Author's Note: So, it's been a while since I've written anything in my leisure. Critiques are always welcome and appreciated. Rated M for further chapters. The following chapters will also be longer, this is merely a prologue. I plan to finish this story before the premiere of season 10, because by then this will all be irrelevant.
Summary: Dean struggles with being a demon. The lines have become blurry. New desires have arisen—or perhaps they were there all along; no longer suppressed.Onesided?Wincest
"See what I see, feel what I feel," Crowley commands the presumed-lifeless Dean lying on the bed. With a smirk he turns to be greeted by Dean's freshly-black eyes.
Dean blinks but his vision is… different. He can't seem to focus, but he can make out enough to know he is within his room at the bunker. His eyes land on Crowley's face and for a moment he could swear he's seeing into Crowley's damn pores. He widens his black eyes and blinks several times, starring confusedly at Crowley until he is able to focus normally upon his face.
An unimpressed Crowley rolls his eyes in response. "Oh, Dean," he sighs. Snapping his fingers, he whispers, "Snap out of it."
Dean blinks once more to reveal his hazel eyes which glint under the fluorescent lights. He's staring at Crowley for a moment before his eyes start darting about the room, his mouth agape. He looks to his hands, and spreads his fingers in a mix of amazement and confusion. "I was dead," he states bluntly, looking back to Crowley. "What the fuck did you do?" he practically sneers, noting Sam's absence worriedly.
Crowley chuckles that condescending chuckle of his. "Oh, me? I didn't do anything."
Dean's heart drops, but his exterior remains firm. "Where's Sammy?" he shouts, throwing his legs off the bed. He's at Crowley's throat before the devil can react. Then a voice comes from down the hall.
"Dean?" It's faint, but most definitely Sam.
"Sam!" Dean shouts back, flooded with relief. He takes his hands off Crowley, but does so watchfully.
Crowley can see the question behind the Winchester's eyes. "Everything comes with a price, Dean," he says calmly, watching as the boy's eyes narrow even further. Dean's gaze breaks when Sam enters the room.
Sam stops in his tracks to see Dean is once more alive and standing right in front of him. And a certain King of Hell is standing just beside the entrance. "Dean, wh—"
"Moose, please," Crowley interrupts. "It's been taken care of." He casts Dean an almost smug look.
"But I was about to—"
"Summon me?" Crowley inquires sarcastically. "Yes, I know."
Now it's Dean's turn to pipe up. "Crowley, you just said you 'didn't do anything.'" Dean makes a point to emphasize his tone with air quotes.
Crowley shifts slightly, breaking eye contact as if to think about his next words. Or, perhaps it's just for dramatic pause. "Oh, I suppose I played a part in it."
The brothers' eyes meet concernedly for a moment. "What the hell is that is that supposed to mean?" Dean asks, now glowering at the man.
Crowley smirks back at him. "Why don't you take a look at that arm of yours?"
Dean's eyes widen as he pulls his sleeve up to reveal a bare arm. The mark of Cain was missing.
"So, what, the mark just revived him?" Sam questions skeptically, still standing in the door frame.
"I'll let you two calm down a bit before the storm," Crowley responds dismissively. "Be in touch."
And just like that, the arch-demon vanishes. Dean begins yelling frantically for the asshole—among other obscenities—to come back and explain what had happened. Anger courses through his veins in a way he's never felt before. And he's been damn mad. He's been madder than mad. Like when Sam took off for college? Mad. When his own brother, who he would forever die for, didn't rescue him from purgatory? Fucking furious. Now? There weren't words to describe his utter frustration with Crowley.
He hardly notices as Sam approaches him until he feels a hand on his shoulder. Lightly, at first. Then the grip tightens and Dean can't control himself. "What!" he shouts at Sam. The look Sam gives him cools Dean immediately, like water to a fire. "I don't know what came over me, Sam," he says apologetically.
Sam nods, but there are evident tears welling up in his eyes.
"Oh, come on, Sam," Dean sighs. He hates it when his brother cries, especially when it's his fault.
"Dean, I thought you were dead," Sam states blatantly. "You can yell at me all damn day and you know what? I'm okay with that, because you're alive." As an afterthought, he adds, "I don't know how, but you're alive."
Dean can't help but smile. And boy, did he try to contain it. Sam pulls him into an embrace and Dean awkwardly returns it. Dean had never been a fan of chick-flicky moments, especially with Sam. As much as he loved the man, it just didn't feel right. At least, that's what he told himself. Come on, he's a man! He had to have some dignity. Right?
