Where's Your Crown, King Nothing?
Mar. 19th, 2013 10:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dime_lioraTitle: Where’s Your Crown, King Nothing?
Pairing: Dean&Dick
Type: Other-enemy
Rating: R
Medium: Fic
Word Count: 2,440
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any related character. I do own a fedora. It is quite snazzy.
Summary: Dean has one more conversation with Dick Roman. Direct spoilers for 7x9 & 10.
Warnings: Canon character death, expletives, ANGST, no sex.
Link: Where's Your Crown, King Nothing?
Notes: Fill for the Dean/Dick square on the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
spnpairingbingo.
(The line referenced later is: “You’re either laughing because you’re scared or you’re laughing because you’re stupid.”)
Bobby’s dead.
It’s the only thing Dean can think, the only fully formed thought process that works, and it hurts so much he feels like he won’t be able to move if he stops. So he doesn’t.
He makes sure Sam is safe, that the body is released to them, and then he gets in the Impala and travels to the local bar. He orders five shots and then takes a booth. Now he can sit, now he can stop, and when he gets up again the world will be filtered through something other than the sight of Bobby lying in that hospital bed with a hole in his head.
The world will be booze soft and Bobbyless.
A part of him wants to get back up, drop money for the drinks that haven’t arrived yet, and then go. He’ll bundle Sam up in the Impala and the two of them will just ride back to the site of Bobby’s house. If they rebuild it then maybe he’ll come back. All they have to do to have the past is grasp at it right?
Everyone thinks Sam is the smart one, and for the most part they’re right. Dean’s never put much stock in the things the schools like to teach. He had more important things to do than figure out the degree of a triangle’s corner or when a train would arrive. Still he remembers vaguely some book he had to read about grief, and the phrase “magical thinking”. Bobby is not coming back.
It was easier for Sam back then because he had to time to process what the world was and what it required before he found out their place in it. Dean has known what they are and what they’re for since he was four years old. Which should make him more equipped for this. Dad never saw fit to lie to him, and because of that he never had the kind of simple childhood pleasures Sam had, never lived in a bubble where the world was something to hope for.
At least not unless Bobby was giving it to him. Bobby who taught him how to play catch, how to fish, how to be a man instead of a killing machine. Sure, Bobby helped with some of his hunter training, but it was after puberty and shortly before the falling out between the older man and his father. For the most part Bobby simply taught him that there was life beyond monsters, and that he had the right to enjoy it just a little bit.
The drinks arrive and Dean takes the first shot and relishes the burn of cheap whiskey. “To Bobby.” He mutters as he turns the glass over and thunks it down on the table.
“To Bobby.” Another voice replies, and Dean looks up to see Dick Roman standing at the end of his booth. The Leviathan takes the space across from him and looks around. “Is this how the other half lives? No wonder you always seem so downtrodden and shabby. This place reeks of despair.”
It takes everything Dean has not to jump the table and start bashing the fucker’s head in. Every tiny bit of restraint Dean has left goes into the effort of picking up the next shot and taking it. He won’t give Dick the pleasure of knowing that he’s interrupted the old mourning tradition. That’s he shaken Dean to his very core by taking away the one man that Dean always counted on.
“This ain’t the place for this Dick. You want to go at me you better head out to the alley and wait for me to be drunk and unprepared. That’s your only chance to take me.”
Dick’s smile is that odd mixture of perfunctory and vicious that Dean has gotten used to. “You really believe I should be afraid of you? Tell me Dean, how little do you think of me? Haven’t you realized by now that I know every little bit and piece of you? All of your angst, your loyalty, your issues, it’s all stored in our collective consciousness and I know how to use all of it against you. I knew the moment I saw your pseudo-father in my office that I had your downfall.”
Dean takes the next shot and schools his features before leaning into Dick’s space. “Oh yeah? Bobby’s dead and I ain’t fallen Dick.”
“Bullshit to borrow one of your human expletives. Even ignoring the fact that I put a bullet in the brain of your only living parent, I killed your crutch Dean. He was your main source of information and help. Without him you’re drowning in a sea of things far beyond your understanding. That’s not even taking into account the fact that he was the only one you could count on. I mean really, is Sam going to step up and take that role? Become someone you can rely on without question or doubt?”
