Strap on your big boy/girl pants. This is my take on season 10.

AN: This is dedicated to my best friend, Eve, who literally sat beside me as I wrote the remainder of this story. It's a miracle I even finished it. And also a HUGE thank you to a few familiar faces on this site that come back to my page for a second serving. You have no idea how much people like you mean to me in my everyday life. I don't like to admit that I'm dependent on anyone's approval, but partly, it's because of you that I keep doing what I do. You allow me to believe that I can carry these stories as well as those unwritten to my grave.

Alright, enough chick flick moments. Onto the story.

Knighted

"The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire." –Ferdinand Foch

The flames touched higher, engulfing the brooding face of Sam Winchester. His eyes angled at the ground beneath him. He certainly hadn't expected the invocation to conjure such a response. The spell wasn't exactly the easiest to muster.

He'd definitely had better days, ones that he hadn't gotten lost in binge drinking. Imbibing in copious amounts of alcohol alleviated the edge off of his itinerant mind, but it didn't do much for the pain; in fact, he was almost certain that the whiskey was only accentuating his sentiments. Every shot creeping down his esophagus was the price of those nostalgic sentiments; an acrimonious commemoration that kept nagging at him that he had once again screwed his life over.

"If the situation was reversed, and I was dying, you'd do the same thing."

"No, Dean, I wouldn't."

He had lied again; not only lied to Dean, but to himself. Sam was all too acquainted with the gritty red residue in his fingernails and the overwhelming feeling of determination and trepidation surging like turpentine through him when he made a deal. There wasn't much contrast between then and now; he had liquor burning through his veins and he still felt the familiar sting of self-loathing when he ignited the flame.

Several excruciating minutes passed by when he finally heard a noise—though distant and vague, it was definitely perceivable—instigating from the upper level of the bunker. Sam flew up what seemed like an interminable flight of stairs, heart thrashing vigorously against his ribcage as he soundlessly carded through the possibilities as to the origin of the noise.

Crowley, granted he was the King of Hell, had a reputation for being surreptitious, so it couldn't have been him. Castiel entered in a single swift and lenient move, like a cardinal would alight on a tree.

No, it wasn't a supernatural being, but instead a human.

Dean was awake.

Before Sam could discharge his long-repressed sigh of relief, he was crossing to the other end of the room, heaving his brother upright. Blood was pooling profusely around his limb body. He had his wraithlike hands clenched in fists, curled tightly around his diaphragm in attempt subdue more bodily fluids from escaping his mouth. He went through several trials of eructation, each time increasingly harder to restrain his lungs from surfacing for air. His eyes were sealed shut and his body was slumped over weakly.

The younger brother was shaking him violently on the shoulder with one hand and reaching out to cup his face with his other, tilting his face to meet his. "Dean, oh God, Dean…"

He reiterated this partial phrase multiple times for lack thereof. His sagging head became heavier as more blood began to secrete from his lower lip. Sam shook harder. If Dean hadn't gotten killed hours earlier by that friggin' transformer Metatron, then he definitely was dead now. His olive skin was white and he was completely cold.

Then it all stopped; the blood, the trembling, the one-sided conversations. Dean opened his eyes.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" he hissed. His hand, once hanging nimbly at his side, lunged out for Sam. Sam staggered into the bookshelf behind him. Whatever it was, it wasn't Dean. Dean didn't have black eyes and an acute sense of perception.

He angled his head, as if to perceive the thing better. "Crowley?"

The occupant laughed wickedly. "Why would I want that piece of filth writhing inside me? You should know me better; after all, you are my little brother, Sammy."

"You're not my brother…"

"Ouch, Sammy, that really hurts," the thing said, twisting Dean's bloodied finger into the place where his heart is—or was.

"Don't call me Sammy," Sam growled, grappling for something on Dean's dresser. He had a specific object in mind—that is, if this thing that called itself Dean was in fact his brother—that would ultimately determine his sincerity.

