Originally, subjecttochange8 asked for Dean Winchester in a chef’s jacket, based on
hopes and dreams speculation for episode 9x13, and then somewhere along the way the drawing turned into thoughts of Dean as Hannibal, and so that’s how Krissy Chambers and Castiel got added.
So now the head canon is:
Dean - Hannibal Lecter
Krissy Chambers - Abigail Hobbs
Bobby Singer - Jack Crawford
Castiel - Will Graham
Charlie Bradbury - Alana Bloom
Ed Zeddmore - Freddy Lounds
Krissy Chambers is sitting up in bed, the electric hum of a heart monitor steady in the background as Dean Winchester sits beside her in a hospital regulated chair wearing a visitor badge clipped to his jacket pocket.
“I don’t think I’m allowed to leave, after I climbed the fence,” she says. She’s broken the rules one time too many.
She doesn’t care if she gets kicked out or not.
She hates it here.
It’s a glorified asylum, no matter how appealing Dr. Charlie Bradbury makes it sound.
“I’ve made arrangements,” Dean says. “You could say I’m one of your guardians.”
“Where are we going?” Krissy says.
Dean says, home. My home. I thought you might enjoy if I cooked for you. Dean says, I’ll have you back before bedtime.
Krissy feels her palms dampen and she wipes the sweat across the hospital green comforter before clutching at the hem of her sweater.
“Can’t I spend the night?” she says. “I don’t like sleeping here, I have bad dreams.”
They’re more like blood soaked nightmares with familiar faces now just mangled flesh and bone, hanging like Christmas ornaments on racks of antlers.
It’s a murder trophy room.
It’s not so much a nightmare as reality.
It replays often in her mind.
Her father Lee said that by using every part, it’s honoring them.
You waste anything, it’s just murder.
Krissy still isn’t sure how eating someone counts as honoring them, but right now all she can think of is the promise of a venture outside the hospital walls and a moment away from the hospital bed.
“You have to sleep in your own bed,” Dean says.
“This isn’t my bed,” Krissy says.
Dean says, tell me about your bad dreams.
Krissy tells him about the one where her friend Josephine Barnes was sending her picture texts that looked like the crime scene photos of Aidan Boyle.
That look of surprise on his face.
Lying on her living room rug in a pool of his own blood.
How you left him, Dean says.
As if she needs the reminder.
Aidan had grabbed her arm, said he wasn’t going to hurt her, but that’s not the way he acted earlier that day. He’d yelled at her and Josephine from across the yard, his lean dark frame lurking amongst the thin white birch trees that lined the edge of the woods.
He’d spat at them, threatened them. He said she’d killed his sister. That she was just like her father. Josephine hit him with a rock. He left. He came back, into her home and she did what she had to do, she’d stabbed him in the stomach. It was self defense.
At least, that’s what Dean said.
They’d buried him in the woods. Krissy didn’t honor Aidan, not one bit. It’s just murder.
No. No. Self defense. That’s what it was.
“Even though she’s dead, I’m afraid that Josephine’s gonna tell everyone I killed him and they’ll think I’m just like my dad,” Krissy says.
She looks up at Dean, and he’s giving her a warm smile, as if they’re discussing the weather or her favorite book.
“Sorry. Can’t really talk about this in group,” Krissy says.
“You don’t have that luxury, Krissy,” Dean says.
“I just have to get used to lying,” she says.
“You only have to lie about one thing. And when you’re with me you don’t have to lie about anything,” Dean says.
Krissy looks down at her hands and shakes her head. It’s a strange pinky promise they’ve made amongst themselves. Dean was the one to warn her father that the police were coming. To get out of the house.
You keep my secret.
I’ll keep yours.
Murderer. Liar. Best friends forever.
Lee murdered his wife and slashed Krissy’s throat.
Then Agent Castiel Novak put eight bullets into him and suddenly, everything changed.
Agent Novak and Dr. Winchester, they’d saved her life. Krissy really wishes they hadn’t.
She says, “In the dream I wonder, how I could live with myself. Knowing what I did,”
“And when you’re awake?” Dean says.
“When I’m awake, I know I can live with myself. And I’ll just get used to what I did. Does that make me a sociopath?” she says.
“No,” Dean says. “It makes you a survivor.”
“Have you thought about applying for schools?” Dean says, slicing into a loaf of brioche.
“My dad killed girls at all the schools I applied to,” Krissy says.
He pauses and glances up at her, raising an eyebrow. There’s a smile spreading across his lips and he shakes his head. “Perhaps that can wait, then.”