His fingers ghost along the rim of the next glass. He just wanted to get drunk. He wanted to do all the things he used to do with Bobby when they burned their friends. He had to burn Bobby. Instead he was locked into some kind of verbal battle with the piece of shit that ended Bobby’s life. That kind of slow death, lying in a bed and struggling to pass on one last cryptic message after that brutally fast, anti-climactic, lucky fucking shot…
It flew in the face of all reason. It destroyed everything Dean has ever believed in, because Bobby was supposed to go down in a blaze of glory not a low droning tone. Bobby was supposed to take things out with his death, to have the blood of monsters on his hands, and he was supposed to die victorious. That was how Dean had believed it would go his whole life, if he believed Bobby was capable of death at all. And come to think of it, had he believed Bobby was capable of death, or was he confusing what he’d thought of his father with what he thought of Bobby?
“You know me Dick. I’m always landing back on Sam. I don’t see that changing, and as for a crutch? Sammy’s a mighty fine repository himself.”
Dick laughed, head tilted back and lips perfectly formed like a silent film actor yukking it up for the camera. “Oh Dean. That’s adorable. It’s one of the things I find most fascinating about your species, your talent for self-deception. I think, honestly, it makes you tastier.”
Dean holds his arm out as he takes the next shot. “Chow down Dick, you’re gonna be a little disappointed.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve talked yourself into believing that you and Sam can survive this blow. You’ve assured yourself that this is just another death in a long line of funerals. I can see it in your eyes though Dean. You’re splintering. You’re giving up. Why don’t you and I step behind this bar and I’ll take you up on your generous offer. Put you out of your misery.”
Dean starts stacking the glasses. The lip of the first against the table, bottom of the next on top of that one, the stack getting increasingly unstable as he places them lip to lip for the third and then bottom to bottom for the fourth.
“Misery? Do you even know what misery is, or did God only make you to be hungry like a big stupid animal. Do you have anything other than that hunger Dick? That burning need? You make fun of us, call us cattle and food, but at the end of the day do you have anything that makes you special or sets you apart?”
Dick doesn’t laugh this time. His face gets hard and angry, and Dean knows he’s weighing his next hit carefully. Calculating what will hurt most and how to deliver it in such a way it will wound, and that the wound will fester. Dean has extensive training in injuring others with words. Why it never occurred to him until this second to use it to analyze his enemies, to avoid going off the handle, he’s not entirely sure. What he does know is that for the first time since he turned to see the little hole in Bobby’s skull a cold sense of calm descends on him, and he can think clearly.
“We are superior on every level Dean. The perfect predators, the perfect life forms, and lacking all of those useless and messy emotions is what has allowed us to survive for so long. You think you would last a week in Purgatory? We ruled that place, and now we’ll rule this one too. As soon as we get rid of all the refuse that will be it. Nothing will even bother to stand in our way. As it is the only ones of your race that have even tried are you, your brother, and Bobby. Look how it turned out for him. Face it Dean, you’re fighting a losing battle against a vastly superior force, and that’s it. We’re not the angels, we’re not the demons, and we’re not going to stop. You can’t stop us. So just lie down and let us win. It’ll be so much easier. We’ll even make your deaths easy. Wouldn’t you like to rest Dean? To finally give up this pretense of being so strong? You can’t fight me because you’re reactionary. All you know is to hit back after being hit. Your lack of vision will be your ultimate downfall.”
When Dick is done, settled back against the vinyl of the booth and smiling the smug little grin again that looks like he stole it off a movie poster Dean lifts the last glass and looks him in the eye. The man, the monster, is much older than him. Older than Dean can really comprehend, and he gets that this means Dick has a certain set of advantages against him. He even understands that most of what Dick is saying is true. He’s known for a long time he has a set of weaknesses, and they all link back to his roiling emotions.
Sam always wants to talk it out. Always wants them to hash out their differences and work through their problems, but Dad didn’t work that way and as a consequence Dean doesn’t either. It’s his biggest button, that tightly shut box inside of him holding in all of his rage and pain and fear. Like a target to anything that can sniff it out and use it. Dick knows, Alistair knew, and Dean has only just begun to understand himself. To know how to let the pressure off in drips and drabs so that he doesn’t break the code of silence he was taught, but doesn’t become the walking bomb he’s been for so long.
