A gift for broompeople for thefic/art exchange on spn_j2_xmas. It was intended to meet a like of dark, twisted fic with gore. With maybe a dash of "boys as any sort of creature…" sort of.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: swearing and gore.
Beta: The kind and lovely tifaching. Any and all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: Sadly the boys and the world of the Winchesters does not belong to me. No profit, no gain...I am just here to dole out pain.

Summary: Sometime after Sam ganked Alastair in Head of a Pin, Dean meets another old and unwelcome acquaintance from the Pit. Being on Hell's most wanted list is becoming very tedious.

Battleships

We're battleships, driftin' in an alley river
Takin' hits, sinking it's now or never
Overboard, drownin' in a sea of love and hate but it's too late
Battleship down

Travis

quod erat demonstradum. Q.E.D. – what was to be proven, has been proven

Maybe he should have been more wary. Should have realised it was a trap.

Scratch that. He knew for certain he'd been the biggest kind of dumbass, and there was no maybe about it. But by the time realisation dawned, it was too late and the demons plural -because those bastards loved to tag team - had him pinned, helpless, splayed like a butterfly in an entomologist's prized collection, up against the warehouse wall. Dean had a sinking feeling of déjà vu when his booted feet slid off the floor and his back scraped painfully on the rough concrete as he made his involuntary progress towards the ceiling. He wished he'd worn his leather jacket that morning, as his layered shirts rucked up and skin tore.

The pretty girl whose screams for help had lured him in – yeah, yeah, he really was that much of a sucker for a damsel in distress - gestured with one slim fingered hand and closed off his windpipe before he could even utter one word of the witty, sarcastic comment he had prepared in his head. A few more minutes of this pressure and his vision would blur and consciousness would escape him and that, he thought wryly, might not be such a bad thing. At least then he would finally be free of fighting Lilith's fucking apocalypse, and trying to keep the dick-angels and bastard demons off their backs.

Pity he wouldn't get a chance to say goodbye to Sam though, or Bobby.

Even as these fatalistic musings crossed his mind, the girl stepped forward, smiling. Strike that. She wasn't a girl any more, she was a fucking demon. He wondered for a second if there was a human being still alive in there, before he felt the suffocating pressure on his throat ease, just a little, to allow a trickle of air into his starved lungs. His body betrayed him by desperately taking that offered gulp of air, followed by another, and his sparking vision cleared.

"Dean, Dean, Dean," she purred, and his skin crawled in atavistic recognition of those tones. "I hope you do remember me…we were such buddies back in the good old days in Lucifer's kitchen. You humans have such fragile, short memories, I was afraid you might have forgotten."

With breath came the power of speech, so Dean was able to choke out a reply. Though it wasn't as cutting as he might have hoped, it was the best he could manage to squeeze out, past the rage and cold fear that was rising up from the pit of his stomach. A fear that threatened to strangle him as well as any demon could manage.

"Oh great, another Alastair wannabe from the pit. Gotta say, you're a hell of a lot prettier than anything I saw down there." He swallowed bile and continued defiantly. "So no, I don't recognise you, don't flatter yourself."

The demon's eyes rolled white and Dean fought hard to repress a shudder, as he was very much afraid that he did recognise this demon, though he really, really didn't want to. Memories of Hell were clamouring to be set free of the walls he had carefully built around them. He hadn't felt them this close to bursting out for a long while, at least not while he was awake, and he could feel his heart racing with the effort of keeping them locked down.

The young woman pressed her slender stolen body against his groin where he was suspended in mid air, and slid a small cold hand up his torso under his t-shirt. The air of innocence on the heart shaped face tilted up to him was totally negated by the blank stare of those white eyes. Just like Lilith. And Alastair. His skin crawled as sense-memory reminded him of Hell Hounds' tearing teeth, flashing knives.

"Oh but I think you do remember, don't you, Dean? How I used to make you scream and cry out for mercy, over and over…how Alastair used to let me touch you while he was fucking you, and how you used to beg so prettily and come apart just for me…."

