out okay goes terribly wrong. He waited to wake up, to break the spell of sleep and find out that he was just having a bad dream about the time his brother almost died. He waited to find out that what he'd just seen never happened, that it was just his mind's projection of its fears.

But it wasn't a dream and he couldn't wake up. It was reality. And reality just didn't make sense anymore.

The funny thing was that he didn't see Dean as he was, too-still and already cooling. And he didn't see Dean as he had been a few moments ago, painfully vulnerable, but still vibrantly alive. He didn't even see him as he'd been on their last hunt, full of strength and vitality.

All he could see was his brother's bloodied face in the rearview mirror, his silent, empty, uncomplaining eyes.

"No, sir. Not before everything."

* * *

John Winchester couldn't breathe.

A passing nurse started to approach him, but blanched when he got a good look at his face. Whatever he saw in those dark eyes made him decide that the haggard, frightening-looking man leaning against the wall was Someone Else's Problem.

John Winchester didn't notice.

There was time, between the hospital staff leading Sammy back to the waiting area and the orderlies coming in to take the body - to take Dean - down to the morgue. There was time for John to be alone with his oldest son.

He'd known in the basement. The knowledge had weighted his steps, made a journey of five floors take a lifetime. He felt like he'd known all his life that Dean was dead, so why was is so hard to see him there, so still and pale that he didn't look like himself? Each second seemed like a year, but it didn't make it any easier to bear.

The tenuous sanity he'd crawled to after Mary's death eluded him now. His world had been built on his boys, on preparing them, making them strong. Dean had been so strong. Stronger than John himself, maybe.

It's okay, Dad.

For John Winchester, the world ended the night his son died. He fled the hospital and didn't look back.

* * *

Sam tried to be angry when he found his dad's room empty, but he didn't have the strength for it. He no longer cared where John Winchester's priorities were. He just wanted him there. He wanted his father to stand with him, to grieve with him. He wanted someone to share the burden of burning - God - of burning Dean's body. He wanted to not be alone. He would have taken back every angry word if it could have brought his father to him.

As time passed and the room remained empty, Sam shook with the pain of it, but he didn't leave. When faint shafts of light began sifting through the blinds and he knew that John wasn't coming back, he stayed where he was, curled on top of the tousled sheets that were the only traces of his father's fading presence. Finally, mercifully, sleep claimed him before the aching loneliness could.

They're driving. Always driving. The Impala is roaring, a mixture of diesel growl and headbanging bass. Dean has the music turned up again, but he isn't saying anything for once. He just moves with the beat of the song, his eyes on the vanishing highway. Sam doesn't feel much like talking either, but it bothers him that he can't remember where they're going or why. He's not going to do this forever, he reminds himself, and is bothered that he needs reminding. When did the interstate start looking like home?

Dean is turning to him like he wants to say something, but there are no words. Just the sadness dimming the fire in his green eyes. Sam wants to tell him that it's okay, except he's not sure what's wrong. Why is Dean looking at him like that?

Sam's behind the wheel and the scenery on either side has halted. Dean is standing by the side of the road, boots digging into the gravel of the berm. He has a sawed-off shotgun in one hand. His amulet shines dully with the light of the setting sun. He's smiling, and it's a smile filled with music and passion and hunting, but there's sorrow too, and grief and guilt.

Sam is asking with his eyes, searching his brother's face for an answer. The Impala is idling impatiently, but he won't leave without Dean. He won't.

Dean shakes his head and looks like there's so much he wants to say. A faint whisper is all that reaches Sam, as if the single lane of asphalt is a yawning canyon of empty distance. Faint, but clear.

"Don't burn my bones, Sam."

THE END

...MAYBE?

Wow, very interesting and different twist on IMToD. I want to
read more, please post again soon.
Kazy

That was sad, but good. So yea, I think you should definately add more here. I wanna know what else is gonna happen. Why not burn Dean's bones?? Could Dean be brought back???? I don't know, a person has to hope here .

Great job again.

Thanks, guys.

I'd like to do more work on this, but I haven't decided yet which direction I should take it. Hopefully I will have something in a week or two, after grades are due and winter break starts.

Heh. Yeah, it was sort of depressing to write about Dean's death. Even though I was really attached to the idea of him being dead but still a character, I was still reluctant to kill him because Dean is so...alive. Thinking about his corpse rotting in the ground...*shudder*.

I played with the idea of him remaining in a coma indefinitely. I pictured Sam driving around the country, having adventures with his disembodied brother, while Dean's physical form stayed behind in the hospital until the Winchesters found a way to restore him.

Hm. Maybe I'll write that fic after this one. It sort of has its angsty cake and eats it too. We get Spirit!Dean without the loss of his sexy body.

Definately. I agree with you. Thinking of Dean's sexy body in the ground, yikes!!! No way, I tell ya. .