Krissy picks up a cup, examining it in her hands. “I wanna work for the FBI.”
“I would certainly feel safer if you were in the FBI, protecting my interests,” Dean says.
“They wouldn’t let me though, would they? Because of what my dad did,” Krissy says.
“Only if they believe that’s in your nature too,” Dean says.
Nature versus nurture.
You’re not your father’s daughter, not anymore.
Dean places sausage into a pan, setting it aside to brown as he grabs a fresh pan and sets it on the burner. He turns back to the island and grabs a glass kettle that’s been filled with hot water, a tea infuser in the center.
“What if,” Dean says, “What if it weren’t so painful anymore, to think of him?”
He pours the tea into a cup, the brown, woodsy liquid slowly streaming into stark white porcelain.
“Have you ever tried psilocybin?” he asks.
“Mushrooms? That’s what’s in the tea?” Krissy says. Dean nods.
Dean says, there are psychiatrists who believe that altered states could be used to access traumatic memories.
I have all the access to traumatic memories I need, Krissy says. Unlimited access.
Dean smiles. “Which is why we need to supplement them with positive associations.”
“No more bad dreams, Krissy,” he says.
“You want me to do drugs?” Krissy says. She smiles.
Dean smiles back. “I want you to do this drug. With my supervision it’s quite safe.”
He puts the cup on a saucer and slides it towards her.
“Do you trust me?”
The room is hazy, like stepping out into a thick fog on the lake.
Krissy feels like she’s spinning and floating at the same time, weightless and drifting away in space as she watches Dean place the slices of brioche into the other pan and the sweet smell permeates the kitchen.
Dean says, infusing psilocybin into the bloodstream before psychotherapy can illicit a positive, even spiritual experience for patients. Psychological trauma, Dean says, is an affliction of the powerless.
I want to give you your power back.
Krissy lets her teacup slip through her fingers, watching it as it falls in slow motion, crashing against the ground into a million pieces, white clouds and shards of porcelain that bounce off the ground. It reminds her of her home in the wintertime, the snow falling from the trees.
The last time she was home, someone had spray painted the word “Cannibals” across her garage door.
Dean is kneeling beside her, picking up the large shards of the teacup and placing them into his white apron. He’s got it tied around his waist as if he were a chef in a professional kitchen, the top folded down straight across his waist, knotted perfectly in the back. It’s unusually clean, no evidence of food to be found. It’s not really a surprise, given that he’s here cooking for her instead of rotting away in a cell. He’s bound to have picked up the habit of cleanliness in all aspects of his life, not just murder.
Don’t feel so good, Krissy says.
That feeling will pass, Dean says. Allow it to wash over you, through you, he says.
Dean says, let me be your guide.
Dean throws an egg in the air, catches it on the edge of his knife and cracks it, holding it in place as the contents drool onto the slice of brioche with a hole in the center. The sausage sizzles and crackles away in its own pan, almost done.
Krissy smiles and raises an eyebrow. She’s impressed. Dean grins back.
“You’re making breakfast for dinner?” she says.
Dean nods. “High Life eggs. A chef in Spain called Muro claimed he invented it in the 19th century.”
“Taste,” Dean says, “is not only biochemical, it’s also psychological.”
Krissy says, “Sausage and eggs was the last meal I was having with my parents.”
“I know,” Dean says. “It’s also the first meal you’re having with me.”
He doesn’t tell her they’re eating the ground remains of Josephine Barnes, complete with her intestines as casing.
Krissy sits down in a chair in the corner and picks up an orange pepper, staring at it wide eyed and watches the bright color pulsate with life in her hands.
It’s like holding a beating heart.
There’s a knock at the front door as Dean places a carafe of freshly squeezed blood orange juice on the dining table in front of Krissy. She’s sitting with her hands in her lap, a strange smile on her face, and Dean can’t help but echo the sentiment.
He’s right on time, whether he knows it or not, and Dean couldn’t be more pleased. He knew if he took Krissy out of the hospital that Dr. Bradbury would be notified, that she would worry that Krissy had run away again, and that the first person she would call would be Agent Castiel Novak.
Castiel would head to the hospital, ask questions and find that it was Dean that had taken her home, that he would come to the house looking for her.
He opens the door and there is Castiel, as predicted, and he wordlessly makes his way past him, slowly shuffling around until he finally chooses a spot beside the window, staring out into the night as if it holds the answers to the universe.
