Disclaimer: I do not own or lay claim to anything related to Supernatural.

Summary: They're in a cheesy motel room watching TV with bad reception when Sam finds out what John told Dean in the hospital, and the demon's true plans for him… and it will take more than sombreros or M&Ms to make everything okay again. AU after Bloodlust. Rated for language and dark themes.

Dance with the Devil

By Spectral Scribe

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PART ONE

The motel room looked like a Mexican gay bar.

That is, they were both in agreement that if either ever stepped into a Mexican gay bar—which they surprisingly hadn't yet in their colorful lives—it would strongly resemble this motel room; the bedspreads were covered in neon rainbow stripes, the draperies were a sparkly fluorescent purple, and a decorative lamp stood off to the side with a shade in the shape of a frilly sombrero. It was no help that there actually was a mini bar in the room, painted with rainbow maracas and cheerful cacti.

It was disturbing, to say the least, and that was certainly saying something with all the motels they'd seen in the past (Disco-themed? Check. Porn-style-with-vibrating-mattresses? Check. Covered-in-yellow-smiley-face-paintings-and-peace-sign-beads-hanging-from-the-ceiling-with-live-fish-in-the-waterbeds? Check.). Then again, they'd both been pretty scarred by the porno motel… but that's another story for another time.

Yet Sam was certain that the troublingly festive atmosphere of the bizarre room was not the cause of his brother's disquiet. Sure, Dean hadn't been fond of the Mexicans since that burrito in Arizona made him sick for three days. But this wasn't the same. And Sam could feel it rolling off his brother in waves. This had nothing to do with Mexicans or gay bars… in fact, it appeared as if Dean hadn't even noticed the room as he dragged himself to the rainbow bed and flopped lifelessly on top. His eyes were distant.

"So," Sam tried as he swiveled his upper body in the chair, cracking his back. "What do you think?"

A beat of silence told him what he wanted to know: Dean had been too preoccupied in this thoughts to jump back into a conversation they'd left hanging ten minutes ago. When he couldn't follow his brother's train of thought, that usually meant tyranny of his own thoughts… which usually meant 'not good.'

"What do I think of what?" Dean asked tonelessly, shifting up on the bed so that he sat against the headboard with his arms crossed defiantly across his stomach. His eyes remained glued to the television across the room; it had a terrible, grainy picture, and Sam wasn't even sure what they were watching. But Dean's eyes remained fixed on bright colors, his profile to Sam.

"Banshee or Aswang?"

After a moment of silence, Sam wasn't sure if his brother even heard the question, and he opened his mouth to reiterate. But his brother's voice interrupted him.

"Where'd you get the idea it was an Aswang? Don't those usually stick to the Philippines, or did I miss a geography lesson?"

Relief mixed with exasperation. "We've seen plenty of evidence to suggest that creatures migrate. I mean, half the time we're going into things ass-backwards because of geographical disparity… for instance, that Wendigo wasn't where they usually turn up, so it's possible that an Aswang could have, at some point, moved north."

"Mmm-hmm."

"You don't seem very interested," Sam pointed out needlessly; Dean was proving the point in spades, his gaze fixed on the fuzzy TV and his arms still folded resolutely, as if his mere posture were a shield from Sam.

"Sorry. Your theory about Aswangs is fascinating," he deadpanned, drawling out the last word in dry sarcasm.

Try as he might to remain patient with Dean, his wits were strung in a taut tightrope, and frustration seeped through his weary bones. "You immediately ditch the idea of a banshee," he began in a tightly controlled voice.

"Banshees scream, Sam. No screaming here," Dean cut in monotonously.

Sam continued as if he hadn't heard him. "You toss out my theory about Aswangs. I don't know, man. I'm trying here, I really am, but I don't see how we're going to figure this one out unless you work with me."

More silence from the bed. His eyes were focused on the television, but his face was turned slightly in Sam's direction—an indication that he was, indeed, listening. Well, he supposed that was a good sign.

A thought erupted in his mind, and he suddenly wanted to see Dean's reaction to it. He was desperate for some kind of understanding as to what was going on in his brother's head. Before he could think better of it, the idea slipped through his loose lips. "I don't know. Maybe it's a demon?"

That sure as hell got Dean's attention. He finally ripped his eyes away from the TV, and Sam didn't know if it was just the juxtaposition with the colorful room, but his eyes looked dark and hollow. "It isn't a demon."

"How do you know?" Sam shot back, knowing that he sounded petulant, knowing that his brother was probably going to clock him one for that, knowing that it was a stupid question—but he asked it anyway.

"Because I know demons, Sam. This ain't no demon." There was something hard, fierce, in his tone like the sharp edge of broken glass that would have made any sensible person back off before getting cut.

Sam, however, wasn't sensible.

"You don't know that for sure. Demons are hard to pin… I mean, we didn't even know that The demon was a demon until… well… until Dad told us."

Dean's eyes turned icy cold, and a vicious smirk curled up on his lips. He snorted—a scoffing sort of sound—and turned his head back to the TV.

Annoyance bubbling in him like burning acid, Sam spat out, "What?"

