A/N: Most of the story is set in an alternative timeline where Abbaddon never decimated the Men of Letters so the boys grew up following in their grandfather's and father's footsteps. However, I pulled Demon-Dean directly out of the end of season 9, beginning of season 10 and plunked him down in the middle of it.
The door rattled as something strong banged on the other side. The heavy oak shuddered under the onslaught, hinge screws beginning to give away from the frame, and the wood itself beginning to crack under the stress. Dean Winchester stood uneasily between the door and the circle of men, watching the cracks extend. He shorn the door up with everything he knew. "How's it going, Dad? Grandpa?" he called over his shoulder. "This won't hold much longer!"
John Winchester looked up from his work and paled as the door bucked again; a piece of paneling cracked off and fell. "One more minute, son. Better move away."
Dean nodded and hurried around the circle to take his place among the Men of Letters, beside his father and grandfather and brother.
"Mary, better get every one as far back as possible," Henry told his daughter-in-law, but he needn't have bothered.
Mary Winchester had already poured the salt lines and spray-painted every warding sigil she had ever learned at her father's knee. She knew the lines wouldn't hold long against whatever could power its way through the Men of Letters' doorways. Still. The long-retired Hunter settled into a fighter's stance rifle in hand and iron knife in her belt. If she was to die today, she'd go down swinging. Doing her dead parents proud.
The men began chanting, each one reaching down to draw their assigned sigil in their own blood. The power of the spell began to build, humming in the air. As the last of the circle knelt, the sigils began to glow. The oldest man bellowed out the final invocation. As one, they all slapped a hand to the ground. The working activated even as the door shuddered, ready to shatter.
The bright light of the spell cleared, revealing a man standing at its center, back to the Winchesters. From his back and shoulders, he seemed tense and defensive. Fair enough, since he had been magically whisked away from his life with no warning. The man turned to take in the full circle, his eyes widening as they fell on the family.
"Dammit, what the hell?" Dean Winchester demanded. The second Dean Winchester demanded, rather. The newcomer, at least ten years older and much beefier version of the man in the circle, glared at the group in annoyance.
A thud and a popped screw pinging drew everyone's attention to the beleaguered door. Henry stepped forward as spokesman. "There's a hoard of demons on the other side of that door, coming to kill us all."
Second-Dean looked at the door and back. "Okay." Clearly, he understood and equally as clearly he didn't see how that was relevant to him.
Forging ahead, Henry continued, "We cast a spell for help, to summon someone who could defend us."
"And you got me," Dean finished, "and now y'all expect me to throw down cold against a freaking army while…what? While you watch and cheer?"
Henry stammered, at a loss in the face of their supposed-savior's attitude. He was saved from a verbal answer the door's shattering.
Several demons waltzed through the empty doorway, confident that no one inside was a threat to them. The old men skittered away from the summoning circle to join the women inside the salt lines and the last stand of safety in the room.
Second-Dean turned his head slowly over his shoulder to see the invaders. "Azazel," he rumbled, naming the leader. The yellow-eyed demon paused to take in the presence of an extra Winchester who continued naming demons. "Ruby. Meg. Alastair. Abbadon. All the heaviest hitters in one room."
"Who are you?" Azazel asked, "Besides the obvious."
"I'm the guy the Men of Letters think is gonna save them from you." Dean answered as he turned to square off against the group. "We were discussing that when you came in."
"All of us? Really? By yourself?" Azazel taunted.
"I doubt I'd get much help from those mice," Dean jerked a chin at the old men. "Can I ask? What's the game plan here? I mean, you five are a lot of firepower and ole Alastair doesn't come topside for simple massacres."
Azazel glanced at the torture demon. "No, he doesn't."
"So, who's the fly in your ointment?" Second-Dean drawled. "No, lemme guess. Little Sammy. You and Lucy need one big 'yes' before you get the dance-off started good and proper, but the little bastard keeps saying no. And with the Men of Letters behind him, he's actually made it stick. So Picasso with a Razor comes up to bat. But you can't tear up that meat suit, oh no, so he's here to get some quality play time with the family. Rip 'em apart before sweet Sammy's eyes until he caves. How am I doing?"
"Extremely well," Azazel admitted.
"Wait! What?" Sam cried.