It was a picture—the only picture—of toddler Dean and prideful Mary clutching her son. Dean's eyes burned with a sort of imperceptible haze, the kind that only a demon could muster under such an irate circumstance. It was almost as if the younger brother had said Christo. Dean's once-emerald eyes flared a ghastly crimson and his hands began to tremble.

He roared an abysmal roar—ambiguous to Sam in the sense that it could either be supposed as a threat or a painful cry. Though judging by the mere fact that his brother was some kind of demon, it was most likely the first one. He never actually thought about the emotions of ungodly creatures—if they even had any. John always taught him to shoot first, ask questions later. But now that his brother was a member of Hell's Bells, it took all of him not to question it now. His sanity wasn't exactly climaxing at the moment and the new notion only further harried his agitated state.

At least that meant that Dean was somewhere inside the black—as if that was reassuring.

Dean—or whatever it was—was coming at him full-fledged. He fisted the lapels on Sam's coat, slamming him farther into the dresser, causing the photograph to cascade beside him on the floor. "You think you're so special, don't you?" the thing snarled, baring all of Dean's teeth into a slimy smile.

"Step away from him."

Both men craned their heads simultaneously to meet a pair of sapphire eyes. Castiel loomed over the two figures, but moved even closer to the thing that was imbibing in Dean. It had its head angled in a sickening fashion, fixated on the angel with wide eyes.

Castiel dropped to his knees. "Dean?" He would have seen Dean's true visage if he wasn't running low on grace.

"Not exactly, angel. I'll give you one more hint." He stood up. His eyes flickered back to the unearthly black color, grin stretching wider across his placid cheekbones.

"Demon," he slurred, exchanging side-glances with the other Winchester.

"Bingo! Bob, tell him what his consolation prize is." He snapped his fingers, and in an instant Castiel was on the floor in a predicament similar to Sam's merely moments ago.

"Cas! You son of a bitch—" Sam hollered, heaving his stature from the ground with little strength left (he almost forgot how physically resilient demons were—sex with Ruby wasn't exactly a memory he wanted to preserve). Dean raised his right hand fisted in a tight ball and hoisted him to the wall. When Sam was high enough, he released his grip and held out five fingers in halt, pinning him in place. Sam wriggled—or tried to—out of the hold, one part of him kind of hoping right about then that he still had some demon blood still streaming through his battered veins.

"Sorry to cut your lover's per diem short," he said to no one in particular. He kept his hand raised as he approached the angel on the other side of the room. His eyes blinked back to expose his irises again. He bent down to Cas's level, a pity smile intersecting his haughty facial expression. It wasn't any more reassuring; in fact, it only made Cas churn more blood.

"Why—are you doing this?" Castiel managed through a coated throat.

Dean roared even louder. "Oh angel, I want you to see the real me when I tell you the truth."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Cas sputtered through what he hoped was his last round of blood. Dean's smile was dogged, he would give him that. He kept it even as he slithered on top of him, using his knees to straddle the weakling's hips in place.

"If only you knew, angel," he said, "you would sprint for the hills if you knew what he—what I—think about you—" he rectifiedquickly. His smile was really starting to wear on Cas, which said a lot considering that it's one of the many things that he never grew jaded of; in fact, it was the only thing that kept him from killing himself time and time again.

"I reiterate: what the hell are you talking about?" Dean's breath was tantalizing, trickling down the collar of his shirt onto the bare skin underneath. It was still warm and retained the same Dean smell—century-old whiskey and jacket leather. His eyes weren't helping either—the same jade stones that bared into his soul with the power of a thousand burning suns. But he couldn't be fooled; he knew what lie underneath those beautiful eyes; oblivion—cessation of everything they've ever worked hard to build; now nothing but a dying flame in a pile of withered ashes.

