By Tidia, June 2006

Words: 1.970
Author's Notes: This is based on the idea that the ending of Devil's Trap was a vision and is a sequel to Per Autre Vie. This fic came from studying Real Property, and so the definitions reflect that.


A person commits an attempt when, with intent to commit a specific crime, he does any act which constitutes a substantial step toward the commission of that crime

Whatever they had slipped into the intravenous cocktail was wearing off. Dean opened his eyes. At least he was by a window, and the blinds were open. Hospitals were already dreary, at least having some sunlight allowed the patient to believe they were closer to freedom and wellness. The sun was rising, and Dean turned his head to take in the full beauty-orange, weeping red and even a little purple mixed in.

The time with the demon at the cabin had left him injured and in hypovolemic shock—which meant in laymen terms, the demon had spilled a lot of his blood. It left him exhausted and pensive. A week ago dad had told them he wanted this to be over-Sam to go to school and Dean to have a home. Dean had wanted to laugh, but noticed his father was serious. He played along, because there wasn’t anything to say.

John wanted Dean to have a home.

Dean turned his head away from the rising sun and looked up to the drop ceiling. Twenty years too late. Sure, Sam could go back to school, blend in-and Dean could what? Dean began to count the holes in the ceiling tile above his bed. He wished he could tell his father, ‘Gee, Dad, job opportunities are kinda slim.’ Dean didn’t go to college, but he knew that you needed a steady income to be a homeowner. Hunting was not providing him with a weekly paycheck. That was the way John had planned it.

One hundred and thirty eight holes later and Dean stopped counting. Dean swallowed the bitterness -the jealousy that flared up as he thought about Sam. When they helped Jerry, the airline supervisor told Sam how proud their father was of Sam. Dean internalized it. John had never said that about his oldest son. Or if he had told one of his friends about his pride for Dean, they were not sharing. Sure he hated chick flick moments-but he was human, fallible and not immune to emotions and feelings.

He must have dozed off, because when next he awoke breakfast was by his bed on the cart. It was covered by a yellow plastic lid, trying to disguise the fact that hospital food was not palatable. Sam and John would be there soon-maybe. John had a bullet in his leg and never the less would probably walk out of surgery after singlehandlingly removing the bullet.

Dean pushed himself up; his body protesting. He was weak. His father would see it. Sam would see it too and that would make things worse. Sam would drive the Impala. Sam would help him in and out of the car. It would all scream weakness. His father would recognize it and again Dean would be the lesser son.

It hadn’t always been like that. There was the time when Sam was in kindergarten and Dean in the fourth grade. They were in the same elementary school. Sam was thrilled, and the whole kindergarten class was excited to have an affiliation with an older student. They would run back to their room and report Dean sightings, beam when he said ‘Hi’ to them. He was royalty to Sam’s kindergarten class. Dean had secretly enjoyed it.

Blood loss evidently brought up memories.

He swung his legs down, the exertion making him feel light headed. He was connected to some machine-the monitor on his finger was easily removed. The IV he would keep. He wanted to get his stuff. From previous experience he knew it was in the room’s closet, miscellaneous stuff in the plastic bag marked ‘personal belongings.’

It would have been easier to call a nurse. But, first of all Dean liked to do things the hard way and secondly, he wanted his cell phone. Cell phones were not allowed within a hospital because of their effect on pace makers and medical equipment. It made them go all squirrelly. He wanted to make one phone call. Even if his call went into voice mail, he just wanted to call Cassie. Hear her voice, and know that someone was passionate about him.

He grabbed the cart to assist himself to a standing position.

“Do you need help with that?” Sammy asked, walking through the door.

Dean looked up at his brother, covering smoothly. “Nah, I got it.” He moved the food over to his bed. He stretched out his legs, and placed the pulse monitor on his finger. Settling in he pushed the button to adjust the bed into a seated position. He would not get his one phone call-maybe later, maybe never.

“How are you?” Dean studied his brother’s face. The swelling had gone down. Dean opened the lid to his breakfast. Scrambled eggs and toast should have looked appetizing, but didn’t. He picked up a piece of wheat toast and started munching.

"How’s Dad?” He asked between bites. They had arrived two days ago, and Sam had kept him informed of their father’s condition.

“They’ll let him out later today.” Sam replied pulling up a chair.

Dean smirked, thinking of his earlier thought. He passed Sam a piece of toast, which Sam took happily.

The younger Winchester lifted the toast in thanks. “You have to stay a bit longer.”

Dean looked past Sam, out the window. Dean would be in the sunlight soon enough.


Legal impossibility occurs when the actions which the defendant performs or sets in motion, even if fully carried out as he desires, would not constitute a crime. Factual impossibility occurs when the objective of the defendant is proscribed by the criminal law but a circumstance unknown to the actor prevents him from bringing about that objective.