Dean groaned silently at his powerlessness in the face of those memories. The demon's smile grew wide as it read the truth in his eyes, wider still when he hissed its name, anguished reluctance written all over his face.

"Leraye," he said, then bit his tongue bloody to stop himself saying anything more damaging.

"Mmm, that's right. Good boy. So nice to have this chance to become reacquainted, don't you think? I did feel that I had unfinished business with you, Dean, after you stepped off the rack and became somewhat less – accommodating. Torturing other dull souls was just not the same…"

Leraye stepped back from the young hunter. It turned away and gestured peremptorily to its minions.

"Strip him. These Winchesters carry so many hidden weapons; I want him naked, and searched thoroughly. Leave nothing on his body but hair and skin."

The demon turned back to Dean, waved at him.

"You see how generous I am; I rarely left you that much covering you in the pit, did I?" She put a finger to her host's pink lips, musing. "Mmmm, how delicious you looked when I held strips of your skin, all bloody in my hands. Fed them to you, piece by piece."

"What is it with you demons and the monologuing? Don't you ever shut the fuck up?"

Dean closed his eyes to block out the annoying sight of the demon's smug smile. He found it harder to ignore the indignity of Leraye's hench-demons tearing off his clothes, or to shut out their satisfied noises as they found and stripped him of all his weapons one by one - his guns and hex bags, knives and amulets. They unstrapped his wrist sheath; cut off his boots and jeans "Hey, those were my best Levi's, you fuckers!" They ripped off his button down and t-shirt, and even wrenched the silver ring off his finger. He was hard put not to show how much it pained him when his amulet was added into the pathetic heap that now contained some of Dean Winchester's most cherished possessions.

He tried not to shiver as the cold air caressed his bare skin, tried desperately not to feel as vulnerable as he clearly was, hanging on the wall like some modern art installation, legs and arms akimbo, unable to move.

He thought that things couldn't get much worse, but he was wrong. There was something he had forgotten, one last defence that had yet to be broken, but was now exposed to the hostile gaze of his enemy.

The anti-possession tattoo.

Leraye was frowning now as it approached the naked hunter. With a single glance, it dragged his body lower on the wall, and he grimaced at the fresh grazes the concrete abraded into his bare shoulders and buttocks. When he was within easy reach, it stretched out one hand and touched his chest.

"What is this?"

Dean just glared at it. Like he was going to give a demon chapter and verse on stripping him even more naked. Not that silence was going to help him now, any more than defiance would, and he could see that Leraye knew it as well as he did.

"Mute all of a sudden, are we? Well, let's see if I can guess. Those hex bags were required to conceal you from us…" Leraye ran a single finger over the handprint scar on his shoulder, "And there is some kind of presence embedded in this angel's handprint too…mmm, maybe I will explore that a little later."

The demon placed its hand possessively back over the blackish-blue ink of the tattoo.

"But this; now this is just nasty, Dean. Selfish."

Dean couldn't help flinching as Leraye dug the host's sharp nails deep into his pectoral muscle and began to tear down his flesh; more from the fact that ruining the tattoo would render its protection worthless, than from the stinging pain. After all, as the current form of the Great Marquis of Hell and commander of thirty legions of demons had just been at pains to remind him, he'd endured far worse pain in the pit.

He turned his head away from the bloody ruin the demon was making of his chest and tried not to think about the inevitable, but Leraye droned on and on, not even allowing him the few brief moments he had left to himself.

As himself.

"There now, that's better." Leraye said as it stepped back from Dean's ruined chest. "No more barriers between us, eh, Dean? And you always did look so much more attractive in red."

The demon gripped his face in its bloodstained hand, forcing him to look into its borrowed face. Leraye nodded with satisfaction as it gazed deep into Dean's furious eyes, probing its way past the surface anger to expose the deep fear he was hiding beneath. Satisfied, Leraye took a moment to lean down and gently taste the fresh blood trickling from his open wounds before lifting its head back up level with the young hunter, so its blood smeared lips were touching his. The demon's breath smelt of burnt metal and sulphur.