It had never occurred to Dean just how delicate Sam felt in his arms. And he was the smaller of the two. Just a tad shorter, really, though they had an implicit agreement between them to never speak of such things. Dean also notices just how great Sam smells. In fact, he could smell a whole lot better now. It must have been his sinuses. Perhaps death had a way of fixing his olfactory senses. But Sam… even dirtied and probably in need of a shower, has a signature scent about him. Dean starts to feel dizzy when Sam releases him.
"Hey, uh, how about we just stay in tonight?" Sam propositions. "I mean, now that things are back to normal and all. Cas back in heaven, Crowley probably back in hell," he pauses, still upset with the damn demon. "We could watch more Game of Thrones. And I'll grab dinner."
Dean shakes his head but his smile betrays him. "A night off would be nice."
Dean is sitting on the couch, already watching Game of Thrones, when Sam returns with the food as promised. "What the hell, Dean?" says Sam as he enters the room to the scandalous scene. "You agreed to wait until I got back!"
Dean continues to stare at the TV unapologetically. "You've already read the damn books, Sam!" he shouts back.
Sam purses his lips. "You're right. And I can tell you anything that happens," Sam threatens.
If there's one thing in this world Dean can't stand, it's spoilers. Actually… there might be a few more things on that list, the top of which being Crowley at this very moment. "Goddamnit, Sam," Dean groans, defeated. He pauses the show. "We can rewind it."
Sam thinks better of it and shakes his head. "Actually, Dean, it doesn't matter. Here," he says, handing Dean his goodie bag containing all of his favorites. A burger, fries, and cherry pie.
"You got me a whole pie?" Dean asks incredulously.
Sam just shrugs, tossing him a beer. "Press play."
Somehow, the taste of that meal lingers in Dean's mouth. He also, ashamedly, ate the whole pie. And yet, he doesn't feel full. In fact, his appetite is quite voracious. More so than usual, that is.
The episode is drawing to a close and Dean shakes his head. "Are all of the good characters going to die?" he asks, to which he gets no response. Sure it was a rhetorical question, but Sam could at least grunt in acknowledgment—just no spoilers. Dean turns to find a sleeping Sam. "Ah," he says to himself. He must have fallen asleep during the last episode. Dean could have sworn Sam was awake for the previous one, or perhaps Dean had been far too enthralled by the show to be bothered. He is tempted to finish out the season with only two episodes remaining, but instead turns the television off.
The clock reads 2:07. No wonder Sam was so tired. Meanwhile, it occurs to Dean that he doesn't feel fatigued in the slightest. He dismisses the thought, however, as he realizes he had just spent a little time dead. No big deal, right? You don't get much deeper sleep than that. His thoughts begin to spiral downward as Dean recalls perfectly the pain of actually dying—to have been stabbed by an angel's blade. Most had the luxury of experiencing death only once, but the Winchesters? Oh, no. Is this what Sam had meant when he said he'd wished Dean had let him die?
Dean shakes it off and begins tidying up in an attempt to distract himself. His worries manage to follow him into the kitchen, however. As much as he wills them away, he can't stop thinking about the pain. Dean unbuttons his shirt to check if there is a wound. He finds a jagged scar but nothing more. He wonders for a moment just how long he'd been out. How could it have healed so quickly? He remembers the disappearance of Cain's mark. One scar fades to make way for a new one, or so it had always been for Dean.
With a sigh, Dean leans against the marble counter top, folding his arms. So, why was he alive anyway? What did Crowley mean when he said he'd 'played a part'? None of it made sense. Unless Sam was lying to him. God knows Dean would've done the same for Sam. Or perhaps…
"Cas?" Dean whispers. Castiel had raised him from perdition once, perhaps he'd done it again. However, unlike last time, Dean had no recollection of hell—and no scorching hand print on his shoulder. According to Sam, all was right again. Er, normal, at least. So, in the event that Castiel were to take out Metatron, he could do anything, right? Maybe he erased his memories, too. "Cas! I hope you're hearing me, because goddamnit I need answers!" Dean shouts. For a moment, there is only silence and Dean's sheer hope that his angel will appear.
The silence persists. "Fuck…" Dean mutters. Turning now to face the counter, he slams a fist down out of rage. The marble buckles beneath the force of the blow, sending cracks which span a few solid feet. There's a clear dent in the surface. Dean's eyes widen in a mix of shock and horror—blinking several times to establish that this had in fact happened. There was no way Dean possessed that kind of strength. Scanning the room, however, there was no way it had been anything else either. The lack of pain in his hand was also a large concern. No human had that kind of strength… Then it hits him.
He's no longer human.