"What, you super-smart Men of Letters who look down on us mouth-breathing hunters haven't figured it out yet? That's gotta be embarrassing." Second-Dean gave them a look of false sympathy. "But yeah, Sammy. Lucifer wants to walk the earth, but there are rules. He has to have the right human from all the right bloodlines volunteer as meat-suit. This generation that's you."
Sam paled to the point that he looked about to faint. His family surrounded him protectively; his mother brought her rifle up between the demons and her youngest son.
Second-Dean snorted derisively. "Yeah, Mom, that'll save him. A rifle. You made the deal and didn't read the fine print. You can't blame anyone but yourself." His words struck Mary like a blow, staggering her back until her husband caught her.
"You're very well informed." Azazel observed.
Second-Dean shrugged. "Been down this road before. But here's the thing: I don't like those guys. When I was still human, everyone of them did me wrong after I gave everything for them. Part of me kinda wants to let you have them, as long as I get to watch."
"You're not human?" Henry demanded, aghast.
Second-Dean blinked demonic black eyes at his grandfather.
"Only part of you?" Azazel asked, drawing Second-Dean eye back.
"Yeah. Only part. The rest of me really, really hates you. Without warning, or another word, Second-Dean surged forward driving a bone-handled blade through the yellow-eyed demon chin and up into his brain. Orange fire crackled as the body fell. Before the other demons could recover from the shock of their leader actually dying, he jerked the blade free to turn on Abbadon. With a primal roar, he drove the blade under her ribcage, through the heart, and the tip broke her spine. She had time to bellow in pain before the orange crackle signaled her death.
The surviving demons finally got the message through their heads that they should move. Second-Dean threw Abbaon's body across the room, hard enough to bowl Alastair over. The next several minutes were a flurry of blows and counter-blows. Demonic power flowed and flung itself around the room causing the lights to flicker like strobes.
Individually, each demon was a powerhouse. But with the King of Hell and the last loyal Knight already dead, no single demon was the equal to the challenge presented by Second-Dean. And they knew it. The trio tried to adjust, tried to work in tandem, to gang up on their single enemy. But Alastair wasn't a true combatant; Meg wasn't thinking clearly over the loss of her king and father; and Ruby wasn't the type to trust those on her side to actually support her.
In mere minutes, Second-Dean cut them all down. He wiped the bloody blade on his jeans and stowed it in his jacket. "That was fun," he commented to no one in particular. Then he looked to the Men of Letters who had yet to move. "Now, where were we? Oh, right, right, right." He pointed at himself, "What the hell?" He pointed at Henry, "Save me, save me!" He snorted derisively. "Seriously, dude, do you ever handle your own problems? Or do you always run away for help like a freakin' girl in pigtails? I mean, you're a friggin' Man of Letters, preceptor, beholder, chronicler and what not. Man up and handle a few monsters."
"A few monsters?" Mary repeated, incredulous. "The king of hell? A knight? 'Picasso with a razor? That's some serious firepower."
Second-Dean shrugged. "I've killed scarier."
"You are scarier." One of the old men observed as he flung holy water in an arc at Second-Dean's face. The demon growled in pain as the water smoked against his skin. "I recognize the First Blade and the Mark. Cain, I presume. How did you come to possess Dean Winchester? I thought you still wore your original body."
"No, no, mud monkey." A new voice chided from the doorway. "That's not Cain. Cain would never be stupid enough to make a move against me."
Second-Dean turned, expression set hard. "Lucifer," he ground out.
"Oh, it knows me!" Lucifer mused, appraising him. "Another Dean Winchester, from the next reality over and a few years into the future. That must have been some spell, to bring him here. I'm almost impressed. Turning you into a demon would certainly annoy my dear big brother…Did I do that to you?"
But Second-Dean was beyond vocalizing a response. There wasn't a being in the universe that he hated more that the archangel in front of him. Rage boiled in his blood, lighting the Mark, and all reason abandoned him. He roared his fury as he lunged First Blade at the ready.
Lucifer, however, was no mere demon. Not even the most powerful demon hell could muster could come close to matching the Morning Star. He caught the demon's sword arm and twisted, shattering the bones, and drove the blade into the marble floor. Second-Dean grunted in pain, but was already healing as he wriggled in his opponent's grip. Lucifer slammed his head against the ground, cracking the marble. "That's enough of that, young man," he chided like a disappointed parent before laying a hand on the demon's forearm. The Mark of Cain began to glow orange. Than it began to burn white-hot. Second-Dean screamed in agony as the Mark bubbled and exploded, leaving a blackened dent on his flesh.
