Across the Veil

“No way. No way, Crowley, no matter what it is you’re here to sell - I’m not buying.” Scarlett stood across the room from him, her eyes focused and certain, her hands in fists at her sides.

“Well I haven’t even told you what I’m proposing yet,” the king of demons muttered, his hands calmly rested in his pockets. “S’a bit rude not to let me offer first.”

The now quiet motel room grew smaller around her as she stepped further from him, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m sure you mean well.” The sarcasm was dripping from her voice. “But it isn’t happening.” She sat down, attempting to appear as cool, calm, and collected as she could - if Crowley didn’t know how desperate she was, he couldn’t use it against her.

But nevertheless, he’d been a demon for much longer than she’d been alive - centuries longer, of course - and whether she wanted him to know she was desperate or not, he knew. He’d known for quite a while. He wouldn’t be standing there in front of her if he wasn’t absolutely confident that she needed exactly what he was offering.

“Listen, we could do this all day, but being the King of Hell and all, I’m a bit busy; so I’ll cut to the chase for you, darling,” he stated, just as calm, walking forward and seating himself across from her where Dean had been only minutes before. He scratched his scruff and leaned forward in the chair, eyeing her, sizing her up. She still remained reclined, watching him silently. She was lightly tapping her cold fingers on her blood- and denim-covered thighs, lips pursed in thought. For a ghost, she seemed to be handling it all remarkably well, Crowley thought to himself - she’d’ve made a great demon. “I need something, and you and these two lunkheads can get it for me. In exchange, I give you a cut of the profits, and you make off with your man and live happily ever after, blah blah blah. Sound peachy?”

Scar furrowed her brows. “I thought you said you were, quote-” she took on a heavy, only mildly condescending imitation of Crowley’s voice, “‘Here to bring me back’.” The King rolled his eyes at her obvious disrespect and utter hatred for him, shaking his head.

“Did you hear me tell you I don’t have time for this?” he blurted, “Alright, look. I’ve got someone that I need to bring back myself; she’s a bit important to some things I have planned.” Scar immediately tensed, sitting forward, ready to fight. “They’re for the leviathan, don’t give yourself an aneurism.” She hardly relaxed at his words, but was listening once again.

“Regardless,” he sighed, “I can’t find the pieces of the puzzle, nor can I retrieve them once they’re found. They’re warded against me and my kind.”

“So you want us to go on a hunt for you? Am I hearing this right?” she folded her hands in front of her, staring him down. He couldn’t see it, but she was tightly squeezing her fingers together, trying to keep herself under control as frustration began to fester under the surface.

“Yes.” He answered simply, and waited to give her the information she was looking for. To tell her what she would receive in return. “And for your trouble-” he took a pause, just for the fun of it, enjoying watching her fight the urge to squirm, “You get one of the three doses the spell makes. One dose and no matter how many pieces of ash your bones are in, you’ll be back and on your feet within 48 hours.”

“No,” Scarlett said, standing again. She couldn’t let him do this. Couldn’t let him make her think about it, even imagine it. She stared out the window, the thin curtains draped into one another, her eyes looking anywhere but at the devil behind her.

“I know what you think of me,” Crowley started, crossing one leg casually over the other, “But put that aside for a moment. Think of being back with your beloved. Don’t you miss him? Don’t you miss your little life together, hunting and all that? Don’t you spend every hour of every day just watching him? I know you-”

She spun on her heel and bared her teeth. “You don’t know anything about me. You don’t know anything about what or who I miss, and you sure as hell don’t know anything about my relationship with Dean.” The air in the room grew freezing, and sure as she’d ever seen when hunting, every light in the room dipped in and out of power, flickering for a moment as Crowley shivered. He stood.

“Alright, fine - I really must be off. But know that you’re missing an opportunity, love.” He took a long pause, watching the angry young woman in front of him, struggling to push down the feelings of rage. A small smile crept over his lips. “But you know what? Because I’m so generous, I’ll give you one more chance. 24 hours to decide. I’ll be back tomorrow; and when I return, you tell me what you’ve decided.”

He was so level-headed, so eerily calm, it made her skin crawl. “The answer will be no.” She stared him down.

“We’ll see.” He lifted his hands and snapped his fingers and just like that, was gone.

She let out a massive breath, falling to the side and catching herself on the table just in time, her palm becoming tangible just as it made contact with the cheap wood.

Fear sunk into her chest as she moved towards Dean’s bed, lowering herself to sit on the end of it and burying her face in her hands. She could’ve just missed the chance to be with Dean again, to be back in his arms. To have life again. To hunt again. To fight the evil things that she’d always fought, to be who she used to be.

She used to go on runs with Sam, she thought to herself, a sad smile on her lips. She used to come back from the Gas ‘N Sip with pie and kale chips in hand and be greeted with joy from the boys like she was returning from war. She used to paint, and she used to use every color she could imagine to find a way to process all she’d been through. And Dean used to sit and watch her paint for hours, sipping away at a cold beer, no other distractions, just happy to be watching her do something she loved so much.

