A/N: Now that we've seen S10x07, Girls, Girls, Girls, this story is AU.

Bound By Blood And Bone: Part II

The one thing Dean regretted about the bunker was the dormitory-style bedrooms. He loved having crash space he could call his own, but it lacked a bathroom. Even all the skeevy motels had en suite bathrooms. So he often went padding through the corridor bare-chested and barefoot in boxer briefs in the middle of the night only half awake, hoping to return to a comatose state as soon as he hit the bed again. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't.

It was 11:00 p.m. He'd gone to bed an hour before - early for him - but sleep eluded him. He and Sam had had a good talk about truths both hard and easy, but he couldn't shut his brain down. Now he stood before the sink in the big but spartan hall bath—everything about the bunker was spartan, but that was no different from a Winchester childhood—and gazed at himself in the mirror. He'd splashed water over his face and it still slicked his flesh, dripped off his chin. He leaned against braced arms and inspected his reflection.

Gone was the pretty baby face of ten years before, when he'd arrived at Stanford to collect a reluctant brother, replaced now by a pared-to-the-bone manhood. Same jaw and nose, same clean angles and planes, but the edges showed more, and harder, even in the eyes. His brother had the market mostly cornered on the innocent look, even now, but Dean doubted he himself would ever again be able even to fake that. Dean the kid was gone. Dean the former torturer, former demon, was an entirely different animal.

Six hard weeks of more booze sucked down than ever before, hot-and-cold-running chicks, bad karaoke, a completely screwed, skewed relationship—friendship? business partnership? what the hell was it?—with Crowley, and too many mano a mano barfights with men, even very large men, who had no clue what they were up against.

Just like that kid. Cole. Trained in Special Ops, but nothing in the military prepared even a soldier to battle a demon.

It was a man who looked back at Dean. Fully human, wholly cured. Of that much, at least. A man who had seen more than most. Had lived more than all save for his younger brother, who bore his own scars.

Staring at himself, Dean quoted one of his favorite movies: "'It's not the years, honey, it's the mileage.'"

Nah. Sam was Indiana Jones. Smart, educated, overflowing with tidbits of bizarre arcane knowledge. Dean?

Dean, once, was Han Solo. These days he didn't know.

He sighed, grabbed a towel and scrubbed his face, hung cloth back over the rod. And explored, as he so often did, the raised, reddened shape on his right forearm, the symbol of murder, of fratricide.

A matter of weeks, now, since he'd intended to kill Sam, as Cain had killed Abel. One hard blow of the hammer would have done it.

But he'd missed.

The demon had missed.

A demon didn't miss.

Even Crowley had questioned. Human, he'd accused, but with the black 'peepers' of a demon.

Pick a bloody side.

The Mark of Cain, as it so often did, appeared to understand what he was thinking. And it rose up in a clamor, burning against his flesh, interfering with thought. The Mark was all impulse, all need, all insatiable demand. The First Blade had been a formidable weapon, but it was extension, not progenitor.

Even Cas said he couldn't remove the Mark. It went beyond flesh, he'd explained, was bound by blood and bone. And with his typical lack of empathy and diplomacy, he explained he didn't even know if cutting off the arm itself would change anything. But if Dean wanted to try, Cas could use his angel blade. It cauterized as it cut and Dean wouldn't bleed to death.

That had ended the conversation. Sam had been horrified, and Dean felt a little like punching out the angel for sticking that image in his head. Except that Cas wouldn't understand, and punching an angel only hurt his hand. He knew. He'd tried it a few times.

He rubbed the Mark, trying to still it.

Only a killer could bear it.

Dean didn't know at what point Sam had begun worrying about him. That it had happened, he knew, and before Metatron killed him, before he returned as demon. He could piece together memories, and concerns, and hints and questions and statements, and expressions. And the knowledge in younger eyes that the eldest, now, was worth worrying about, instead of worthy of blind trust.

The eldest, who had raised the youngest to always believe that Dean would be there, would protect him against all and everything.

Their father, consumed by obsession, was unable to. But Dean, at age four, had been given a task he never once, in all his life, put down, or turned his back upon.

But Sammy grew up. Sammy was wholly Sam, despite Dean's use of the boyhood name. At 32 he was a man now, no more the boy. And he needed nothing from Dean, except what he believed to be needed. But truly needed?—no. Sam had been on his own at Stanford; again when Dean was dead and buried, lost in hell; yet again when Dean had walked away for a year to live a normal life. There had been other partings, abbreviated moments when anger and frustration supplanted the immediacy of their bond. But always, always they returned to one another.

Even in the aftermath of the travesty that had been Dean as demon; and Sam a savior whose methods were ruthless.

