They were coming for him.

Sitting in a corner of a darkened room, nothing but the flames of a lone torch to see by, Wade wrapped his arms around his legs, hoping- praying- that someone would save him. He is- was- the finest blacksmith on the surface of Ferelden, one who other smiths aspired to be, one who did the work of a lifetime for the right amount of coin.

Yet the name, the riches, and the skill, meant nothing to him now.

It had started with the dreams of a starry-eyed boy, wanting so much of himself from so little offered, wanting to be that great someone. Everyone he told either laughed, mocked, or tried to convince him otherwise. Wade had to simply force his heart to harden and his ears to deafen to those who, in his mind, didn't understand. And so, he continued onward in his life, asking for the unobtainable and receiving the same answers.

Until, finally, a hesitant yes came.

There was a rumor, they said, of a way to ask for anything you want. Though the next breath was spent trying to convince him not to take this path, Wade was already making plans. He thought back on it all now with a bitter chuckle, on how simple it was to coerce his way into getting what was needed (a few scoops of loose dirt here, a vial of sheep's blood there, a child's hammer with his name etched into the handle to tie it all together), to slip away from the celebrating crowd just hours away from midnight, and go to that empty crossroad.

No sooner did he finish burying that box did she come to him as a beautiful woman, dark hair cascading down her back in gentle waves, her dress revealing and decadent, matching the eyes that glinted crimson just so in the moon's light. He told his story, he pleaded with her, and as a final resort, he flirted with her. She listened to him, she promised him, and with a smile, she kissed him.

The turnaround came the very next morning: any metal put to the flames would mold and shape to his will with great ease, both swords and armor being produced like they were naught but an afterthought, faster than anyone else around could. As the number of customers grew, so did the amount of money; as the money grew, so did his expectations of work. In time, he would only accept the most detailed of wishes, the most expensive of requests, the most durable of metals... oh, that dragonbone plate armor...

But, all good things had to come to an end, and he knew this well. Wade didn't fear this, you see, because he had a plan, a loop to the hole. He was nine years into the wager, with riches that fueled gossip and shunned many potential customers; none of the riches would go with him after he took his own life. It started simple, a fall from a great height, one that could surely be explained away as an accident, and paired with a lovely eulogy that would sing his praises for years to come. Sweet blackness enveloped him, making him truly believe that it was done...

Until he woke in his own bed, an elderly mage at one side finishing his healing.

The first attempt brushed off as a fluke, he tried once more, "accidentally" slicing into a vital part of his body while working on his next masterpiece. He bled out on the cold stone floor, his business partner (and sometimes close friend) running out the door to find help. Once more, the blackness found him, cradled him into the deep abyss; once more, he woke to find himself being healed.

What was he doing wrong? The fall couldn't have been guaranteed to work, but he knew his blades better than he remembered the names of his family. Should a fabric drift onto the blades edge, it would slice itself with the aid of gravity; his plan should have been foolproof. Because of this, the third attempt found him desperate, willing to try anything to find release from this earthly life he made for himself. But if his own hand was at fault, surely someone else's would do the trick? A plan was made then, not to kill himself, but someone just as important in his eyes...

Many didn't expect the Hero of Ferelden's untimely death, turning such shocked eyes to Wade's slicked hand, holding the bloodied sword that thrust through the unsuspecting woman's chest, taking her life from her in the midst of the market square. Shock turned to tears, and tears turned to rage. Many wanted his head, and the outcry was so strong that he soon found himself next to be hung with the common criminals. The cheering was just as great when the doors opened underneath his feet, the noose snapping tightly around his neck.

Master Wade, owner of the blacksmith shop in Denerim and alleged murderer of the Hero of Ferelden, was pronounced dead not four minutes after he was hung.

That same man proved the masses wrong when life surged back into his lungs mere seconds later. The Maker-fearing citizens then watched as the once great man sobbed about wanting to die, yelling to a mysterious someone to stop their laughing.

If only they knew...

A presence filled the stone hallway outside of his prison cell, filling it with an absolute evil that would shake the most resolute man to his core. Wade didn't look up to see who was there; he didn't have to see her again. He didn't want to, either. No amount of glory was worth the misery he now suffered.

"Quite the naughty man you were recently," a silken voice taunted. "Not even a year ago, they were whispering your name in comparison to the Maker," she then spat. As his silence stretched on, she adopted a mock curious tone before asking, "Why the change of heart, Master Wade?"

"Leave me," he choked in reply. "By all that's holy, leave me in peace..."

"Oh, I will. I'm running late for an appointment myself," she mused. "I simply wanted to inform you, however, that you're right on time. No matter where you were, or what you would have done to try to change this, you would have always been on time." Turning her back to him, she disappeared into the shadows, her last words mocking him: "You were foolish to think you could end our deal early."

She was gone.

That didn't mean he was alone.

Growling only he could hear filled the air, as the head of a creature made only of blackened bone and decayed muscle stuck through the bars of his cell. Viscous saliva dripped from a corner of its open maw, as the growling became louder. Wade hugged his knees even tighter to himself, eyes clenching shut. It was a child-like belief: if he didn't see anything, they couldn't see him, and would leave him...

Holy Maker, blessed Andraste, please look upon your humble servant in his time of need... please make them go away!

The beast in question whipped his thin tail back and forth, being joined by a second that dared step closer, through the iron bars as if they weren't there. Hot breath fell across the smith's face, smelling of blood and death, as the hellhound opened his massive jaw in a soft roar.

Today was Funalis, ten exact years after he made a deal with a demon.

And no one could save him from what his fame and riches really cost.

AN: WHEEEEEEEEEEEW, Supernatural season 8!

Yes, I know it's tomorrow, but I simply couldn't deny myself this any longer... xD And besides, for those of you Dragon Age fans who also played The Darkspawn Chronicles that saw exactly what happened with Wade and Herren... yeah. I simply had to write this crossover. I *had* to.

Many thanks to Marina over at HoT on FB for providing the "Write a Funalis centered story" challenge, and saying I could take a horrific approach to this. And also, for those who haven't check this out: mwar. deviantart art/Hellhound-Concept-74660464?q=gallery%3AMwar%2F782520&qo=38&catpath=&order=0&offset=38

Now that I can envision what Dean saw in those final moments, I can shed little Becky-the-fangirl tears when I watch that eppy again... *ahem*