The next day, against medical advice, Dean signed himself out. His father wanted to get back on the road-form a plan of attack and find the demon. In the back seat of the Impala, Dean stared out. They were heading to Missouri’s house for a few days to strategize. Bobby had picked up John’s truck and would replace the tires. They would return later to pick it up.

On the telephone poles Dean could see the crows. He smirked as he remembered a row of crows was called a murder. They also reminded him of the ‘lonely birds.’ Mary would notice when her young son was sullen. Dean always had the same complaint.

“There’s no one to play with.” He would entertain himself with plastic soldiers, but wanted the companionship of another child.

“Dean, I see the lonely birds around you.” His mother would sit with him, and play. However, she didn’t excel in playing Army. “I’ll chase them away for awhile.” She did, and then one day she told him that he was going to have a brother or sister who would chase the lonely birds away too.

He hadn’t thought about the lonely birds in a long time.

Missouri’s house seemed inviting. Though Dean noticed how Sam had hovered by the door of the Impala, waiting for Dean to exit. Dean had waved him off. The three men shuffled up to the door, weary from the road and their burdens. John leaned on the cane the hospital had forced on him.

“Bet he has a switch blade in it.” Dean had told Sam, when they had stopped for a bathroom break.

Sam had agreed. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”

John’s hand was on the doorbell when the door opened. Missouri opened the door and stepped back to allow them in. “I swear you men have a sixth sense about food. Chicken and dumplings are ready.”

She ushered them to the kitchen table. The table was set with four dishes.

“The boys brought me to this cabin. . .” John had started his explanation almost immediately after placing the paper napkin on his lap.

Missouri raised her finger to her lips to silence him. “I didn’t cook this meal to have it spoiled. You boys can tell me all about it after lunch.”

Dean smiled. He was in no mood to talk about the demon either. “This is great, Missouri.”

“I know.” Missouri replied, reminding Dean that she was a psychic. He began to hum Metallica in his mind. He did not want Missouri to read his thoughts. They were private, and Dean didn’t know if Missouri knew the meaning of that word. Thankfully, he had a library of rock music in his head for just the occasion.

After the meal, Missouri followed up with coffee. Dean held the mug close, letting the warmth seep into his cold hands.

“When we found Dad. . .” Sam had explained what had happened at Bobby’s with Dean only interjecting to clarify. He lost track of the conversation after awhile, but was startled when Missouri spoke to him.

“Oh, honey, they don’t need you.” He stared at Missouri as she reiterated the demon’s words.

He blinked and swallowed. “What?” He asked, as he pushed the coffee away. He glanced at his brother, who was looking at him strangely. Dean cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, excuse me?”

Missouri tilted her head to the side. She reached out across the table, and patted Dean’s hand. “I was saying you look like you need some rest.”

“No,” Dean shook his head, more to clear it then anything else. He could not show weakness. People exploited weakness. “No thanks.” He repeated, trying to push away the confusion of the misunderstood statement.

“Dean.” He father stated, and encompassed in his name was the request that he acquiesce. It was a battle of the wills Dean knew at this time he could not win. He glanced at his brother. Sam nodded. Dean had gained a new attitude when it came to his father, but this was not the time to assert it again.

Dean gave the black woman a nod, and stood up. “Fine, that would be great Missouri.”

Missouri stood up and led him to a back room. “I pulled out the sofa bed in the porch for you.”

Dean smiled at the inviting bed. He was glad Missouri had the forethought to put him on the first floor. His chest ached, and he was not up to grimacing through a flight of stairs.

The porch was a sun room, with fake green grass carpeting. The couch, a wicker end table and a chair were the only furniture. The décor was meant to give the area a light and airy quality. The mattress was thin, and there were flowered sheets, but he was thankful that the psychic had provided a clean place to rest. Dean slipped off his shoes, and sat at the edge of the bed.

“Are you going to play that music all night?” She asked as she placed a hand knitted afghan at the foot of the bed- the purple color, a shade lighter than the cabbage rose pattern on the sheets.

Dean scratched the back of his neck- the ending lyrics of Fade to Black still finishing in his mind. “No.”

Missouri sat on the bed next to him. “I won’t read your thoughts. I can respect a person’s privacy.”

Dean grinned. “Thanks,” he trusted the psychic would keep her promise, and he could find a little peace in his own mind without prying eyes.

Missouri pushed on his forehead to gesture for him to lie down. She stood up, as he relaxed back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

“You know they do need you, Dean.”

He opened his eyes, but Missouri was gone. He was left wondering was it his tired mind playing tricks on him or was it the truth?



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