What had they become?

The demon had wielded a word both of them used about others to determine, to justify, to reinforce that what they did was right: monster. Because monsters were those that must be destroyed.

'Monster' was what Dean had become, and what he had accused Sam of making himself into to find his lost brother.

They'd been to hell, both of them. Surely they would return some day, be claimed again for the sins they committed in the name of good.

Crowley would undoubtedly find it deliciously amusing when the Winchester brothers appeared on his doorstep. 'Hello, boys,' he'd say, tone built of irony, in that smoke-and-whiskey voice.

But not to Dean would it be said, not in hell, for now. Dean Winchester bore the Mark.

He wondered then, as he did so many times, if Sam realized that were his brother to die again, the Mark would resurrect him.

Would resurrect the demon.

Then again, maybe Sam did know. Maybe that was his fear, when he had on several occasions counseled time away from hunting, and why he had been reluctant to hunt the werewolves. Hell, it was Sam who'd killed the one werewolf before Dean could break the grip that stilled his own knife-wielding hand.

And it flashed into his mind's eye, what his other self had told him while he dream-walked in Bobby Singer's head to rescue the older man lost to African Dreamroot. 'I know how you look into the mirror, and hate what you see.'

Dean pushed himself off the sink. Enough thinking. Nor did he want sleep after all. He wanted himself back.

In a bar, he might find him.

# # # #

It was two steps up from a dive. Dean didn't purposely gravitate to the wrong side of town or the roughest of bars, but what he sought wasn't found in trendy upscale places, or even those catering to businessmen after work. And so this bar, tonight, suited him.

He hustled some pool, pocketed some money, stared down the two men who considered challenging him over it, and won that battle, too. Senses told him he'd been noted by others, was being watched by the bartender, plus a big guy in the back whose arms stretched the sleeves of his dark t-shirt. Bouncer, no question. But Dean started no trouble, just dropped the pool cue on the table and returned to a seat at the bar, asking for beer and whiskey chaser.

The familiar Smoke On The Water ringtone sounded as the bartender set down the mug and shot glass. Sam. Dean tossed back whiskey, swallowed some beer, then thumbed the connection open. "Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you?"

"In a bar."

"Why?"

Dean lowered the phone and briefly stared at it, contemplating the stupidity of the question. Then returned it to his ear. "I'm looking for sexy female Ph.D candidates who want to discuss philosophers Jean-Paul Sartre and Albert Camus in the midst of shooting pool and knocking back whiskey chasers. Why the hell do you think I'm in a bar?"

There was a long pause. "Did I call the wrong number? Does Dean Winchester even know who those guys are?"

"You want me to quote them? 'Cuz I can."

But Sam returned to his original topic. "Should you be there alone?"

"Uh, last time I looked I'm all grown up, Sammy. Wear long pants and everything. Even know all about sex - and yes, I always use protection."

"Dean, that's not what I mean."

"Then what is it?"

Sam didn't answer at once.

"Oh, I get it," Dean said, because suddenly he did. "Look, Crowley's not here and they don't have karaoke machine, and I don't feel like killing you anymore, so I think I'm okay."

"That's not what I meant, either. And it's not a joke, Dean."

"I don't think you know what you mean, Sammy. You're just worried. Free-floating anxiety. They can give you pills for that. And everything's a joke."

"Dean—"

"You cured me, remember? That little bit of Latin, whole lot of blood thing we did. Relax, Sam. You don't need to keep me on a leash. You don't get to keep me on a leash. Now stop worrying and go cuddle your computer. Oh, and before we go, here's a little Sartre for you: 'Only the guy who isn't rowing has time to rock the boat.' So stop rocking, already, and let me row."

Grinning, he ended the call on the beginning of yet another protest, tucked the phone into his jeans. Yup, he knew a little Sartre, a little Camus. Because he had briefly dated a sexy Ph.D candidate who knew all about them.

# # # #

Dean was on his third whiskey chaser when a man slid onto the stool to his right, and another sat down on his left. A third came up behind him. The bartender, with a slab of oak between them, nonetheless placed himself just opposite. Probably had a baseball bat or a gun down below.

Dean sighed a little, eased his body into subtle pre-movement preparedness. Maybe it was about pool after all. Some guys were just sore losers.

The man behind him spoke. Without turning Dean couldn't see him, and the bartender blocked the mirror.

"I'm a lucky guy," said the man in a husky voice. "I know people. Got a lot of government connections. And since I have your cell number, courtesy of your brother's old phone some time back, I tracked your location via GPS. Took my tech guy a little time, but you eventually popped up. And now, here we are."