"Oh angel," Dean breathed, leaning in just close enough that his forehead barely grazed the bridge of Castiel's nose and he felt the formation of Dean's words at the base of his throbbing lip. "You're still so naïve, so oblivious to the minor details." His voice echoed through his burning throat. Not Dean's hand moved to tighten around Cas's shoulder. "He—I think that's cute." Not Dean's lips moved up, grazing his chin. The proximity was circulation-cutting.

Then a new sound echoed through the old room—a gunshot. It pierced through Not Dean's shoulder blade. Only he didn't go down; the bullet merely bounced back and popped out, like a rubber ball would off of a brick wall.

He arched his spine like wet cat and laughed sardonically; clearly the bullet was merely a tickle, and a good joke at that. He craned his head to meet his brother's hands, steady on the trigger. "Et tu Sammy?"

Cas was about to do the same with his angel blade, but Dean's fingers impeded him at Godspeed. He held the glistening object in his bruised hands. He looked directly at Cas when he said "Now this on the other hand, would have left a few scrapes..."

"Funny, I didn't know filth was immune to cherubs," Sam spat, still gripping the gun tightly.

Dean laughed a humorless laugh and lifted his own from the angel. "Ex-college boy thinks he's so smart." He turned the blade over in his hand. "No, this puppy, he won't hurt a goddamn soul... well, minus this vessel."

"What the hell are you—?"

"Yeah, yeah, 'what the hell are you talking about?' Was I really this predictable? I mean Jes-" Not Dean's mouth twitched in pain; he cut himself short. "Even if you could save me—which you can't by the way—your endeavors would be worthless. If I stab myself right now with this blade, I won't die. But Dean, the sensitive no-good-piece-of-crap Dean; he will. I'm only trying to keep my hands clean to keep up with appearances." Another cocky grin. "But if that's a problem for you, then I'd be more than happy to dirty up this suit."

"You're right."

Cas tried his best to sit up straighter—as if to help perceive Sam's intentions better—in spite of his recent injuries. He could hear Dean's thoughts as clear as day, like a telegraph to his brain. I wouldn't do that, angel. That stolen grace is running out faster than you know. "Sam..."

"You're right," he repeated, lowering the gun, "I can't compete with you; I know the consequences already if I do. How about we just forget this whole thing, Dean, (the name was like vinegar spilling from his lips) and you just relax? You've been through a lot...I owe you that much."

Flabbergasted was an understatement. Castiel stared blankly at Sam. If there was one thing that he wished he could unhear in his short time of coexistence with humans, it would have been Sam Winchester telling his demon brother that he owed him something.

Dean walked over to the dresser. Setting the angel blade down, he replaced it with the gleaming object he awoke with: the Cain blade. The veins in his arm lit up red like a Christmas tree and he drew a heavy sigh. He stared down briefly at the figure hunched in the corner.

"I've got to hand it to you, brother; you've got a whole lot of compassion." He paused to bend down and wave the Blade like a candlelight inches from Sam's face. "That's what's going to kill you in the end."

Dean began to walk out of the room—noting that he nearly punched Cas in the shoulder with his leg on the way out—when Sam called after him.

"Hey, Dean… one more thing…"

Dean turned ever so slightly to face Sam again.

"Cas, could you kindly remove that carpet piece?" Cas stared even more blankly at Sam. Sam nodded affirmatively. Cas lifted the carpet that Dean was standing on.

And there lied a Devil's trap, still fresh with the smell of red aerosol paint. Sam was now the one with a grin plastered wide across his face. He narrowed his eyes at the creature who called himself his brother. He finally collected the strength to stand, halfway at least.

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundis spiritus…"

Dean scoffed indignantly. "Are you kidding?" He shot his head to Cas. "Is he kidding?"

"Omnis satanica potestas—"

"What is this, an intervention? Sammy, we haven't had one of these since you had sex with that bitch—hmm, what was her name, Ruby?" He rolled his tongue around his lips. Nothing was happening. Not even a small flinch.