Hey that story idea that you have sounds kick ass. Go for it after this. That would be great. I know I'll read it for sure. .

As much as I liked this, I'd read that story after this one too

I agree also with the thought of Dean's body rotting in the ground, No way no how. Thats a definate YIKES

This was really good and I can't wait until you're able to add more.
Reading AU fics is something new to me, Im never usually around this part of the boards, but after reading that I just might start to get into this section more

Katie

Thanks, Katie.

I've always had a love/hate relationship with AUs myself. On the one hand, they're the genre that gets the closest to the whole purpose of fanfiction: exploring angles that couldn't or shouldn't be explored on the show. But the danger is that they wind up being so different from what we're used to that the characters don't feel the same, etc. They can be the most interesting, but they're also the hardest to write. Well, I find them hard to write. Which is frustrating, because most of the plot bunnies I get are AUs!

I guess I just can't win. Anyways, thanks for reading. I'll try my best to get that next chapter out by the end of next week.

You are a very talented writer. I am glad you decided to continue with this one. The descriptions were amazing and the emotion was strong. I never get time to read fanfictions, but I wanted to see this after I found your comment on my story (thanks by the way).

I feel your pain on the AUs, they are hard to write. And those stupid plot bunnies. Mine are all AUs too. I sit down at the computer and try to talk my brain into episodic, but Au's pop up...the what ifs...

Anyway, excellent job. Looking forward to more.

Thanks.

I'm very much hoping to continue this story, but I wonder if it just isn't meant to be. I've tried twice now to write the next scene and both drafts were crap. Maybe there just isn't anything more to say.

Or maybe this is my brain's way of telling me to get my translating/essay-writing/grading done before I play with the pretty. It is exam week after all.

Oh well. I'll post whatever I have by Saturday whether it's working yet or not.

Just post what you have. We'll be the judge of that. I am sure it is not crap. It is probably far from it. We have faith in your writing. I know you won't disappoint us reviewers . Just please don't give up on this story.

*blush*

I'll do my best. Maybe I'll post several versions of the next bit and y'all can tell me which you like best. It'll be like a choose-your-own-adventure fic.

That would be awesome . Woo Hoo . I am happy as long you don't stop doing this fan fic .......

Okay.

Took me TWENTY PAGES to find Blue Earth, which is pathetic considering how short this update is. I wanted to have the Impala rebuilt by now too, but I know NOTHING about cars. I can change my oil and that's about it. So. I'm going to go crawling to my big brother and he's going to think I'm a total nerd and maybe by next week I will have the fourth chapter up ("One Working Part").

In the meantime...lock and load, Brides of Christ!

(Yes. Exam week has definitely fried my brain.)

I so didn't mean to put an OC in there. She just showed up and crashed the party. She's not going to be a love interest or anything. I don't even know if she'll even appear again.

Um...so...here 'tis. Lemme know what you think. I'ma go sleepy now.

Chapter 3: Burying the Dead

Seasons don't fear the reaper,
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain.
We can be like they are.
Come on, baby.
Don't fear the reaper.
-Blue Oyster Cult

There's no such thing as an honorable death.
-Dean Winchester

Sam buried his brother in Blue Earth.

It went against everything his father had taught him, but his father was not there. So he drove the body to Minnesota alone. Dug the grave by himself. Tried to pretend it was just another salt and burn, only without the salting or the burning.

"Does this feel like any other job to you?"

No. He was digging Dean's f***ing grave. There was no way to make that okay. But somehow he managed to complete the too-familiar task without shattering or melting or bleeding out or any of the thousand ways his brother's death threatened to destroy him.

There could be no official burial for Dean. As far as the relevant authorities were concerned, Dean Winchester had died in St. Louis, the prime suspect in a series of brutal murders: an ignomious footnote to the parade of inexplicable brutality that filtered through the nation's newspapers and disappeared as quickly as it arose. There could be no death certificate, no headstone, unless it were under a false name and that Sam simply could not bear.

It was Pastor Jim who provided Sam with a solution. Pastor Jim, whose freshly scorched bones lay buried in salt three plots over. Sam had called in desperation, not knowing who would answer the phone or how they might help, only remembering that this church, with its adjacent graveyard, had felt a little like a home once. It was here that Sam had learned to see cemeteries as resting places for the dead and not just creepy battlefields that had to be navigated with shotguns and shovels.

Dean hadn't been afraid of graveyards because his father had taught him that they were just part of the job, like forging silver bullets or shooting ghosts instead of running from them. Sam no longer feared graveyards because a kind priest had once given him a few happy memories during a childhood that had been too full of darkness.

Jim Murphy's death had not knocked St. Michael's out of the fight. The young nun who received Sam's call instantly picked up on the true meaning behind his cautious, coded inquiries. She knew what was out there in the dark and knew the part the Winchesters played in the war against it. She was willing to make all the necessary arrangements. If she saw forgery and the improper disposal of human remains as violations of her vows, she didn't show it.