Scarlett used to be alive - in more ways than just one. She was alive with Dean. There was something electric about every moment they spent together. Even the fun moments - the silly things. But she could still taste his laughter when he’d gone a bit past tipsy, could still feel his rough and protective squeeze around her shoulder whenever he sensed that something wasn’t right on a hunt, could still hear him calling her name when he and Sam had found the right show to watch on their shitty motel cable. And all of it hurt. It hurt to know that even if she could be around, eternally waiting across the veil for him to return to her for the rest of time, she would never feel his touch again, never see his eyes meet hers as he murmured a quiet, genuine “I love you”; it all made her want to scream for Crowley to hurry back, made her want to agree to anything at all so she could have it back.

So she could have him back.

She sat like that for over an hour, the thoughts reeling in her head, her memories playing like a tape over, and over, and over.

The rumble of the Impala and cool headlights fading over her through the window broke her from the endless loop of memories, and she looked up as the familiar creak of the doors opening and closing echoed from outside. The boys’ soft voices grew closer as they reached the room’s door. “Maybe an arachne? Or a vetala? They both store their victims for days, don’t they?” Keys jingled, and then the lock clicked and there they were again, as they were every day. Scar sighed softly, watching Dean walk in and toss the keys into a small, dusty - empty - candy bowl. He shrugged off his jacket as Sam closed the door behind them.

“No, an arachne only stores its victims if it’s turning them,” Sam mumbled, sitting right back down next to his laptop and lifting it into his lap. Dean turned and raised his brow.

“Dude.” Sam looked at him, confused and innocent.

“What?” Sam mumbled, typing his password in and staring up at Dean.

“How are you ready to keep going? I’m exhausted. I’m turnin’ in.” Dean collapsed into the bed face-first, palms turned up at his sides, and Sam’s soft chuckle and quiet “whatever” was all that was said after that. Scar watched Dean, sitting beside him and mulling Crowley’s words over in her mind. Dean’s breathing was heavy, evident of genuine exhaustion, and she frowned, shaking her head. He so rarely slept. And when he did, it seemed to be full of restless fever-dreaming.

Sam stayed up another couple of hours, research sprawled out in front of him across the table. As he grew more tired, his fingers pushed his hair back constantly, his eyes struggling to stay open. Scarlett had moved to sit beside him, reading along with him over his shoulder. “Maybe…” she whispered softly. She sighed frustratedly.

“Hold on.” He paused, his eyes looking over the list of victims one more time. “Each vic is...” he trailed off, a slow breath of thought leaving his lips.

“Wait.” Scar sat up, staring at the crime scene photos. “Dragon.”

“Dragon?” Sam stood immediately, his words echoing barely a second off of hers as he went to their wall and tried to make the connection.

He stopped on one of the faces. A girl he’d seen at the bar, her lips vacuum sealed to a man’s who’d been happy to take her home with him just a few minutes later. Based on how she was behaving with him, or how she was handling him, rather; she was most definitely not a virgin.

“No…” the two sighed in unison, Sam groaning tiredly as he rubbed a hand over his face and Scar eyeing the photos closely.

Sam went to the laptop and shut it down, burrowing into the covers of his bed just moments later. Scar shook her head, her gaze landing once more on Dean. He was far too beautiful for a man who was drooling all over his pillow. A soft, sad smile came across her face and she quietly left the room. Ever since she’d been this way, she felt weird about hovering in the room as they slept. Not only did it make her feel creepy, but they weren’t particularly entertaining. And Sam farted a lot in his sleep.

So, she sat herself down onto the steps of the motel room’s tiny front porch - really, just a two by four stoop - and set her elbows onto her knees, head resting on her palm. She stared out at the night, appreciating being able to experience it this way most nights. It was beautiful; and being that she was already dead, she could be out here in the night without apprehension or fear. She could just be out here and enjoy the air without her gun ready at her hip. The stars above, the sounds all around, the lights and animals and - just, everything. There was life. And she found it to be absolutely breathtaking.

A small, dark cat with white spots made its way toward her, creeping carefully and slowly as if ready for a life-or-death fight at any moment. She smiled, her eyes following its path as it seemed to get closer to her.

“Can you see me?” she murmured, her head tilting to one side. The cat stopped moving, and she could’ve sworn it was staring right up into her eyes. She reached out to pet it, letting her arm slowly fade back, tangible enough to brush the soft fur of the cat in front of her.

Suddenly, though, a warm feeling overwhelmed her, and she flitted back into the room without hesitation. Sure enough, Dean stood there, holding what he had left of her, awake despite the awful hour of night and turning the item around in his hands as if he had been missing it for years.

In his palm was the gift that Scar had given him two years before; a beautiful, wood-handled switchblade etched with spellwork and sigils - but more importantly, along the handle, carved into the wood, was a single word. Winchester. Dean sighed and slipped the blade into his back pocket, grabbing his keys and striding across the room before Scarlett could process what he was doing.

As he sat into his car, turning over the engine and backing out of the lot, Scar sat in the front seat, nervous and concerned. For a moment, as they pulled out onto the main road, she wished she’d woken Sam before Dean could get away.

Her gut sunk with a terrible feeling. Something was seriously, seriously wrong.