The thrill of the kill is a new experience every single time you experience it. Dean Winchester knows this all too well. His grip is tight on the blade, knuckles white (maybe a little too tight), stabbing repeatedly into the fresh corpse of his newly defeated opponent, Abaddon, fury roaring in his ears, the sound of flesh tearing, of bones crunching, and then-
Sam. His brother.
Of course he had to butt in, snapping him out of his rage-misted, blood-filled trance, pulling his mind from the bloodlust that threatens to drown them all, paint the walls with crimson, flood the room with lifeblood until the only thing he can taste is the coppery fluid, pouring out, gushing like a fountain, flowing like a river, staining his hands-
His hands. They're stained with blood (that bitch Abaddon's blood), one hand still holding tightly onto the blade.
Sam tells him to drop it. He tells him that it's fine (it's not, he wants to kill-needs to kill, to feed this bloodlust but-) and they face Crowley, who's the next biggest threat. They talk, even though every nerve of his body-every single one-wants Dean to snatch the blade, and tear savagely into the demonic king of Hell
He doesn't. It takes a lot of self control, but he doesn't.
The blade makes him feel calm. It makes him feel whole again, even though he knows that he is broken beyond repair. When Sam suggests they hide it, he recoils internally, rebutting this instantly, blocking even the possibility of this happening.
"No."
There's no problem in using the blade.
The bloodlust has always been a part of him, ever since he started the hunt. When you decapitate a vamp, blood spills out of its neck. When you shoot a werewolf, blood cascades from its chest. Even the monsters that don't bleed give you the rush of the kill, the murder high.
His first kill was a shock-firsts always are. The thrill of taking down a supernatural creature is much like alcohol, cigarettes, drugs and the like. The first sip, the first drag, the first injection, the first kill, until you get used to it.
Dean has been taking it since he shot that werewolf, shooting, stabbing, burning all the monsters that stand in his way.
This isn't all that different.
He can't sleep. The bloodlust, the anger-it keeps him awake.
Sam snoozes on, completely worn out from the day's events, but Dean can't put his thoughts away long enough to rest.
The urge to kill rises. There are so many more big bads to kill. Crowley, for example. He should have offed the buy when he had the chance, but instead they had let him go, along with his temporally displaced son, who should have died. He'd heard that Bobby had even summoned the guy's ghost. The king of Hell was messing with some seriously deep shit. There were also the times that he manipulated them, tricked the Winchesters into doing what he wanted. Dean hates the feeling. He'd already been messed with enough by the angels during the apocalypse business, and really didn't need any more.
There's also Metatron, the asshat of an angel who booted all of the angels from Heaven. Oh, that son of a bitch. He'd love to just grab the blade and force it between his ribs, tearing through, just like he did with Abaddon. The dick thought he could mess with the Winchesters, and Castiel-no matter how Dean acted, Cas was still family-was manipulated, just like he'd been.
It somewhat paralleled Sam's thing with Ruby. The two had both trusted the usual enemy, were manipulated, and ended up in more trouble than they started with. They'd already stuck the demon bitch, so why can't he do the same with Metatron, dickbag supreme?
It's always been there, his mind calling for blood, baying like the hellhounds that tore him to pieces before dragging him into the Pit, only now, the urge is stronger. Dean puts it off to having too many enemies to off, but it's nagging constantly. Pick up the blade. It would be so easy. It's only in the other room.
The voice in the back of his head burns, sometimes a small flame like the one on his lighter, other times a raging inferno much like the ones that killed his mother and Jessica, or the satisfactory fire set by a successful salt and burn. It doesn't threaten to take control, unlike the archangels Michael and Lucifer, who sent their men to force the brothers to comply. Instead, it simply urges for him to let go, to give up self control, to let the rage have free reign over his body. He could just open the door, walk to the table, unwrap the cloth and-
No. The thought jerks him out, startling pain in his head sharp like the knives Alastair loved so much, like the meathooks that slowly tore him apart while the head torturer examined him like a lab rat, as if he were deciding how to start his cruel and inhumane experiments.
The voice is relentless, and Dean only relaxes when Cas calls him about an angel issue that just came up.
It doesn't stop the mark from working it's magic, doesn't make the blade shut up and stop singing to him like a fucking siren from Greek mythology, and even though he's got a job to do and means to to it well, Dean can't help but let loose sometimes. Sure, he threatened Flagstaff, the angel with an eighteen syllable long name (he's still sure that she made that up), and maybe he let Tessa see the First Blade so she could commit suicide on it, and maybe he insulted Castiel's now ex-army a little bit, but it was like releasing pressure from a pump. As the pressure built up, he slowly let it out, with fits of rage and violence, rather than the carnage and destruction that would bring release.
Even though Tessa killed herself, the feel of her dying on the blade in his hand made him feel like a god, better than any orgasm, better than the feel of a successful hunt, even better than eating a full pie without being interrupted by one thing or another.
Dean wants it. He needs it. It's like when he used to drink; he could barely function without a swig now and then.
Sam tells him off. Dean retorts that it isn't a team effort. Sure, they used to be 'Team Free Will', (seriously, what was he thinking?) but now, Dean has the power. He gets to call the shots, take out the big bads, and so 'Ex-Blood Junkie' and 'Mr. Comatose' (who's no longer passed out) are gonna have to listen to him.
When Gadreel shows up, his instincts instantly tell him to take out the blade, and sink it deep in the angel's abdomen. When Gadreel makes his peace offering, Dean almost wants to throw him into the wall and beat the shit out of him. When he walks over to Gadreel as if to shake hands, he can't help but whip out the blade, and viciously slash at his chest. He can see the grace leaking out of the wound, glowing a brilliant white, and moves to strike again.
Sam and Castiel hold him back, but Dean struggles. He needs to stab the guy, watch the blood trickle out, see the flash of grace as he takes his dying breath, but no. He wants to howl in frustration, but instead he snarls threateningly, rage clouding over his senses.