“Dick, I made a statement earlier and you just answered which one it was.”
The monster raises an eyebrow, and Dean grins in response. That look of hatred leaks into Dick’s eyes. “Whether I was stupid or scared? Enlighten me Dean. Which is it?”
“Stupid. It’s not your fault though. You never had a man like Bobby to teach you better.” Dean downs the last shot and then carefully balances it on top of the four other glasses. “To Bobby.” He mutters as his fingers hover to make sure the balance is just right.
“And what did your dead mentor give you that I am lacking?”
“You called me reactionary and you’re right about that. When shit hits the fan I put my shoulder down and plow through it. I’ve spent my whole life like that. Striking back instead of striking first. Maybe it’s a lack of vision, or maybe not, but I can tell you this; Bobby used to say the biggest mistake any hunter makes is underestimating his prey. The second you underestimate it is the second you die. So yeah, I react, but I react pretty damn well. I’ve lived through going to Hell, I lived through the Apocalypse, and I’m gonna live through you. Know why?”
Roman’s face is twisted now, hatred so prominent Dean wonders if it’s a side effect of their endless hunger or the cause. “Why?” He hisses as his fists clench on the table.
“’Cause your maker made you the same way he made Lucifer. A forward thinker. Things like you wanna plan out everything and be in control. You wanna make the world bow down to you, and you got all these schemes and ideas to make it happen. You stack manipulation on ploy until you got a big old tower you can sit in and be king of.” He gestures to the stack of shot glasses. “And that kind of thing makes you feel powerful. Makes you think you can’t be stopped. You look down on me because I’m reactionary, and you’re right because if I was you I woulda walked in this bar and fucking ganked you without blinking, witnesses and all. There’d be consequences, and it wouldn’t be the smartest thing I ever did, but you’d be deader than a doornail and out of my way. Instead you walk in here and sit down, try to play a game with me and get me to put myself in a position where you can take me out.”
He studies the group of young women collecting their coats and laughing loudly. He’s gotta speed this up.
“Because you got a plan and it means staying under the radar and playing the part of law-abiding Dick Roman. That makes you a planner. Good for you. But your kind never figures out the reason my kind always wins. You have all these rules building your little tower.” Dean reaches out and taps the bottom glass once with a fingertip. The glasses go scattering, two shattering on the floor, and Dick jerks once in surprise as several patrons look over.
“My kind? We don’t have those sorts of restrictions. All I need is to tap one of your plans out of whack and your whole tower comes down. Before Bobby died, he gave me the plan I need to tap. So, like I said, to Bobby.”
Then Dean joins the group of women, carelessly tossing out to the distraught barmaid, “Dick Roman bought my drinks, and he’s getting the next round for the whole bar!”
There’s a cheer as he swaggers out in the arms of two rather pretty young women who have no idea they’re saving his life.
Pairing: Dean&Dick
Type: Other-enemy
Rating: R
Medium: Fic
Word Count: 2,440
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any related character. I do own a fedora. It is quite snazzy.
Summary: Dean has one more conversation with Dick Roman. Direct spoilers for 7x9 & 10.
Warnings: Canon character death, expletives, ANGST, no sex.
Link: Where's Your Crown, King Nothing?
Notes: Fill for the Dean/Dick square on the
spnpairingbingo.(The line referenced later is: “You’re either laughing because you’re scared or you’re laughing because you’re stupid.”)
Bobby’s dead.
It’s the only thing Dean can think, the only fully formed thought process that works, and it hurts so much he feels like he won’t be able to move if he stops. So he doesn’t.
He makes sure Sam is safe, that the body is released to them, and then he gets in the Impala and travels to the local bar. He orders five shots and then takes a booth. Now he can sit, now he can stop, and when he gets up again the world will be filtered through something other than the sight of Bobby lying in that hospital bed with a hole in his head.
The world will be booze soft and Bobbyless.