"Oh yes, so much more appetizing now you have been touched by an angel. I mean, someone like me would never get offered the chance to sample the delights of playing with a real saviour in the pit, but you, you are the next best thing. Simply delicious."

In spite of all his efforts, he could hear his breathing quickening, and with shame deeper than his fear, he felt his limbs trembling. The Marquis of Hell was formidable, but there was no excuse for the quivering terror that was filling him even as the demon grasped his face tighter, forcing his mouth open in preparation. Such weakness was unforgivable.

Thick oily black smoke began to gather in Leraye's host's pretty mouth, then without any further ado, the dark viscous column emerged from its human prison and plunged viciously between Dean's parted lips. He choked, gagged, unable to breathe; then all thoughts of breathing vanished as Leraye's foul presence began to establish itself, chasing Dean Winchester into the darkest depths of his own psyche, overwhelming him with a dirty, muck-filled tsunami. He was drowning in a cold bitter sea of hate and evil.

Blackness chased and surrounded him, filling every nook and cranny until finally it swallowed him entirely. He surrendered to oblivion with a kind of relief.

0x0x0x0

Dean didn't know how long it was before awareness was returned to him. He had no way of measuring anything, trapped as he was in the deepest recesses of his mind, cut off from all his senses. He was blind, deaf, and dumb. He felt no sensation other than despair, had access to nothing but his memories, could taste nothing but his own fear. Leraye had swallowed Dean's breath, stolen his heartbeat and his life, locked him away from his whole being and left him, for the first time in all his years, completely and utterly alone. Even in Hell, there had always been someone watching him. His thoughts, which were all that he had left, fluttered like trapped moths, desperate and incoherent.

Everything stilled when a light appeared and he realised that Leraye was allowing him access to his body again. He was overwhelmed once more, this time by a heady rush as sensation returned. He could feel his limbs, his fingers moving, realised he was touching something warm and soft and quivering. He could hear – whimpering. Then his sight returned and his trapped self was suddenly able to put the pieces together, and promptly wished he hadn't.

They were still in the warehouse, so perhaps not much time had elapsed at all. Leraye's previous host, the young girl, was still there, her body vacated by the demon but still alive. With horror Dean realised it was her flesh he had felt under his fingertips as he had been brought back to his body, that Leraye was using his hands, his knife – oh God – the demon was using him to brutally torture the girl. He could hear his own voice giving a running commentary while the girl whimpered then cried out despairingly as her guts spilled out slippery and hot over his fingers. Leraye was holding them up for her to see.

Even as the sick realisation washed over him, the demon started talking to him in obscenely conversational tones.

"Ah, you are back with me then, Dean? Didn't think you would want to miss all the fun. So responsive, these virgin souls, aren't they? So pretty when they are all open and vulnerable like this…"

You sick fuck…

"I'm a demon, Dean, what do you expect? And you know I have done worse to you, back in the good old days. Don't say you never thought how you'd like to do this too, because I know better, Dean. For one, I am right here, in your angsty little noggin – and yes, I know Alastair called it that – I can see all your memories, I know exactly how you feel about everything. I know everything you ever did, in Hell and out of it. You have no secrets from me Dean. Not anymore."

As Leraye was speaking, he allowed the girl's entrails to slither to the floor, freeing up a hand to thrust inside the gaping bloody hole and grasp her still beating heart. The Marquis of Hell suddenly allowed Dean full access to all physical sensations just as his fingers closed around the throbbing organ and tore it out of her chest. Dean gasped and shuddered in horror. He had never felt this dirty, not even when he had climbed off Alastair's rack for the very first time, and picked up that razor. Tears filled his eyes briefly, then Leraye wrested back complete control, and those bitter tears went unshed. Helpless, Dean could only observe while Leraye dropped the heart back onto the remains of the unfortunate girl with a sickening splat - shit he didn't even know her name - and casually wiped Dean's hands clean on the hem of her soiled dress. Now Dean could see the victim's dead face clearly, bereft of the gloss of confident arrogance that the demon possession had given her, he thought with a pang that she had been a lot younger than he had thought, maybe only sixteen or seventeen. If he could have, he would have thrown up, violently, at that. But all he had was the memory of bile on his tongue, and that was bitter enough.