The fallen angel stood, leaving his enemy crumpled on the ground nearly unconscious from the pain and the shock. He turned to take in the assembled Men of Letter standing between him and his true vessel, standing behind powerful wards of protection against demons. None of which would stop an angel, of course.
Mary, raised a Hunter whether she still hunted or not, but more importantly a mother, took a breath to steady her nerves. And once again placed herself and her rifle between evil and her family.
Lucifer chuckled and raised a hand, as though to asked a question of a grade-school teacher.
In the room, only Second-Dean recognized the gesture. He'd seen it several times from several angels. Only he knew what a gruesome death sentence it meant. "mom," he whispered. Hurting, dizzy, disoriented there was still one thing Dean Winchester KNEW: no one hurt his family. With a burst of effort, Herculean in its intensity, he lunged to his feet and took the archangel in a bull-rush.
Only a Winchester brother would refuse to acknowledge how impossible his task, how over-matched he was.
Only a Winchester brother could get results beyond all hope.
His flying tackle succeeded in distracting Lucifer from smiting Mary into a fine spray of blood and bone. It was so incredibly unexpected, so incredibly stupid, it actually staggered the archangel two whole steps before he seized his attacker by the throat.
"You just don't know when to quit, do you?"
Second-Dean wheezed and gurgled in Lucifer's grip, trying to speak.
Bemused, he allowed his enemy a breath of air and brought him close enough to hear what words could possibly be worth forcing past a bruised throat.
Instantly, Second-Dean's arm shot straight up, running Lucifer's own archangel blade (newly liberated from the angel's own jacket) through the soft flesh under his jaw until the point broke through the vessel's skull.
Angelic light exploded from Lucifer's body. The force of it threw Second-Dean across the room and knocked the Men of Letters from their feet. When the humans looked up again, Lucifer's dead vessel lay sprawled on the floor amid black and burned wing scars scorched into the marble tile. Everyone stared; Lucifer, Father of Lies, Prince of Darkness, dead at their feet.
A groan and a curse drew the shocked assembly's attention to where Second-Dean struggled to right himself. "It's about freakin' time somebody ganked your ass," he growled out at the corpse. Then he shuddered and fell back prone on the floor, breath coming in harsh pain-filled gasps. When he could speak again, his voice had lost its growl. He sounded worse than tired, and incredibly young somehow. "Mom? Mom, you okay?"
Cautiously, rifle in hand but not aimed, Mary Winchester stepped over the salt line. She stopped just out of reach of the creature that saved her family this day. "I'm here. I'm alright." After a hesitation she asked, "Are you?"
Second-Dean huffed a laugh. "No. I haven't felt this crappy since the rack."
"Are you Dean again now?" Mary asked.
Second-Dean closed his eyes and turned his face away in shame.
The old man who had thrown the holy water spoke. "Come away, Mary. He was never possessed, didn't you hear? This man became a demon. Its not your son anymore, now it's a monster."
Too far away, the old man couldn't see what Mary could. She saw the single tear gather in the corner of Second-Dean's eye despite how tightly he had them closed. A lifetime of familiarity with her own son's face told her more that that tear. Carefully, she dribbled more holy water. There was no flinch this time, no smoke. "Not a monster. Not anymore."
"Mom…the things I've done…" Second-Dean denied.
"You saved us." Mary reminded. "Maybe our whole world."
"Tell that to the people I've killed. Tortured." His voice was getting weaker and exhaustion was making it difficult to understand. "Tell them I'm not a monster."
"No, baby." Mary soothed. "Monsters don't regret, don't feel shame."
"I'm tired, mom." Second-Dean willed his heavy eyes open. They were so dull with fatigue Mary was amazed he hadn't passed out. "Sing to me?" he whispered, closing his eyes again. "Dad never sang after you died. Hey, Jude?"
Mary Winchester swallowed past the lump in her throat at the heart-breaking request. She sang her favorite Beatles song to this strange version of her oldest son until unconsciousness claimed him.
TBC? Lemme hear some reviews if you want more. I have a few ideas…