A part of him wants to get back up, drop money for the drinks that haven’t arrived yet, and then go. He’ll bundle Sam up in the Impala and the two of them will just ride back to the site of Bobby’s house. If they rebuild it then maybe he’ll come back. All they have to do to have the past is grasp at it right?
Everyone thinks Sam is the smart one, and for the most part they’re right. Dean’s never put much stock in the things the schools like to teach. He had more important things to do than figure out the degree of a triangle’s corner or when a train would arrive. Still he remembers vaguely some book he had to read about grief, and the phrase “magical thinking”. Bobby is not coming back.
It was easier for Sam back then because he had to time to process what the world was and what it required before he found out their place in it. Dean has known what they are and what they’re for since he was four years old. Which should make him more equipped for this. Dad never saw fit to lie to him, and because of that he never had the kind of simple childhood pleasures Sam had, never lived in a bubble where the world was something to hope for.
At least not unless Bobby was giving it to him. Bobby who taught him how to play catch, how to fish, how to be a man instead of a killing machine. Sure, Bobby helped with some of his hunter training, but it was after puberty and shortly before the falling out between the older man and his father. For the most part Bobby simply taught him that there was life beyond monsters, and that he had the right to enjoy it just a little bit.
The drinks arrive and Dean takes the first shot and relishes the burn of cheap whiskey. “To Bobby.” He mutters as he turns the glass over and thunks it down on the table.
“To Bobby.” Another voice replies, and Dean looks up to see Dick Roman standing at the end of his booth. The Leviathan takes the space across from him and looks around. “Is this how the other half lives? No wonder you always seem so downtrodden and shabby. This place reeks of despair.”
It takes everything Dean has not to jump the table and start bashing the fucker’s head in. Every tiny bit of restraint Dean has left goes into the effort of picking up the next shot and taking it. He won’t give Dick the pleasure of knowing that he’s interrupted the old mourning tradition. That’s he shaken Dean to his very core by taking away the one man that Dean always counted on.
“This ain’t the place for this Dick. You want to go at me you better head out to the alley and wait for me to be drunk and unprepared. That’s your only chance to take me.”
Dick’s smile is that odd mixture of perfunctory and vicious that Dean has gotten used to. “You really believe I should be afraid of you? Tell me Dean, how little do you think of me? Haven’t you realized by now that I know every little bit and piece of you? All of your angst, your loyalty, your issues, it’s all stored in our collective consciousness and I know how to use all of it against you. I knew the moment I saw your pseudo-father in my office that I had your downfall.”
Dean takes the next shot and schools his features before leaning into Dick’s space. “Oh yeah? Bobby’s dead and I ain’t fallen Dick.”
“Bullshit to borrow one of your human expletives. Even ignoring the fact that I put a bullet in the brain of your only living parent, I killed your crutch Dean. He was your main source of information and help. Without him you’re drowning in a sea of things far beyond your understanding. That’s not even taking into account the fact that he was the only one you could count on. I mean really, is Sam going to step up and take that role? Become someone you can rely on without question or doubt?”
His fingers ghost along the rim of the next glass. He just wanted to get drunk. He wanted to do all the things he used to do with Bobby when they burned their friends. He had to burn Bobby. Instead he was locked into some kind of verbal battle with the piece of shit that ended Bobby’s life. That kind of slow death, lying in a bed and struggling to pass on one last cryptic message after that brutally fast, anti-climactic, lucky fucking shot…
It flew in the face of all reason. It destroyed everything Dean has ever believed in, because Bobby was supposed to go down in a blaze of glory not a low droning tone. Bobby was supposed to take things out with his death, to have the blood of monsters on his hands, and he was supposed to die victorious. That was how Dean had believed it would go his whole life, if he believed Bobby was capable of death at all. And come to think of it, had he believed Bobby was capable of death, or was he confusing what he’d thought of his father with what he thought of Bobby?
“You know me Dick. I’m always landing back on Sam. I don’t see that changing, and as for a crutch? Sammy’s a mighty fine repository himself.”
Dick laughed, head tilted back and lips perfectly formed like a silent film actor yukking it up for the camera. “Oh Dean. That’s adorable. It’s one of the things I find most fascinating about your species, your talent for self-deception. I think, honestly, it makes you tastier.”
