Author's Notes: IMPORTANT! I'm warning you from the get go, this is a political piece, something that I needed after the election results in the USA. I apologize in advance for any offence I may cause (which you are more than welcome to express in the reviews if you find it necessary) and you should know that the deeds that the Winchesters suggest are by no means a true reflection of my hopes of what will happen, but merely a way of working out my frustration in fiction.
That having been said, enjoy:
Rise of Dick 2.0
November 9th, Dean finds Sam sitting in front of his laptop. Shoulders slumped, hands in hair, his body screams defeat. It chills Dean and the first thing he thinks is, what now? the second is who died? and the third is damn, our lives are screwed up.
"Sammy?" Dean hedges.
"Did you see the news?" comes the worn voice from the table, "Did you see the fucking news?"
Sam is swearing. Sam swearing is not good. Ever. Slowly, the trepidation that was pooling in Dean's stomach starts to creep up his spine. He's getting strange news flashbacks of 'freak storms' and shapeshifters and the 'rise of Dick'. Something that's got Sam looking like this must be bad. In fact, something that has got him looking like this must be a particular brand of bad; Lucifer bad.
"No…? What happened?" Dean's phone is already in his hand, fingers wavering between 'Cas' and 'Mom'.
Sam shakes his head in utter disbelief, pointing vaguely at the laptop as he turns it in Dean's direction. On screen, there's an onslaught of red and blue graphs, the star spangled banner waving digitally in the background. Dean leans closer, these are…
"Yeah, Dean. Election results," Sam says, "The results of two years of what has got to be the strangest campaign this country has ever seen and…"
Suddenly, Sam cuts himself off, glaring at his older brother. He snatches back the laptop as if he's taking candy from a particularly sugar-addicted baby. When he next speaks it in an accusing hiss.
"Hold on… Did you even vote, Dean?"
The blank look on Dean's face says enough, and he's stalking off to the kitchen before his brother can tear him a new one. As he grabs coffee from the cabinet and starts measuring how much he can physically put into the machine without breaking it, he decides he's going to explain why he didn't vote. Not because he needs to, of course. He doesn't have to justify this…
"No, Sam. I didn't vote. I never vote, cause it don't who the president is. Not in our world." His eyes narrow, finger floating above the 'on' button on the coffee machine, "Wait, you did?"
Swivelling around, Dean can just make out his brother through the doorway. The bitch face Sam throws him tells him enough. Really, he shouldn't be surprised that a geek like his brother (a pre-law geek, mind you) votes. It's probably some moral thing about exercising your right to vote as an American citizen. Blah, blah. Only, wait.
"How the hell did you vote?" Dean exclaims, "I'm pretty sure the dead can't vote. And on paper, you're dead, bro."
Sam shrugs. "Fake ID."
Huh. That's fair. Dean finally presses the 'on' button and sighs contently at the sound and smell of the simmering coffee. A mornings go these days, this is a good one. Dean heard from Mom only yesterday, the strangely formulated text on Cas' behalf showed him the angel was still alive this morning, and whatever crisis he thought had been going on with Sam has been averted.
"So, you won?" Dean asks casually as he picks two of the cleaner looking cups from the sink.
"Trump." Comes Sam's shell-shocked voice from the other room, "Donald fucking Trump."
There's a loud clatter as one of the cups slips from Dean's hands. For a moment, he stands absolutely still in the kitchen, then he marches over to the laptop that's still sitting, open, in front of Sam. Dean leans over his brother's shoulder, pulls the laptop back so he can read what's on the screen and then… feels his heart jolt. The red line has passed the 270 line.
"Son of a bitch!" Dean yells, voice strangely high, "You're not going to tell me that people actually voted for that scumbag. I mean, the guy has no political experience, right? You know, he doesn't even know what the purple heart is. Dad is probably turning in his grave."
"Dad doesn't have a grave, but I see your point." Sam says brusquely, "It's worse than that, though. He's a racist, sexist, homophobe with anger management problems. And now he has power over actual nuclear weapons."
"At least he won't be taking away our guns." Dean relativized.
"None of our guns are legal, Dean."
The grin Dean flashes at that is huge, then it disappears, "Yeah, you're right, man. He's just some megalomaniac business man who builds terrible apartments. You remember those things in New York? With the ghost who didn't want those buildings on his land? Ugliest goddamned buildings I've seen in my life."
With a snap, Sam closes the laptop. Then he looks up at Dean with yet another bitch face (this is the, I'm right, you're wrong and I'm going to rub it in face).
"Maybe you should have voted after all, huh Dean?"
Dean narrows his eyes, "At least I wasn't doing anything illegal. Like identity fraud."
Sam shakes his head grimly, but there's a strange little smile at the corner of his mouth, "You probably wouldn't have made much difference here anyway. I mean, it's Kansas, home of the Republicans."
"We can always gank him," Dean suggests, he's not entirely serious but he's not quite joking either, "Don't think a lot of people would mind."
"Dude, he's human," Sam answers, eyebrows raised in amusement.
"Are we sure about that though?" Dean points out, "He could be a shifter. Or a leviathan! I mean, this is the Rise of Dick 2.0…"
Finally Sam laughs, shaking his head. He reaches out for the coffee cup that's still sat tightly in Dean's hand and walks into the kitchen to clean the other off the ground. The smell of coffee is intoxicating, and Dean knows his brother will be out with not just two full cups, but the entire pot as well.
Back at the table, Dean opens the laptop and glances over Trump's orange skin and messy wig. His eyes narrow, face turning grim. You best not screw this up, he directs his thoughts at the digital copy of their president-elect, cause me and my brother, we've faced far worse than you. And we know where you live.
The laptop is shut again as Sam walks back into the room, balancing two cups of coffee, and a half-full pot to last them the next few hours. Sure, it sucks that Trump was chosen. But he was chosen, so the Winchesters do what they do best. They grind.
Time to look for a new hunt.