Not pool, apparently. Dean didn't turn. He sat very still upon the stool and casually drank his beer. "I know you?"

The man laughed. It had a husky tone, too. "Yeah, you do. I'm not real proud of that first meeting—no, second actually -'cuz you beat the livin' crap out of me, but we're going to do things a little different this time."

Now he placed the voice, and the man. But still Dean didn't turn. "You're that kid. Ex-soldier. Cole."

"Cole Trenton. Yeah. Now Dean, you're just enjoying a quiet night in a bar and I don't think you want to make trouble in front of witnesses, so maybe you're going to be reasonable and come with me quietly."

Dean set down the beer but kept his hand around the mug. "Just where am I supposed to be going?"

Something flashed at the corner of his right eye. Dean tensed, flexed legs to rise, but it wasn't a gun, wasn't a knife. Just a pair of handcuffs tossed by Cole. They clanked against the beer mug, fell onto the bar top.

Devil's trap sigils were etched all over them.

"Yup," Cole said, "I did my research. Now put those on and come with us. The bartender's ex-military, like me. I told him all about the man who killed my father, and he'll place a call to the cops if you try anything. Otherwise, we'll just settle this privately." Cole leaned very close, speaking quietly. "Do you really want to go full-on demon in front of all these nice folks, Dean? I don't think that would be a good idea. They've got security cameras."

"Why would I want to do that," Dean asked, "when a simple bar fight will do?"

In a series of integrated, efficient movements he tossed beer into the bartender's eyes, slammed an elbow hard into Cole's solar plexus, exploded off the stool and spun, hoping to dive and roll, but Cole, an ex-soldier, had recovered quickly and stepped into him. The two men on either side gave him no opportunity. It was just enough delay that he knew he was in trouble.

Bartender did have a baseball bat, and he used it.

Dean wasn't a demon anymore, and he went down hard. He felt the cuffs close over his wrists in the last moment of consciousness, and he realized everyone would simply assume he was being busted by an undercover cop.

Crap.

# # # #

He roused to an exquisitely painful headache and incipient nausea. It took only a moment to realize he was once again imprisoned in a chair, only his captor this time was Cole, not his brother, and Cole had used police-issue zip-ties around both ankles. As before, his left wrist was roped to the chair arm, and his other wrist fastened by cuff to the right side. The posture was getting old.

Dean decided he had a love/hate relationship with abandoned buildings. They came in handy when he needed one, but not so much when he was the victim with no shot at anyone finding him.

The warehouse was empty, but smelled of solvents. Remains of broken wooden pallets leaned against walls, and old flourescent fixtures dangled from the ceiling. There was no power, but Cole had solved that problem by bringing in a couple of floodlights. By their illumination, Dean could see the devil's trap spray-painted beneath and around his wooden chair.

He contemplated whether it was an advantage to tell Cole he wasn't a demon anymore, or disadvantage. It could go either way.

Cole stood before him. Dark blond hair cropped high-and-tight, piercing blue eyes; same snug, sleeveless black shirt, same military-style khaki cargo pants, laced up boots. He gave up several inches to Dean when standing, but Dean wasn't. So the kid looked plenty tall enough from his seat in the chair. He was fit, and tough, and now he knew Dean's moves.

Dean beat him to speech even as Cole opened his mouth. "Nyack, New York, June 21st, 2003."

A muscle flexed in Cole's cheek. "So, you remember now."

"I looked it up."

Cole frowned briefly. "Looked it up?"

"You said you know all about me. Guess maybe not. Hunters keep journals, Cole. I looked it up."

Cole was visibly shocked. "You wrote about killing my father in a journal?"

"I didn't. My father did. Because I came home from that hunt pretty wrecked . . . I'd walked away from a boy who saw his father lying dead on the floor, just left him there with the body. Convinced I did it."

"You did do it. Oh, you did it, Dean. I saw you with the knife. I saw my father's blood on it."

"Not his," Dean said. "It was the monster's blood."

Cole's breath was noisy in his chest. "You bastard. You lying bastard."

One hard, close-fisted blow snapped Dean's head back. He tasted blood, spat it out. "I didn't kill your father. Look, you want to take me on for the beat-down I gave you, I figure you got that coming. But let's do it with me out of this chair."

Cole's eyes glittered. "How stupid do you think I am? I didn't know what you were then, but I sure as hell do now. You damn near took me apart outside that bar and you healed up real fast when I cut you. No, I did my homework, tracked down some hunters, learned all about demons. Here's where I inflict a little torture for the hell of it, then I exorcize you, and then we'll go a few rounds."