He was immune to the spell….but how?

"Good question, brother." Sam's mouth dropped. He hadn't said that aloud. "For as smart as you are, I would have thought for sure you would have figured it out." He gestured to himself with the hand holding the Blade and snapped his fingers with the other. The ground crumbled underneath Cas. They both turned to find a cleft in the upper ring of the trap. "I've been knighted."

It was all just a bad dream. At least that's what he would like to tell himself when he wakes up.

Dean couldn't be a demon, he just couldn't. He couldn't turn into something that they've been hunting since they were in training undies.

But he couldn't think of a better explanation. He had seen his eyes, bottomless pits eerily familiar to a wormhole in space. He's seen those eyes before, but somehow it was different with his brother. He didn't want to admit that he got sucked into the oblivion when he laid his own on him. He didn't want to admit that he saw a light inside Dean, like a crescent moon dying out in an obscure sky. And most of all he didn't want to admit that he was afraid.

But the picture, the one with Dean and their mom, that had to have meant something. That this thing, this darkness inside him, wasn't permanent; it couldn't be. He knew Dean—better than he knew himself. Dean may have had a dark side but he wasn't a grunt (at least not all the time), he was a genius. Dean wasn't mean, he was kind-hearted. Dean cared more about the welfare of him and Cas more than his own. He would sacrifice his life to protect them, and if that's considered being selfish, then he must be a demon too.

"You see a light at the end of this ugly-ass tunnel. I don't. But I tell you what I do know - it's that I'm gonna die with a gun in my hand. 'Cause that's what I have waiting for me - that's all I have waiting for me."

"You were right, okay? I see light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't - I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it."

Sam and Cas were standing across from each other in the library, much to either men's discomforts. Dean had left the room and supposedly the bunker completely; however, left no evidence whatsoever that he was ever there. No sulfur, no strange sounds; even the EMF levels were low. He could always do a thorough inspection of the building, but what would be the point of that? If he could leave a bunker warded up and down with demon sigils and death traps, there was no telling what he was capable of doing if Sam found him.

"I mean, I don't know, Cas. If he's a Knight of Hell, he should still be susceptible to demon traps and banishes…"

Cas leaned against the table for support. Sitting wasn't exactly an option when your lungs felt like they were about to spontaneously combust. His voice was even lower now. "I—I don't know. Cain was always the instigator of the Knights. When God exiled Cain, he nearly vaporized Eve and every living thing within a hundred yard radius."

"Good to know," Sam said dejectedly. "So what do we do?"

"I don't know, wait for the world to collapse on itself," he replied humorlessly.

Sam fumbled over his words before settling for new ones. "There isn't a spell that could get that thing out of him? What if I doped him with my blood—human blood? It worked for Crowley."

"Sam, you heard him; he's a Knight now. He's pretty damn far from a demon and just barely below the devil himself. He is Cain, Cain is Dean. He can and he will destroy you given the chance." He leaned in closer to the hunter to meet his brooding eyes. His voice remained staid, almost angry. "And I won't let that happen again. I just won't." He nearly fumbled off of the table when he removed his balancing hand. Sam caught him by the chest. He used his right hand to wrap around his shoulders, heaving him to his feet with regained strength.

"Whoa, man, take it easy." He wasn't sure if he was talking about the previous comment or bouncing off of the fact that his friend looked like death. "Alright, let's get you cleaned up before we do anything—"

"I'm fine," he replied gruffly. Blood was turning crusty around his lower lip. His neck looked like it had been through a beating. He imagined his insides looked the same.

"Yeah, get back to me on that when you can stand," Sam said. He helped him to the kitchen.

