Chapter Text
Four months ago
“Oh, for fuck’s- What are you doing?” Dean yells, as a Troll rams his head into a tree trunk with one enormous, four fingered hand.
Its rancid breath washes over him, followed by a thick spray of spit as it bellows in his ear.
Across the clearing, the Dryad’s only response is to laugh in a tinkling of sound, bending down to toy with a flower that’s apparently really fucking funny, its wispy white dress pooling around it like a cloud.
This was the stupidest idea Dean’s ever had, and he’s had some really stupid ideas.
“Oohh, a forest monster,” Dean mutters to himself as the Troll grinds his face against the wood, having to spit out splinters of bark as he talks. “I know, I’ll summon a forest creature to help! That’s sure to be useful! Fucking idiot.”
The troll roars again, before clamping its other hand around Dean’s forearm, big enough to cover the whole thing with one meaty palm. It yanks, clearly trying to pull him off the tree, but Dean’s head’s still pinned by its other hand, and the Troll roars in frustration that Dean’s not moving where he wants.
Nobody ever accused Trolls of being overflowing with intelligence.
Finally it seems to figure it out, and Dean’s airborne. The ground meets him in one big, squishy thud, the earth muddy with spring thaw under the grass. He’s gonna be filthy after this, but at least it softened the landing. He lies on his back, wheezing and thoroughly winded. The stars overhead wink at him, and he sucks desperately at the cold night air to pull some into his lungs.
The Dryad looks over at him with literally glowing green eyes, vaguely interested, twirling the flower in its hand. The eyes are outlined in curliques of more green that disappear into its auburn hair, loosely piled atop its head. Just as Dean gets hopeful that it's gonna jump in and do something, it giggles again and drops loosely to the floor, lying down like Dean is and moving its willowy arms like it’s making snow angels.
Fucking fantastic.
“Yeah, no, don’t worry about helping, I’m doing great,” Dean gasps. “C’mon, dude! It’s fuckin’ up your forest! Those footprints alone-”
Another earsplitting bellow cuts him off, followed by the thundering of those feet hitting the ground towards him, apparently having taken a moment to work out where he’d vanished to.
Dean rolls frantically, the large grey mass crashing into where he just was and slamming its hefty fists into the empty space.
It's not a pretty sight, even just lit by the occasional moonbeam: lumpy and hairy and almost completely nude, only a couple of deer hides roughly tied together to cover its dangly bits. Dean’s pathetically grateful for the hides. There’s way too many monsters that see clothing as optional, and he’s been face to face with some things in his time. The head swings in his direction, a squashy mess that’s only recognisable as a face when its mouth opens in an angry bellow, revealing the splintered yellow teeth.
“Fuck off!” Dean yells, scrambling to his feet and stumbling backwards until his spine hits another tree.
The Dryad laughs again, and he briefly considers binding it to its stupid tree forever. If he survives this.
The Troll’s lumbering toward him, picking up speed, and Dean spins sideways, launching himself off the trunk at the last second.
The Troll collides with it heavily, the whole goddamn forest shaking with the impact it feels like. It roars again, the sound furious and unintelligible, disturbing a flock of birds deeper in that take flight.
Some hunters Dean’s worked with swear that Trolls have their own language, and with enough study, you can understand what all the yelling’s about.
Every time someone says it, Dean wonders why you’d want to.
There’s an almighty cracking and creaking, and when he dares to look back, the Troll’s wrenching a branch off of the tree, one of the thickest, the wood peeling away and reluctantly revealing the white, sappy flesh underneath.
Immediately, there’s a brain breaking screech from behind them, a long, warbling shriek that sounds more like a fire alarm than a voice.
“Fuckin’ finally,” Dean groans, even as the Troll starts towards him again, tree branch raised like a club.
The Dryad’s drifting towards them both, literally, its feet hovering above the ground, grass strands brushing its soles. Its eyes are now fully green, burning like flames, and its pale skin is lighting up all over with a red tinged glow, hair and dress flaring up around it in spikes. The rippling light of magic reveals the faintest outline of the golden collar around its neck, the one that would normally be completely invisible.
The one Dean put there.