Dean holds his arm out as he takes the next shot. “Chow down Dick, you’re gonna be a little disappointed.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve talked yourself into believing that you and Sam can survive this blow. You’ve assured yourself that this is just another death in a long line of funerals. I can see it in your eyes though Dean. You’re splintering. You’re giving up. Why don’t you and I step behind this bar and I’ll take you up on your generous offer. Put you out of your misery.”
Dean starts stacking the glasses. The lip of the first against the table, bottom of the next on top of that one, the stack getting increasingly unstable as he places them lip to lip for the third and then bottom to bottom for the fourth.
“Misery? Do you even know what misery is, or did God only make you to be hungry like a big stupid animal. Do you have anything other than that hunger Dick? That burning need? You make fun of us, call us cattle and food, but at the end of the day do you have anything that makes you special or sets you apart?”
Dick doesn’t laugh this time. His face gets hard and angry, and Dean knows he’s weighing his next hit carefully. Calculating what will hurt most and how to deliver it in such a way it will wound, and that the wound will fester. Dean has extensive training in injuring others with words. Why it never occurred to him until this second to use it to analyze his enemies, to avoid going off the handle, he’s not entirely sure. What he does know is that for the first time since he turned to see the little hole in Bobby’s skull a cold sense of calm descends on him, and he can think clearly.
“We are superior on every level Dean. The perfect predators, the perfect life forms, and lacking all of those useless and messy emotions is what has allowed us to survive for so long. You think you would last a week in Purgatory? We ruled that place, and now we’ll rule this one too. As soon as we get rid of all the refuse that will be it. Nothing will even bother to stand in our way. As it is the only ones of your race that have even tried are you, your brother, and Bobby. Look how it turned out for him. Face it Dean, you’re fighting a losing battle against a vastly superior force, and that’s it. We’re not the angels, we’re not the demons, and we’re not going to stop. You can’t stop us. So just lie down and let us win. It’ll be so much easier. We’ll even make your deaths easy. Wouldn’t you like to rest Dean? To finally give up this pretense of being so strong? You can’t fight me because you’re reactionary. All you know is to hit back after being hit. Your lack of vision will be your ultimate downfall.”
When Dick is done, settled back against the vinyl of the booth and smiling the smug little grin again that looks like he stole it off a movie poster Dean lifts the last glass and looks him in the eye. The man, the monster, is much older than him. Older than Dean can really comprehend, and he gets that this means Dick has a certain set of advantages against him. He even understands that most of what Dick is saying is true. He’s known for a long time he has a set of weaknesses, and they all link back to his roiling emotions.
Sam always wants to talk it out. Always wants them to hash out their differences and work through their problems, but Dad didn’t work that way and as a consequence Dean doesn’t either. It’s his biggest button, that tightly shut box inside of him holding in all of his rage and pain and fear. Like a target to anything that can sniff it out and use it. Dick knows, Alistair knew, and Dean has only just begun to understand himself. To know how to let the pressure off in drips and drabs so that he doesn’t break the code of silence he was taught, but doesn’t become the walking bomb he’s been for so long.
“Dick, I made a statement earlier and you just answered which one it was.”
The monster raises an eyebrow, and Dean grins in response. That look of hatred leaks into Dick’s eyes. “Whether I was stupid or scared? Enlighten me Dean. Which is it?”
“Stupid. It’s not your fault though. You never had a man like Bobby to teach you better.” Dean downs the last shot and then carefully balances it on top of the four other glasses. “To Bobby.” He mutters as his fingers hover to make sure the balance is just right.
“And what did your dead mentor give you that I am lacking?”
“You called me reactionary and you’re right about that. When shit hits the fan I put my shoulder down and plow through it. I’ve spent my whole life like that. Striking back instead of striking first. Maybe it’s a lack of vision, or maybe not, but I can tell you this; Bobby used to say the biggest mistake any hunter makes is underestimating his prey. The second you underestimate it is the second you die. So yeah, I react, but I react pretty damn well. I’ve lived through going to Hell, I lived through the Apocalypse, and I’m gonna live through you. Know why?”