Dean shifted in the chair, heard it creak. "You can try," he said, "but it won't do any good. First of all, your garden variety demons possess a human vessel. You can exorcise those. But I wasn't possessed . . . and while, shock of shocks, I know it makes me sound a little on the cocky side, trust me when I say I sure as hell wasn't of the garden variety. But it doesn't matter any more. There's a cure for it. See, my brother staged a special little intervention and I went through demon rehab. I'm all human, Cole. So you can let me up from this chair and we can go all Dancing With The Stars, but without the spandex and feathers and glitter."

Cole's eyes were narrowed, watchful. "Nobody said anything about curing a demon."

"It's not widely known," Dean pointed out. "I was only the second guinea pig." The first had been Crowley, but the cure was never finished. Dean decided that wasn't worth mentioning. "Look, Cole—"

Cole cut him off. "The first thing the hunters told me was that demons lie."

"And if I were a demon, I'd be lying. But I'm not, and I'm not lying. Not about this, or anything else. I didn't kill your father. And if you want proof, you can call my brother and have him bring my dad's journal so you can read it yourself."

"I'll call your brother after we're done so he can come pick up the pieces." Cole bent, unzipped the duffle next to his feet. When he straightened, he held a silver flask. He popped the cap, draw a Marine KA-BAR knife from his waist sheath. "Holy water," he said, and poured it over the blade. "I want to time how long it takes you to heal what I'm gonna do to you."

Dean drew in a breath. "How 'bout we just start with the holy water. Because it's not going to do anything except get me wet, and that'll tell you I'm not a demon. Because you go sticking that knife into me and I'm not gonna heal any time tonight or tomorrow, and Michael Buffer will never have the chance to yell 'Let's get readyyy to rummbblllle!'"

"Nah," Cole said. "I'd rather start with the knife. I want to see you bleed the way my father bled."

And Dean realized then that when he looked at Cole, at a young ex-Marine, he saw his father. John Winchester, obsessed with finding his wife's killer. Cole Trenton, as obsessed, and who, like John, spent years tracking down his enemy. John never quit. Neither would Cole.

"Seriously?" Dean said. "You think this will solve anything? Because it won't."

"Oh, I think it will." And Cole stepped into the devil's trap.

# # # #

He got stabbed, and it hurt like hell, and he didn't heal.

"Told you," Dean gritted, with a shoulder afire. "Now let me out of this friggin' chair. Let's do this as men, you son of a bitch!"

Cole set the tip of the blade beneath Dean's jaw, snapped it sharply.

For a moment Dean felt nothing, and then the sting began. Blood ran down his neck, dripped onto his shirt. "You keep carving me up like a Christmas turkey and I'm gonna die, and you really won't like what comes back."

Cole's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Oh, I don't know. I'm kind of enjoying myself."

"Crap," Dean muttered, knowing that with his next move it was, for starters, going to hurt; and second, it might not work.

His ankles and wrists were fastened to the chair. His upper body was not. Using every bit of leverage he could find and employing as many of his 190 pounds as possible, Dean jerked forward, then slammed himself backward into the wooden chair, tipped it hard, and smashed it and himself down against cement floor.

He heard Cole's blurt of surprise, but he was too busy trying to disentangle himself from the broken chair to pay attention.

No time. No time.

Cole was on him. One hand grabbed fistfuls of shirt, dragged him partway up from the floor. Dean knew the KA-BAR was in the other hand. He jerked his leg hard, slid one zip-tie off the leg of the chair, used the freed leg to deliver a desperate booted kick against Cole's thigh. The soldier staggered back, and Dean used the brief respite to jerk his other leg free.

His left wrist was still tied to the chair, but that wooden arm was broken and it took only a little effort to yank his wrist free of loosening ropes. The right was more problematical because of the handcuff. He didn't have time to figure out of he could slide the one cuff free of the chair arm, and he had nothing with which to unlock the cuff around his wrist.

Go with it. Just go with it.

Cole closed again. He was a trained and fit soldier who'd been taught how to kill men with a variety of weapons. Dean was a street fighter who was equally fit - someone who had, as he'd once told another soldier, served in hell - and knew how to fight dirty. Dirtier, maybe, than anyone else, because he specialized not in men, but monsters.

It was hard-fought, difficult, painful. By the end of it Dean bore a knife slash along an arm, had a nick under one ear, and his shoulder wound was bleeding again. Cole, too, was battered and bloodied, and at this particular moment had a KA-BAR knife standing up from ribs. He hadn't counted on losing the weapon to Dean, but Dean had very much counted on getting it. It took longer than he hoped, cost him more blood than expected, but he got it done.

Cole was sprawled on his back, breathing shallowly. One hand was wrapped around the blade where it entered his body. Blood stained his shirt, was smeared across his face. He was dazed, pale, sweaty, and he clearly expected to die.