Dean shook his head once, that dark, incredulous smirk still on his face. "I know what you're doing. You're trying to con me into talking about Dad."

Anger snapped like a leather belt. "It's a shame I have to con you into talking about our father."

"What is there to say?" Dean's voice rose now in irritation, finally breaking free from its stone-cold, impassive tone. "Dude, we've talked—"

"Yelled at each other, more like," Sam cut in.

"—so don't beat a dead horse. We can't put everything on hold just to sit around and whine about it. We've got shit to do, things to kill"

It was Sam's turn to give a derisive laugh. "Yeah, because you're just jumping right into this hunt. All you're doing is sitting around." Before a tirade of ranting spewed forth from his unpredictable mouth, Sam snapped it shut and drew in a deep breath, exhaled a deep breath. "I know that's not the way you really feel, Dean. Now, if you don't want to work this job because you're afraid it'll be something that doesn't deserve killing… we've got deaths to prove it. It's evil. Just because we found one group of benign vampires doesn't mean we've got to second-guess everything we do, especially when we know we're going after something that's been killing people."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I know that," he retorted sharply, and Sam withdrew for a moment, suddenly lost. He'd been sure that was the reason Dean was acting up about this hunt, losing his nerve. Maybe it was because of Dad, after all.

"Then what, Dean? I mean, you're acting like a jerk. And I get it… he was my father too. But doesn't that mean you can trust me with whatever's going on? We're going through the same thing, dude. In case you haven't noticed."

Dean's eyes sparkled, and Sam wasn't sure if it was with murderous fury or tears. He glanced over at his little brother, looking strained and pale. "Fuck you, Sammy," he whispered before standing up and striding over to the table where lay his leather jacket and car keys.

That threw Sam for a loop. It took him a moment to regain his bearings, still blown by the aching bitterness and sincerity in Dean's words. "What the hell, man?" he shot out, rising from his own seat to catch Dean before he grabbed his stuff and bolted. "You know, I've about had it up to here with your bipolar mood swings. What's your problem? You got a problem with me?"

At some point he had crossed the room and stood directly in front of Dean, using his three-inch advantage to get up in his brother's face and attempt to look intimidating. If trying to reason with him didn't work, then he'd have to try a more Dean-like approach. Maybe like would react better to like, and Dean would finally tell him what the hell was going on if he used more actions instead of words.

"Yeah, I got a problem with you," Dean muttered in a low voice that growled predatorily. "I got a problem with you, I got a problem with your bitching, I got a problem that demon, I got a problem with Dad—"

That was where he cut himself off sharply, looking determinedly away from Sam as if realizing he'd gone too far into undesirable territory.

"So I've noticed," Sam murmured quietly, trying desperately to understand his brother and feeling all the more cut off from him, isolated, as if there was a great barrier between them that was growing wider and more pronounced with each passing day of ignoring the issue. He already couldn't read anything in his eyes anymore, and he feared that eventually, Dean would be a complete stranger. "Come on, man. If you don't talk to me, I'm going to tie you down and play Justin Timberlake music until you break."

The attempted injection of humor dissolved quickly; Dean reacted about as much as if Sam had just pointed out the color of the wallpaper. Instead, he stared distantly into the corner of the room before turning back to Sam and reaching around him for his jacket.

Sam grabbed his wrist before he could seize the beaten leather. Okay, so maybe he should go first. "I feel like I don't know you anymore, Dean. And it scares the shit out of me." Not too bad. You're turn.

But Dean merely glowered at him, his eyes shining with something deep and dark that Sam simply could not fathom, his arm still held out and patiently waiting for Sam to let go so he could grab his stuff and bolt out the door.

"So that's it? You're just going to stand around, pretend it's not killing you that Dad's gone, pretend everything's okay?" He let go of Dean's wrist. Dean didn't move; he remained statue-like, his eyes glittering with malice, his features eerily still. Sam felt his anger start to get away with him again, his nerves crackling with adrenaline and his stomach fiery and hot with annoyance, and it grew and grew as his voice raised both in pitch and volume. "You're just going to keep brushing me off, forget about Dad, forget about everything… turn into Gordon?"

That did it. Something in Dean splintered, and when he spoke, it was low and fast and bitingly vicious. "Hey, Sam, why don't you whine some more, maybe it'll bring Dad back from the dead—"

Dean's head snapped forcefully to the side. It was a moment before Sam realized that his fists were raised and the knuckles on his right hand felt the dull ache of bruising. Dean straightened up, his eyes wide and disbelieving as he stared up at Sam (why are you saying this to me?). "That was my rain check," Sam muttered, his energy waning after the spike and leaving bone-weary exhaustion in its wake.

Dean's left cheek had a red mark on it that Sam felt only slightly bad about. The bastard deserved it… he was acting like a complete jackass, and he wouldn't give an explanation. Didn't he realize that Sam was going through the same thing? That they could commiserate, rather than turn against one another?

His resolve started to crumble when he saw that Dean was still staring at him, stock-still, eyes wide like a kicked puppy, jaw clenched. But then Dean made a reach for the keys, and Sam snatched them up and stuffed them into his pants pocket.