He remained awake, a spectator. He was compelled to watch while the demon moved his body around, used his mouth to mock the shattered girl, give orders to his minions. The lesser demons dressed him in one of their compatriot's reluctantly donated clothing, as most of Dean's own gear was shredded beyond repair. He flinched inwardly as the amulet was hung once again around his neck. In some ways that felt even more of a violation than anything else.

"You are thinking your brother or maybe your pet angel will come to your rescue, aren't you? Well you can give up that hope right away, Dean. That supercilious chicken-feathered Castiel doesn't care about you. He is too busy following Heaven's orders to be concerned about a mere human, especially one as soiled and broken as you." Leraye moved Dean's hand to place it over his aching chest, allowed him momentarily to feel the warmth of his own hand pressed over the makeshift dressing that now covered his shredded tattoo.

Dean's sense of touch switched off abruptly. Once again sensations were restricted solely to sight and hearing, but he could tell that Leraye was stretching his lips into a smile. He could detect the grin from the tones of his own voice. It was disturbing in the extreme. He wondered if Sam had been this aware when Meg had possessed him; or Dad, when the Yellow Eyed Demon had forced John Winchester to torture his own sons.

Leraye continued a running commentary, sometimes out loud, sometimes just for Dean in the privacy of his own head, as it casually tucked his dick away into the borrowed jeans and buttoned them up.

"As for Sammy, you can stop worrying about him, because we are going to pay your little brother a visit in person. That's the only reason you are still alive – well, that, and the fact I just love your sexy body, and can't wait to use it again. Maybe we could see how Sammy likes to take it up the ass, eh? Bet he's nice and tight…like you were before Hell, Dean."

You lay one finger on my brother, you fucker and I'll….

Dean couldn't help the massive surge of rage at the demon's words, and was frustrated when Leraye's only reaction was a huge guffaw of laughter. Using his throat and breath.

"You'll just sit back and enjoy the ride, Dean. That's what you'll do." Leraye mocked. "But for now, you can take a little nap. I've got work to do."

And just like that, the lights and sound went out and Dean was lost in the sensory deprivation floatation tank again, with nothing but his own desperation for company.

And this time the not knowing what was happening outside was ten times worse.

0x0x0x0

Between ten o'clock, when he'd left Dean in the bar still enjoying the pool match that was winning them their spending money for the week, and one thirty am, when Sam finished his research and realised Dean had not materialised, Sam had been too engrossed to notice his brother's tardiness. Now, realising the time, Sam was a little concerned. It was not unknown for the older Winchester to get himself into sticky situations on occasions when the locals realised how much money they had just lost to the charming drifter. Even Dean's easy allure had been known to fail every now and then; and while the elder Winchester was well able to look after himself in a fight, Sam would have felt more comfortable had he been there to watch his brother's back if necessary. Dean seemed to need so much more looking after, these days.

Especially since Hell.

In fact, Sam was now wondering why he hadn't stayed in the bar with his obstinate brother. What had made him decide to leave without Dean? He couldn't remember, and that was disturbing in itself. This frigging Lilith crap was really messing with his head.

He snapped the laptop closed and looked at the clock again, frowning. That bar had not been a late night joint, and Dean really should have been back by now. He had just decided to throw on a jacket and go out in search of his errant sibling when he heard the key rattling in the lock. He dropped the jacket back over the chair with relief as Dean walked in. Well, more like swaggered, really; the reason for all that bravado clinging to his brother's leather clad arm, giggling hysterically at some throw away remark.