Sammy tells him what he does is barbaric, cruel, other hippy shit he doesn’t pay attention to as a rule. It’s fine. He only ever makes deals, he never enslaves anything. Whatever he summons, they have their free will, they just have to choose to help him, and he’d never make an unfair deal they couldn’t keep. And he lets them go as soon as they’ve completed their side, never summoning the exact same being twice.
Plus, the lives he’s saved, the evil he’s taken down because of the summoning? It’s worth it, it’s so worth it.
The envy of other, less gifted hunters is a pretty sweet bonus too.
Dean’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that when the tree branch takes him full in the side, the shock’s almost worse than the pain.
But it still fucking hurts.
He flies across the clearing, smashing into another tree and dropping like a sack of bricks, wheezing and clutching at the dirt, his insides feeling like they’ve been whisked on the highest setting. Through the crack of his eyelids, his vision’s totally taken over by an orange-red blaze of light, centred on the Dryad and bursting out.
He weakly raises an arm, shielding his eyes, and when he drops it, the forest’s gained a new statue.
A particularly ugly one, its foot still raised half off the ground, frozen in stone. Huh. The Dryad must have hit it with sunlight, turned its own body into a tiny sun. He didn’t even know they could do that, but figures maybe it’s part of their whole nature magic deal.
Neato.
He heaves himself up, a thousand different pains making themselves known, leaning hard against the trunk next to him as he gets upright. He limps over, an arm slung around his aching ribs.
The Dryad’s no longer glowing, looking once more like a sorority girl on spring break, and it gives him a haughty once over as he approaches. When he’s next to it, it raises its hands and pats them emphatically on its neck.
“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters, rubbing his eyes. He drops them in a wide arc, murmuring the latin to release it, a much simpler process than summoning it in the first place was.
Some creatures he wouldn’t dare be so quick to let go, not without a protective circle at the very least, but Dryads are pretty harmless, so long as you don’t touch their forest.
Something he should have considered before choosing one for this hunt, maybe.
There’s a fresh glow as the collar flashes into existence, then cracks in two, melting into nothingness, and the Dryad beams at him gratefully.
Dean sticks around long enough to make sure it successfully melds with its tree, then heads out.
Collecting the cheque from the relieved town councillor, covered in mud and troll spit, his clothes torn and entire body sore, Dean’s mind’s already on what he could summon next. There’s got to be more powerful beings he hasn’t tried yet. Maybe even ones that won’t leave him in a goddamn mess by the end of it.
☾
The thought’s still bugging him as he knocks back beers with some hunting buddies a few days later.
“You just left it there?” Jesse chuckles.
Dean snorts, resting his elbows on the sticky table as he spreads his hands. “What was I s’posed to do? I couldn’t lift that thing when it wasn’t made of stone.”
Cesar chuckles, lifting an arm and flexing under the plaid. “You gotta hit the gym some, or do some actual fieldwork once in a while, ‘steada relying on those things.”
“Yeah, ‘cause a few reps’re gonna help me lift a 20 ton statue,” Dean says, annoyed. “And I am doin’ fieldwork, asshole, I got a whole bunch of bruises to prove it.”
All around them, conversation hums over the sound of the jukebox, rabble and classic rock mingling in that delicious dive bar atmosphere. The smell of stale booze is overpowering, thankfully covering that of the patrons, or anything that’s worked its way into the walls over the years. A waitress bashes into the table as she makes her way past and through the crowds, empty glasses and bottles rattling with the knock.
“Why didn’t you get something that could carry it for you?” Jesse asks, smirking over his drink.
“Har har,” Dean groans. “Yuck it up, asshole. If you gotta know, anything that big or powerful’s not worth the risk. Too dangerous.”
Cesar presses a faux-shocked hand to his chest. “There’s things out there the great and powerful Dean Winchester’s afraid to summon?”
Dean scowls into his beer, taking another slug before growling, “Whatever. I ain’t scared, I just got healthy survival instincts.”
They both chuckle, exchanging looks that Dean doesn’t like one bit.
Fucking couples, ganging up on him. They’re just giving him shit, he knows that, but it’s hitting too close to his pride and his recent musings.
He leans back against the cheap boothback, the vinyl creaking, and sulkily sips at his bottle. The guys chat about the game that’s playing above them on the bar TV, and leave him to his brooding.