Roman’s face is twisted now, hatred so prominent Dean wonders if it’s a side effect of their endless hunger or the cause. “Why?” He hisses as his fists clench on the table.
“’Cause your maker made you the same way he made Lucifer. A forward thinker. Things like you wanna plan out everything and be in control. You wanna make the world bow down to you, and you got all these schemes and ideas to make it happen. You stack manipulation on ploy until you got a big old tower you can sit in and be king of.” He gestures to the stack of shot glasses. “And that kind of thing makes you feel powerful. Makes you think you can’t be stopped. You look down on me because I’m reactionary, and you’re right because if I was you I woulda walked in this bar and fucking ganked you without blinking, witnesses and all. There’d be consequences, and it wouldn’t be the smartest thing I ever did, but you’d be deader than a doornail and out of my way. Instead you walk in here and sit down, try to play a game with me and get me to put myself in a position where you can take me out.”
He studies the group of young women collecting their coats and laughing loudly. He’s gotta speed this up.
“Because you got a plan and it means staying under the radar and playing the part of law-abiding Dick Roman. That makes you a planner. Good for you. But your kind never figures out the reason my kind always wins. You have all these rules building your little tower.” Dean reaches out and taps the bottom glass once with a fingertip. The glasses go scattering, two shattering on the floor, and Dick jerks once in surprise as several patrons look over.
“My kind? We don’t have those sorts of restrictions. All I need is to tap one of your plans out of whack and your whole tower comes down. Before Bobby died, he gave me the plan I need to tap. So, like I said, to Bobby.”
Then Dean joins the group of women, carelessly tossing out to the distraught barmaid, “Dick Roman bought my drinks, and he’s getting the next round for the whole bar!”
There’s a cheer as he swaggers out in the arms of two rather pretty young women who have no idea they’re saving his life.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-03-20 12:35 pm (UTC)lol...well, apparently you can XD cause I did, and I was glad I did, because this was such a peak into the workings of these two, I swear it's a deleted scene...
It’s his biggest button, that tightly shut box inside of him holding in all of his rage and pain and fear. Like a target to anything that can sniff it out and use it. Dick knows, Alistair knew, and Dean has only just begun to understand himself. To know how to let the pressure off in drips and drabs so that he doesn’t break the code of silence he was taught, but doesn’t become the walking bomb he’s been for so long. THIS!!!!!
It's not often I read something that is a new to me idea about the inner workings of Dean Winchester. But something about this whole fic and this part in particular really struck me.
When he talks about knocking one part of the plan off and then knocks over the shotglass pyramid. Good stuff!
no subject
Date: 2013-03-20 12:59 pm (UTC)So I'm glad you took a chance, and yay for that! Also, yay for deleted scenes! :D
Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, and I'm super glad you liked it! My bingo square magically has more Dean pairings than anybody else, so this will have friends soon.
Also, Metallica and commuting are to blame for the shot glass thing. Those marvelous bastards. :)
no subject
Date: 2013-03-20 05:02 pm (UTC)I love Dick Roman, I think he was one of their best villains ever and you did a great job of bringing his evil, nasty, megalomaniacal self to back to life. I like Dean's explanation as to why he'd win, he really seemed like the flip side of the Roman coin here. Plus the way he got out from under Dick (you know what i mean!) was pure Dean Winchester!
no subject
Date: 2013-03-20 06:18 pm (UTC)Dick was a really good villain, and I'm hoping whatever they have in Season eight lives up to that. I'll find out once Netflix finally gets it. :)
This bingo challenge thing is really making me branch out, and so far I'm enjoying that a lot. Thanks for the review and glad you enjoyed!
no subject
Date: 2013-03-21 12:51 am (UTC)How Dick doesn't see the entire conversation as a set up to escape is amusing, because he is just that egotistical. And Dean's got him with the whole law-aiding citizen thing.
Great job with this pairing - and how relieved was I it had no sex because...I just don't think I could have read it. :O
no subject
Date: 2013-03-21 02:09 am (UTC)I'm relieved there's no sex either. In fact this row has been mostly non-sexual, because the next two are John/Azazel and Dean/Crowley. Seriously, 25 squares and ten of them have Dean. It's like their random system knows me...