"Where the hell have you been, Dean?" Sam blurted out, his relief instantly replaced with a rush of righteous anger. The blonde airhead Dean was wearing on his arm recoiled in surprise as Sam's bulk loomed over the couple. One thing Sam was really good at was looming.

"Whoa! You never said you had a boyfriend, darlin'," she slurred, hastily retreating towards the door. Sam watched her go with grim satisfaction. Dean leaned unsteadily on the doorframe and flapped an ineffectual hand after her departing figure.

"Aw honey, it's only my little brother…thought you'd be up for a threesome?"

Sam frowned as the older Winchester gave up on the girl, turned back and staggered into the motel room, grinning inanely.

"Whassa matter, Sammy? Still wearing that stick up your ass… y'know, a good fuck might get that piss'n'vinegar expression off your face for five freaking minutes – now that I'd like to see!"

"You're drunk."

"And you're a pain in the ass, but in the morning I'll be sober."

This last was by way of a parting shot, as Dean, laughing uproariously at his own, albeit borrowed, wit, had made it into the bathroom with surprising agility for one so drunk, and slammed the door. Before Sam could lay a hand on the door-handle, he heard the click of the lock, so he had to content himself with shouting his riposte through the scuffed up excuse for a door.

"Don't think you can get round me by paraphrasing Winston Churchill, you jerk!"

Dean's only response was to turn the shower on full blast and yell, "What's that Sammy, I can't hear you!" before bursting into a loud and deliberately tuneless rendition of Enter Sandman.

Sam chewed his lip absently, deep in thought. On the face of it – typical big brother behaviour.

But.

Something was jarring, setting his teeth slightly on edge. There was something not quite right, not quite Dean about that exchange. He couldn't put his finger on what was wrong, but he was sure that something was not right here. He sat down slowly, with half an ear listening for Dean to finish up in the bathroom, to warn him when he was coming out. Unusually, Dean had stopped singing in there, wasn't even humming. Dean was rarely quiet in bathrooms, something about the ambience seemed to bring out the gargling, singing, noisily farting frat boy in his brother. Another oddity to make Sam uncomfortable, as the sound of the shower was now the only noise penetrating the thin partition walls.

That throwaway remark about a threesome – sure, Dean might say that in jest to wind Sam up, but he wouldn't normally bring a girl back to their room and say it to her face, especially when the back seat of the Impala was so – accommodating. And then that remark about Sam's lack of a love life. It had been spoken with a tone Sam was only now placing; recognising it as totally unlike Dean. That hadn't been his big brother's normal sometimes exasperated teasing, that had been said with – malice.

The furrow in Sam's brow deepened. What the fuck had happened to his brother?

0x0x0x0

Dean was awake and he was pissed as hell. He had no choice but be awake. There was no sleeping in here; no way to switch off when all you had was your own thoughts bouncing around in utter darkness, utter silence. Thoughts as useless as chocolate fireguards, as ineffectual as that Greek dude attempting to push a boulder uphill in Hell, as pointless as trying to breathe in a vacuum. In space no one can hear you scream, and it seemed that the same rule applied when trapped inside your own head. Dean knew, because he had tried and failed, attracting no one's attention but his own.

He'd tried everything he could, which when you were just a disembodied memory of a voice in the dark, wasn't very much. If he'd had a throat, it would have been hoarse. If he'd had a heart, it would have been exhausted from beating so frantically. If he'd had skin, it would have been cold and sweating. If he'd had a stomach, he would have been throwing up.

But he had none of those. He had nothing at all to hold onto, to anchor himself. Just maddening, frustrated, anguished thoughts that wouldn't let him rest, even for a second.

What was Leraye doing with his body? What would the demon do when Dean's own mind betrayed all their secrets and led the Marquis of Hell straight to Sam? And what was to stop Leraye calling in Lilith to destroy both of the Winchesters?