When he'd arrived, she'd been standing in the doorway of the church, not looking much like a nun in jeans and an AC/DC shirt that reminded Sam painfully of Dean. He could only guess at her story, but her sad eyes told him that it was as full of violence and grief as his own. He didn't need any freaky psychic visions to reveal who had buried Pastor Jim. He could tell from the way she quietly faded into the church when he started working that she understood his need to perform this last duty to his brother by himself, no matter how fiercely his mind recoiled at the idea of putting his brother's cold body in the earth with his own hands.

Dean's name could not appear on any records, but Sam refused to give him an unmarked grave. He had the stone engraved with a simple line drawing of a Winchester rifle - the first Winchester, the 1866.

"God didn't make all men equal. Samuel Colt did." Dean is shoving cartridges into the breech with more alacrity than a ten-year-old has any right to. He looks up at Sammy and grins. "And Oliver Winchester made them equal at greater distances."

Grave digging was a tough enough job with two people; by himself, it took Sam hours to dig the hole and fill it again. The sun was just setting when he patted down the last of the dirt and kneeled next to it. Cold November wind iced the sweat on his neck as he stared at his brother's grave.

He waited for something to happen, for some meaning to soften the harsh fact of what had happened. He thought about the dream, and wondered for the thousandth, gut-wrenching time if it had been only that. In the past, he had often fervently wished that all his dreams were only dreams, and not supernatural visions. Now he felt like the opposite sentiment was the only thing keeping his heart beating.

There was a moment when he thought he felt something stirring in the lengthening shadows, thought he saw a flash of light like two luminous eyes beneath one of the red pines that bordered the small boneyard. Then the feeling was gone and the deepening night was once again merely cold and empty.

Sam watched as the Hunter’s Moon crested the horizon and lit up the world below like a giant second sun. It made the earth look as though it were stuck in a permanent twilight of grays and washed-out blues. A landscape devoid of extraneous visual cues, designed with purely utilitarian intentions. Sam suddenly ached for something to hunt, to chase down and punish. He wanted to end something.

A steaming cup of coffee appeared in his peripheral vision and startled him out of his aggressive melancholy. He hadn’t heard any approaching footsteps, but when his eyes followed the angle of the arm holding the mottled styrofoam, he found the young nun standing next to him. He accepted her offering wordlessly. The coffee was black, strong and bitter, but he wasn’t feeling particularly picky.

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but Sam broke it anyway.

"I'm sorry. About Pastor Jim..."

"Don't."

Sam looked up at her in surprise and her eyes softened, though her tone remained firm.

"I just mean...don't act like you didn't lose him too. And don't pretend that your family is to blame."

Sam looked back to the freshly packed dirt.

"He'd still be alive if it weren't for us," he said quietly, his voice breaking just the tiniest bit because he wasn't sure he was just talking about Pastor Jim anymore.

"Bulls***," she said. And then, "No offense," off the look he gave her.

He tried to formulate a response, but she seemed to know what he was going to say.

"The blame for a crime rests with the criminal, not the victims. Always. Don't beat yourself up over what that evil son of a bitch did. You do that and you stay a victim. That's letting the demon win."

Sam found his eyes drawn to the 9mm Glock resting in a well-worn holster on her shoulder. She noticed the glance and smiled tightly.

"Pastor Jim taught me that."

Sam looked away and nodded, not trusting himself to speak. A few more moments of unpressured silence passed before he took a steadying breath and rose to his feet.

"Thanks. For everything," he said, making a vague inclusive gesture with the hand that was still clutching the coffee. He realized suddenly that he had never asked her name, but couldn't think of a polite way to broach the subject.

She nodded once. "You heading back tonight?"

"I think so." Now that he had finished what he'd come there to do, all Sam wanted to do was leave, to drive away and keep driving forever.

"You let me know if you need any help tracking that f***er down," she replied as she turned back towards the church.

Sam took one last look at the fresh grave, clenching his jaw against the agonizing pain in his chest.

"I will do that."

I LOVE the nun!!! LMAO...

That was awesome.

But it sucked at the same time...cuz Dean's gone. Can he be gone??!

I didn't think it was possible, but here you've shown me that it is...then again...maybe not...Dean did tell Sam not to burn his bones. Please bring more soon.

I really love this angle. I can't wait to see how Dean continues to be there for Sam, even though Sam just put his body into the ground. The nun was great. Don't worry about OC's. As long as you pull them off nicely-which you did- then have as many as you want. Something about the SN fandom *cough*marysues*cough* has writers scared to use OC's. Maybe you're not (finals have fried my brain too so I might be overanalyzing your intro), I just wanted to let you know the nun was a great addition. Can't wait for spiritDean and your next update.