What could have that kind of power, to not only kill a Troll effortlessly, but carry it out of the woods after? A Celestial’s the first thing that jumps to mind. And Dean has summoned one of those before, so fucking take that, Cesar. But he swore never again. The creature was eager to help but it also wrangled him into attending church. For like six months. And when he tried to skip a visit, the thing appeared in his goddamn bedroom, all Be Not Afraid and spinning wheels and eyes and We Had A Deal, Winchester.
A few other creatures drift across his mind, but he’s either tried them and found it too much effort for the payoff, or he doesn’t think he could get them to this dimension.
There’s only one other creature that would be that powerful, and it’d be almost too easy to summon for his next hunt. The Celestial equivalent.
Or opposite, depending on how you look at it.
“What about a demon,” Dean blurts.
They both turn identical, bewildered stares on him.
“For what?” Jesse asks.
“You getting that lonely?” Cesar grins.
Wow, everyone’s a comedian today. Okay, Dean is on a dry spell but it’s not that fucking dry. Like a washcloth in the sun. He can dunk it back in any time he wants, thanks.
“To summon,” he says smugly. “That big and scary enough to impress you fucks?”
The round eyes and dropped jaws are very satisfying.
The spell breaks when Jesse snorts, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Dean. Even you know better than to summon a demon, I hope.”
“Do I?” he says innocently, swirling his drink and batting his eyelashes.
“You summon a demon,” Cesar says with a heavy finality, “and you’ll have to hope you get to your phone in time for us to rescue you. Dumbass.”
The conversation ends there, but the idea won’t leave Dean alone. Stumbling home a few hours and several drinks later, his mind’s still turning it round. Big, bad hunt buddy. One he maybe wouldn’t even have to let go straight away, one he wouldn’t have to feel guilty about keeping bound, ‘cause they’re evil. He can picture it, his own trained attack dog. It’d make him an unstoppable hunter.
When he finally falls inside, he drops his keys and boots where he stands, then wobbles from bookcase to bookcase. He spends a few hours flicking through his tomes and lore books, memorising everything there is to know about calling up something demonic.
Of course, when he blinks awake to the afternoon sunshine that’s blasting unforgivably through his curtains, he can barely remember any of it. He smacks his lips, tongue and mouth dry and gross and sandy, like he just sucked off some kinda desert plant. His stomach roils and the clothes he fell asleep in are sticking to him, damp with sweat. Seems like he passed out on the couch, too. Great work, Dean.
He’s gotta stop drinking with other hunters.
Order of the day: water, clean teeth, shower.
Check phone, he amends, when he sees the notification light blinking from the coffee table, perched on top of an open book.
Ahh, fuck.
He’s starting to regret the whiskey that kept him company while he researched, on top of all the beers from the bar.
The phone nearly slides out of his hand entirely as he rushes to hit the call button.
“Just in time, I’ve got the booking page open,” Sammy says flatly.
“I would never drink and summon!” Dean scoffs. The croaky, very obviously hungover state of his voice doesn’t exactly lend him credibility. “C’mon, man, you think I’d be that stupid?”
“Yes,” Sam answers, insultingly fast. There’s a pause. “Dean, please tell me you didn’t.”
For half a second, his brother’s tone makes him actually lift his head and scan his living room, half expecting to find a circle built with a demon already in it, but of course there’s just the usual contents. Haphazardly stacked bookcases, brown leather furniture, pictures of Sam himself. Some empty bottles scattered on the coffee and end tables.
No wonder Sam’s killing it at the whole lawyer thing.
“No, Sammy, I didn’t, okay?” he says.
His exasperation finally seems to sink in, and Sam lets it go, even if it’s with a healthy degree of suspicion.
Dean dodges the question about if he’d try the whole demon thing sober, but Sam makes sure he knows he’d be really, really fucking stupid if he did.
Dean rushes him off the phone with half mumbled assurances that don’t actually promise anything at all.
Because, see, the thing is.
The more people who tell him he shouldn’t do something? That’s pretty much a guarantee that it’s all he’ll be thinking about, right up until he proves them wrong.
And he would prove them wrong.
He’s Dean fucking Winchester, hunter and summoner. He knows what he’s doing, dammit.