With his jumbled thoughts careening out of control, and thoroughly sick of his own company, Dean was actually relieved when the ancient demon finally allowed him to see what was going on, even though the sudden rush of sensation was completely disorienting for the first few minutes. It was as if his brain was switched into overload, as images and sounds crashed over his consciousness in waves.

Gradually things began to settle, and the world came slowly back into focus.

He was taking a piss - no, correction - Leraye was taking a piss, using his body in his motel bathroom, which meant - shit - Leraye now had direct access to Sam. And Sam had no way of knowing Dean was not himself.

This last thought must have been telegraphed, as the demon responded instantly, mockery clear in its inner voice.

"Correctomundo, Deano. Sam hasn't a clue I'm in here, and that is just how I want it. I am going to have some fun messing with your little brother's head before Lilith arrives to take him down…"

Lilith! No…

Then

Fuck, we are so screwed.

"That's right, you little cock-tease. Lilith will be saying hi very soon, because you, Dean, are going to persuade your brother to go meet her."

Sam won't do it.

"Oh, but I think he will. You can be very persuasive, when you want, you know Dean. And I have the perfect arguments to hand, courtesy of this strangely convoluted brain of yours."

Dean had no idea what Leraye was talking about. He couldn't think of a single good reason for Sam to agree to meeting up with Lilith, and the Marquis of Hell's words had him frantic. As the rather one-sided inner dialogue continued, Dean watched helplessly as Leraye opened the bathroom door and joined Sam in their motel room. The demon moved with easy confidence to straddle a chair at the table where his brother sat tapping away at his laptop, seemingly absorbed in his research as usual.

Sam! Sammy!

Dean was screaming even though he knew it was futile. Leraye gave him a mental slap and his thoughts scattered like frightened pigeons, but not before Sam glanced up and he thought he caught a glimpse, a flicker of something – doubt? wariness? – in his brother's hazel eyes.

Somehow, Dean managed to gather the scattered pieces of himself together again, and tried to think about ways to shield himself from the demon's presence. He knew that it was possible to disrupt a demon's control while possessed – Dad had done it somehow Azazel had Dean bleeding out against that wall, enough to stop the Yellow Eyed Demon for a few precious seconds. He might not be as strong as John Winchester, but somehow he would just have to find a way to do the same.

One thing Dean was good at was building walls, big strong structures to defend his vulnerabilities. It was about time he stopped panicking and metaphorically got his shit together. For the first time since Leraye had forced its foul black smoke down his throat he started to look (figuratively speaking) around him for protections, and for weapons. Somehow, he needed to distract Leraye for just long enough to find the demon-killing knife, to shout a warning to Sam, anything – then it would be game on.

0x0x0x0

Sam watched surreptitiously over the top of his screen as Dean plonked himself down in the chair opposite him. Was he imagining things? This certainly looked like Dean – he moved with the same easy cat-like grace Dean always displayed, even when as drunk as his brother had appeared to be when he had swanned into their room. His expressions were Dean-like enough – that cockiness mixed with a vulnerability that only Sam could see. Sam raised his eyes to meet his brother's gaze and thought he saw, just for a fraction of a second, a glimmer of desperation in those shadowed hazel eyes, then it was gone. Frustrated, Sam frowned.

Dean grinned at him, put a hand into his back pocket and slapped a wodge of cash onto the table.

"Winnings," he elaborated unnecessarily. "Should keep us and my baby fuelled up for a few days at least. Maxed out Jimmy Page's credit card on the room."

Sam nodded, not looking at the grubby dollar bills, finger tapping in absent-minded irritation on the tabletop as he stared at his brother. Dean's smile faded a little under Sam's silent scrutiny, and the elder Winchester shifted in his seat.

"So, geek-boy, any luck on the research?"

Sam shook himself mentally. He had no reason to be suspicious of Dean. He had no idea why he felt that something was off about this situation, and they had work to do if they were to avert the damned apocalypse. He had almost stopped thinking about how ridiculous that sounded – demons, angels, seals. All that aside, things had been strained between them ever since the siren; even though they had both been making every effort to pretend everything was okay. And sometimes, Sam thought perhaps it was okay. This discomfort was probably just a reflection of that niggling guilt over having to keep secret his relationship with Ruby. He snapped the lid of the laptop closed decisively. Enough with the deep thinking.