Once a safe distance (but what was safe anymore?) away from where a demon could listen in, he grabbed a dish cloth pre-wet and daubed around the more inflamed areas of his throat. Cas repressed a sigh, only because he didn't want to let Sam know that it hurt. He wrapped his hand hanging nimbly at his side on Sam's forearm that was dabbing—an indication that he was well enough to help his own self. Sam obliged, handing him the rag.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "So what was uh—what was that about?" Cas stared vacantly at him. He bit down on his own lip. "Back there, I mean, with uh—"

"I don't really care to venture that right now," Cas replied sternly. Sam couldn't read through his blank expression. He dropped it. Deafening silence hung between them for a long while. It wasn't until Cas squeezed the excess water from the towel into the sink that conversation initiated again. He looked more thoughtful.

"You said you found him with the blade by his side."

Sam nodded. "Yeah—I mean, from what I recall."

"So who put it there?"

And suddenly they were communicating without words. They exchanged enlightened stares. It hit them concurrently. One word was uttered: Crowley.

Sam led Cas to the dungeon, even though he knew perfectly where it was. In just barely over a year, the three had racked up more notable memories in the house, specifically this room. The King of Hell's imprisonment, Sam's angel expulsion, and the one that pained him the most: Dean's last days. It was still as dark as he remembered—in more ways than one.

The ring was chipped in certain places. Cas scoped the room to find items for a séance scattered haphazardly around the circle. Some were put in proper séance place. He said nothing.

Sam filled in the chalk and ignited the flame once more, praying in a low curse to the son of a bitch that put them in the current position they were in.

Crowley popped in like he was Willy Wonka handing over the golden ticket to a boy with golden ringlets and an angel boy who looked like he just lost his first puppy.

"Evening, gentlemen," he chimed. His thick English accent resounded against the hollow walls. He glanced around the room satisfactorily. "You know, I was in here for weeks and I never once thought about how sexy my voice sounds. I mean the walls just give it this real sultry sound—"

"Do something," Sam growled. His patience was wearing thinner than a thread in a thimble.

Crowley turned back to face Sam. He cocked his head curiously. "I believe I did. You asked for your brother to be revived, did you not?"

"Not like this," he pressed, jaw clenching tightly.

The King of Hell threw back his head. "I'm sorry; I don't recall you being Cinderella, because I sure as hell am not your fairy godmother. You asked for Dean; nothing else, nothing more. I didn't sprinkle pixie dust on him. I put the blade in his hand and he opened his eyes. That was his choice. I merely instilled power into his weak little body."

"You're lying."

"Am I?" Crowley tested. "Would a lying man lead a horse to Cain? Would a lying man translate a tablet word for word out of the goodness of his heart? Would a lying man tell you that he actually cared about the person he supposedly didn't do anything for?"

This made Sam's mouth part in incredulity. "What?"

Crowley sighed exasperatingly. "Look, Moose, even if I could do something—which I technically did, but you two morons tend to overlook that fact consistently—I couldn't do anything. Squirrel doesn't want anything to do with me." He exchanged glances with Cas, who was just standing in silent remorse beside Sam, and emitted a shallow chuckle. "Isn't that peculiar? You raise him from hell; he's your butt buddy. I raise him from death; he wants nothing to with me."

Cas pursed his lips; probably to retain tears brimming at the corners of his eyes. Sam's eyes narrowed pitiably at the angel. Then he became enraged—enraged at himself, at Dean (or the way he came back), at the circumstances that he's always forced into, and at the man standing before him grinning like an idiot. He took a giant step into the circle with the demon.

"No, you look," he said bitterly, barely grazing Crowley's suit pointing his slender finger, "I could give a crap less about your sob story. We all have one. The story I want to hear is the one where you fix this goddamn mess…"

Sam stopped mid-sentence as a figure flashed in-between him and Crowley.

Dean.

"Sorry to cut this short, brother. Looks like I'm going to need to borrow your demon." He shifted his gaze to Crowley, who was smirking from ear to ear.

Crowley laughed his last laugh in front of the two men. "I lied, ain't that a bitch?"

And in a flash, the room went black.

To be continued...?