"Sam, give me the keys."

He tried to pretend he hadn't heard the tremble in Dean's strained voice.

"Give me the keys right now, or I swear to God I'll—"

"You'll what?" Sam spat out, his anger running on fumes now. "Actually tell me what you think? Tell me something that's true?"

Dean turned away in a huff, switched off the droning TV, took a few steps to the other end of the room, breathed in a few times, turned around, leaned his back against the wall. Gazed at Sam with a profoundly troubling look in his eyes. Scrubbed a shaky palm over his face.

"Dad knew."

The words were whispered with a quiet, unbearable defeat.

It took Sam a few minutes to open his mouth and ask, "Knew what?"

"About you. About… about the others… and the plans…"

"The demon's plans for me?" Sam cut in, a sharp jolt of heat coursing through his body like an electric shock. "He knew what the demon wanted with me? How? Why didn't he say anything? How do you know—"

He knew he was rambling, and Dean cut him short, his voice marred with an all-encompassing frustration and weariness. "He told me not to tell you."

"Wha—" Sam gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "He didn't… he didn't want me to know? And just when did he tell you this?"

Dean's jaw was clenched, as though he were trying to keep himself from spilling the beans. "Before…"

"I thought you said he didn't say anything to you?" He was somewhat ashamed at the note of pained betrayal that rang through his speech, an accusation that he knew cut his brother as much as it did him.

"I lied, okay?" Dean snapped viciously.

The room echoed with silence for a beat before Sam could muster up the willpower to voice his next question. "What… what did he tell you?"

When Dean looked up, it was with dark, hollow eyes, and suddenly Sam didn't want to know, really, really didn't want to know, wanted to run away and not look back, wanted to stop seeing those shadowy eyes that didn't belong to his brother.

But he had to know the truth.

"Dean," he tried again, more earnestly—desperately—this time, enunciating every syllable. "What did he tell you?"

Sam could see his brother's hands clenched into fists, shaking slightly from the sheer force; his face had gone white, and his eyes darted around as if searching for someplace to go where he wouldn't have to face Sam.

"It…" There was a long, unsteady pause, but Dean could not hold back the words, and they bit out from his mouth, scalding and acidic and agonizing, "…turns 'em."

No, that certainly was not what flashed through Sam's mind at that moment. Most definitely, positively not.

And suddenly, it seemed as if Dean's mouth was on autopilot, and he couldn't stop what was coming out, and Sam half wanted to pluck it out of his ears and shove it back in his brother's mouth, forget it was ever said.

"It's a process. It gets rid of the mother first… then it baptizes the kid… in blood… then the kid starts to… change…" His voice was as hollow as his eyes.

No. No, he was still mistaken. He was hearing wrong. What he was thinking was not, not, what Dean was saying. Absolutely not. He did not need to hear more; there was a simple miscommunication… that was all. He was hearing wrong… he had to be… he was not… he was not…

Dean drew in a deep breath. Exhaled. "Then the kid turns. Into a demon."

The world spun out from under him, the Mexican themed room tilting on its axis and swirling, swirling in colors and rainbow maracas. Sam grabbed onto the table behind him, steadying himself, blinking until the world righted itself. His gut roiled ominously, and he felt suddenly as if he'd been sliced open, turned inside out, and sewed back together again. His insides were hanging out, his eyes turned inward to stare at his brain, his limbs numb and unresponsive.

No. He was not, he was not…

Images bombarded him. Fire dancing and flickering in his peripheral vision, Jess pinned to the ceiling, her face replaced by one he'd seen in old pictures, and blood staining her white nightgown, spreading like a crimson disease, fanning out, spreading, raining. Raining blood. Baptizing him in blood.

He had to get out, had to get out.

The walls were too close, pressing in around him, draining the room of air, suffocating and close, too close… he couldn't breathe…

His heart stuttered and raged against his ribcage, pulsating in his inside-out stuffing.

"Sam?" came Dean's hesitant, concerned voice from far away. How was he so far away when the room was so small, too small, the walls mere inches from one another? So small he couldn't move, couldn't breathe… but Dean was far away, too far…

He had to get away.

I'm not. Not. NOT.

It was not true. It couldn't be.

"My plans… for you. And all the children like you."

Psychic powers. Demons had those. Changing, turning evil… Max. Mother replaced by demon. Water for fire. Death and death and death… and the children like him, its children, Meg and that guy Dean shot…

No. He was not. He was not…

The room was too small. He had to get out. He had to fucking breathe! There was no air left, there wasn't any goddamn oxygen, and how the hell was Dean still breathing when there was no air in the room, nothing but the oppressive, clinging scent of betrayal and evil and death, death, death…

He still couldn't see Dean past the fire in his sight, and he blindly moved towards the door, forcing out, "I'm going for a walk" in such a calm voice that he almost startled himself and wondered who was talking in such a quiet, collected voice when everything inside of him was screaming and writhing in agony.

"Sam!"

He threw open the door, stepped out into the darkness. Sucked in a tremendous breath, oh god, air, thank you. Filled his lungs. Suppressed the urge to vomit.

Started running.