“Krissy Chambers killed Aidan Boyle,” Castiel says.
“Yes, I know,” Dean says.
“Tell me why you know.”
“I helped her dispose of the body,” Dean says.
Castiel says, “Evidently not well enough.”
He says, they found the body in the woods, buried in the snow. His body, Castiel says, thrown into the ground and left to rot, like a piece of garbage.
“Have you told Bobby Singer?” Dean says. The last thing he wants is the head of the Behavioral Science Unit to ruin everything he’s planned. To his relief, Castiel says no.
Still, he has to ask. “Why not?”
“Because I was hoping it wasn’t true.”
Castiel closes his eyes. There’s a hint of despair in his voice and Dean can tell he’s close to the breaking point. He just needs to push a little further and then he’s got him where he wants him.
Dean says, “Well now you know the truth.”
Castiel says, “Do I?”
Everything you know about that night is true, except the end, Dean says. Nicholas Boyle attacked us. Abigail’s only crime was to defend herself, Dean says, and I lied about it.
Why? Castiel says.
You know why, Dean says.
Because Bobby Singer would hang her for what her father’s done, and the world would burn Krissy in his place.
That would be the story.
That would be what that insipid Ed Zeddmore writes in his tabloid article. Krissy is no more a killer than you are for shooting her father.
Castiel says, “It isn’t our place to decide.”
“If not ours, then whose?” Dean says. “Who knows Krissy better than you and I? Or the burden she bears?”
Dean leans in and whispers, his lips brushing against the warm shell of Castiel’s ear.
We are her fathers now, he says. We have to serve her better than Lee Chambers.
Dean can taste the salt of Castiel’s skin, the flavor spreading on the tip of his tongue and he clenches his fist, ever so slightly. He still hasn’t decided in which way he wants to consume him, but he knows he wants it, desperately.
Castiel turns again to stare out of the window, and Dean takes the opportunity to close the gap, the warmth radiating off his body and he wonders about this shell of a man that stands before him and how he sleepwalks at night and wanders god knows where, when he inhales and takes in the scent of his skin and, oh.
There’s a heat there, a fevered sweetness and Dean knows.
Why Castiel sleepwalks.
Why he’s having the nightmares and the fevers and why he can’t quite stay grounded to reality.
Castiel has encephalitis.
Treatable, but then again, this works to his advantage.
“Did you just smell me?” Castiel says. He sounds as if he’s mildly offended, but Dean can hear the hint of surprise.
“Difficult to avoid,” Dean says. “I really must introduce you to a finer aftershave. That smells like something with a ship on the bottle.”
Castiel says, “Well, I keep getting it for Christmas.” He smiles and looks to the ground and there’s the slight spread of a blush across his cheeks. Dean finds that he likes the color, very much.
“Have your headaches been any worse lately?” Dean says. “More frequent?”
“Yes, actually,” Castiel says.
“I’d change the aftershave.”
Dean leads him into the dining room where dinner is ready and the table is set and Krissy is still smiling, that dreamy look on her face as her eyes sweep across the table at all the sensations in front of her.
Castiel’s eyebrows twitch and he looks to Dean, confused.
“She wasn’t ready to leave the hospital, she experienced a bit of anxiety so I gave her a sedative.” Dean says.
“Sedative?” Castiel says. “What did you give her?”
“I only gave her half a Valium, but she may be a little hazy.”
It’s a passable story, and Castiel’s face relaxes as he stands behind the seat across the table from Krissy.
“Hi, Agent Novak,” Krissy says.
“Hello, Krissy,” Castiel says. He glances down at the table. “You were expecting me?”
Dean pulls out Castiel’s chair, smiles. “Please.”
Castiel looks to Dean, a shy smile spreading across his face.
“You hungry?” Krissy says. “Dean made breakfast for dinner.”
“I could eat,” Castiel says. He sits down and reaches for his napkin.
Krissy smiles between them as Dean pours a glass of juice for everyone and she giggles to herself.
“What is it, Krissy?” Castiel says, seeming finally at ease.
Dean places his hand on the table. He doesn’t look over, but he can feel it, the warmth from Castiel’s hand as it brushes against his ever so slightly.
Dean says, “What do you see?”
Krissy says, “I see family.”
Dean and Castiel, they share a brief look before Castiel and Krissy dig into their breakfast. He watches as they eat the charred flesh of Josephine Barnes, her flesh and blood easing down their throats.
Father and father and daughter. The Murderer Family Breakfast.
Dean smiles and spears a piece of sausage onto his fork.