Dean wasn't going to let him. Regardless of what Cole wanted with him, he'd served his country. Just like John Winchester.

He sat next to the wounded soldier, finally able to work the length of chair arm out of the handcuff. His head hurt like hell and he wanted to throw up, but the latter would make his headache worse. So he sat there panting, concentrating on things other than stab wounds and head blows.

"Listen, kid . . . I didn't kill your father. And I'm not a demon. I'm just—me. Tryin' to be the best I can be, all Army commercial-like. But if you come after me again, well . . . no promises. All bets are off. But we've gone two dances now, and I've won both—juiced, and unjuiced—so why don't we just end the whole Hatfield and McCoy thing now, okay? Oh, and a couple of those taps were payback for what you did to my brother. See, nobody puts Sammy in the corner."

No answer was forthcoming. Cole seemed on the verge of passing out.

Dean found that concept tempting. But the Mark wouldn't let him. It burned upon flesh, ached within bone. It was hungry, the Mark. He hadn't fed it, hadn't sated it, to use Crowley's word. And it was angry because of that.

As he pulled his phone from a pocket, Dean muttered, "You're not gonna win, you bastard."

Blood dripped into one eye. He could barely see the phone to dial 911.

"Dean! Dean!"

He looked up, saw his brother approaching at a run. Now that he had time to think about such things, he realized he felt strange. Blood loss, concussion. It was difficult to focus. "Hey Sammy—where the hell are we? Where is this place?"

"Holy crap, Dean—are you okay?" Sam skidded to a halt, knelt down, reached out. "You're bleeding."

"Where is this place? What are the cross streets?"

"Uh, Fifth and Main. Dean—"

"Hang on . . ." Squinting, he keyed in the three numerals, told the 911 dispatcher to come collect a stabbing victim at a warehouse at Fifth and Main. Then he turned off his phone, suggested his brother help him to his feet. But carefully.

Sam did so. Very carefully. Checked the barely-oozing slash along Dean's arm, folded a clean bandanna against the shoulder wound. "He's not dead?"

"No. Now let's get out of here before the paramedics arrive."

"Don't you want to wait for them?"

"Not for me, Sammy. For him." With Sam's hand around his bicep he kept himself on his feet, managed to walk.

"Dean—"

"I'll be fine, Sam. And don't tell me: GPS in my phone led you here?"

"I called three times . . . when you didn't answer, I opted to track you."

Dean sighed. "Maybe I am on a leash." At the warehouse door, he paused, glanced back at Cole lying in the pool of artificial light. "You know, Sam, I can't blame the guy. Not really. He's just like Dad. Wants his revenge."

"With one big difference!" Sam declared, affronted. "He's wrong about what killed his father."

He was too tired and sore to argue it further. "Yeah. But he'll never believe it." Dean eased himself into motion again. In the distance he heard a siren. Darkness was fading, giving way to dawn. "Called me three times, huh?"

Sam didn't shirk it. "I was worried."

"But not about anything like me getting jumped in a bar. More like me jumping someone else."

Sam's hand tightened as he steadied his brother's steps. "Maybe we should go to a clinic, or something. You're pretty wobbly."

"Sammy, I'll be fine. But you gotta learn to let me go." And then realized what he'd said, how inadvertently he conjured before them both the memory of his note, the printed command made by someone no longer human: SAMMY LET ME GO. "Crap," he said, and stopped.

Sam no longer prevaricated. "Yes. I'm worried about the Mark. Cas warned it's going to be an issue."

"I didn't kill the kid, Sam. Oh, the Mark wanted it. Needed it. But you've been through this with detoxing from demon blood. It takes time, and it takes sweat, and it's a hell all its own. But I saw you through it, and you'll see me through this. Right?"

Sam's heart was in voice. "Always," he declared. "Any time. Every time, Dean."

Dean nodded, light-headed. "And one more thing: 'Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal'." He smiled triumphantly, forced himself into motion again. "That's a little Camus for you, Sammy."

"Backatcha," Sam said. "'What is a rebel? A man who says no.' Well, when the Mark gets hungry, Dean, you just keep saying no."

"Uncle!" Dean blurted, underscoring surrender with an upraised hand. "I yield, okay? You win. I'm fresh out of quotes. You probably know them all, you assbutt college boy."

"'Everything has been figured out, except how to live.' Sartre, Dean."

In the first pale kindling of dawn, Dean scowled up at his brother. "Bitch."

And Sam said, "Jerk."

~ end ~

A/N: Ironically, there are many quotes from Sartre and Camus that apply to the Winchesters!