"Well, it seems our plan to kick Lilith's ass and go down fighting has stalled a bit." Sam gestured at the closed laptop with frustration.

His brother seemed to relax again, yet somehow Sam couldn't quite quash the feeling of disquiet.

"Bobby called earlier. Said there might be a case for us in Utah. Nothing big, no angels or demons or frigging seals, just a good old fashioned hunt." Dean said.

Sam leaned back in his chair, thoughtful. An ordinary hunt would be a relief from the seemingly hopeless task of stopping Lilith from triggering the end of the world – and perhaps Dean would sleep easier if they were on the move again. It was a faint hope, he knew, but he had to cling to something.

"Ok." He said. "Utah it is then." He turned away to head for the bathroom, so he missed the fleeting look of satisfaction cross over Dean's features.

0x0x0x0

They set out early the following morning. Sam thought neither of them had gotten much sleep, but that was nothing new. The drive into the desert was uncharacteristically quiet. Dean didn't switch on either the radio or cassette, which was a little odd but not unheard of. His fingers tapped out a rhythm on the steering wheel, as if he had music playing inside his head. Sam stared out of the dusty window in irritation, then looked back at Dean's hands.

"Where's your ring?" he asked, breaking the silence of the last hour and making Dean start. Sam watched Dean's expression flicker from surprise to calculation to open and honest, so quickly he could almost have missed the changes if suspicion hadn't sharpened his attention again.

"It got bent out of shape somehow. I need to see about fixing it." Dean patted his jacket. "It's in my pocket."

Sam shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "So how far into the desert are we going then?"

Dean threw a crumpled, stained road map into Sam's lap. "We're looking for a turn off near where the I-70 and the US-50 meet – coming right up, in fact." Dean swung the Impala off the Interstate, negotiated the junction and found the minor road that would take them even farther off the beaten track.

Sam looked at the map in disbelief. "Devil's Canyon Road, Dean? Seriously?"

Dean just grinned, too wide. "It's called irony, Sammy."

0x0x0x0

Dean was tired of running. Leraye followed him wherever he went inside his head, never letting up. Even though he knew it wasn't real, it was getting annoying. He couldn't think. How could he try and find a way out of this with the demon constantly on his back, not allowing him a single moment of privacy?

"The demon knife won't do you any good, Deano, I'm much to strong for that little pig-sticker…"

Fuck

"Remember how Alastair just pulled it right out of his chest when you stabbed him?"

off

"You can't do anything, Dean, you are too weak, too pathetic…"

Shut

"I control you, you are just a slave to my will, just like in Hell…"

UP!

His footsteps sounded hollow in the sudden silence. He stopped and looked down. Under his feet were worn wooden boards, the gaps between them shimmering with mellow sunlight reflecting off the water beneath. He gazed around in shock. He recognised this place. It was an old memory, a good one. A few short days of calm when Dad had actually taken a break between hunts, and taken the boys fishing instead of putting them through more training. Kincaid Lake in Illinois, if he remembered right. In front of him stretched the smooth surface of the lake, the far shore edged with trees whose autumnal glory was fading into a soft mist. He was standing on a short jetty, stretching out over the water, a bait box and rod abandoned at his feet.

And he was alone.

"Dad?" He whispered, suddenly, illogically hopeful.

0x0x0x0

Dean finally stopped the car where the asphalt of the Devil's Canyon road ran out and its surface changed to packed dirt. Calling it a road from then on was something of an exaggeration. It was more like a track, and so rough in parts Sam was wincing on the Impala's behalf as Dean gunned her engine and powered over the potholes. If nothing else had made him think there was something badly wrong with his big brother, this careless treatment of Dean's baby would have confirmed it.

The two men got out of the car and looked around at the nothingness of sandstone rocks and scrub bush that stretched for miles. The air was so hot and dry Sam could feel it leaching the moisture from each breath. The sweat that trickled down his back between his shoulder blades was drying up before it reached the base of his spine. In spite of the heat, Sam shivered.

Sam thought about Ruby's knife, tucked away in the Impala's trunk, then dismissed the idea. If this was a demon inside of his brother, the knife would kill both demon and Dean, and Sam couldn't live with that. And there was the blood. If it was demon possession and Sam made Dean bleed…even the thought of it had his heart beating faster and his mouth watering in anticipation. His fists clenched against the humming in his veins at the remembered heavy taste on his tongue, the incredible buzz he'd felt as he'd swallowed Ruby's blood down.

No. The demon knife was out of the question. There was another way, though he knew Dean would be angry if he found out. Ruby had given him a parting gift after Alastair. He thought about the flask hidden in his duffel, his palms itching.

Still, that might not be necessary; he wasn't even sure what was wrong with his brother yet. Maybe this was a shifter who couldn't stand the touch of the silver in Dean's ring. Perhaps it was a ghost possession, or some kind of spell. He wished he'd thought to try spiking Dean's drink with holy water earlier, cursed the missed opportunities.

"Gotta take a leak. Back in a bit." Dean said, and Sam watched silently as whatever was riding his brother strode off behind some rocks and out of sight. Well, that made things easier. Sam opened the trunk and started looking for something, anything, that might work to trap this creature. And if he took a swig or two from Ruby's flask, who could blame him? He had to be prepared for every eventuality, after all.

0x0x0x0

"This is not a dream, is it?"

Dean's heart jumped at the sound of John Winchester's voice. He whirled around, his heart leaping in his chest, forgetting for a moment he was standing on a narrow platform. He teetered briefly on the edge before his father grabbed his lapels and steadied him. His own hands were fisted tight into Dad's (his) leather jacket and he had to consciously relax his fingers to let go.

"Dad! You heard me. Thank fuck." John opened his mouth but Dean steamrollered on before his Dad could say anything to shatter his illusion. He knew this vision, dream, whatever the fuck it was, wasn't real, but… it was Dad. So even though he was probably talking to himself, he carried on.

"Not a dream, not exactly, but you are in my head. I'm possessed. A demon tore up my tat and jumped down my throat and Sammy's out there alone with it and I don't know what's going on, I can't even speak, I can't warn him."

"Dean." John held up a hand and Dean shut up, teeth clenched over the words that threatened to keep gushing out.

"Do you know where you are? Physically, I mean."

"I…fuck. No. I don't even know how long it's been since Leraye jumped me. He's blocking me from seeing what is going on, except when it suits him."

"The Grand Marquis of Hell is possessing you?"

Dean nodded, not liking the expression on John's face. He didn't question how John Winchester could know about the bizarre aristocratic hierarchies of Hell; having inherited his father's rack for thirty years, the answer to that was obvious. "Yes. So. Can you help get him out of my body or not?"

John shook his head and Dean nearly groaned. "I'm not strong enough to take on Leraye. You know I'm just a figment of your imagination."

"Goddammit Dad, there must be something you can do!"

"Don't take that tone with me, boy!' Dean swallowed, found himself reacting exactly as he used to when he was fourteen, and flushed slightly with embarrassment. "I can help you keep your soul intact, and I can fortify this place you've created so you can hide in here and stay safe until help comes."

"Help? What help? Nobody knows where we are, not even Cas."

John looked momentarily uncertain and Dean almost rolled his eyes, Sam-like. He didn't, because he remembered that he didn't actually have eyes at the moment, that his real eyes were being used (and abused) by a fucking demon. And because years of training still constrained his behaviours around his father, though he'd never admit it. And even when his father was imaginary. Boy, did he have issues.

"I don't do hiding, Dad. I can't "stay safe" while that bastard is doing who knows what to Sam."

"I doubt that the demons will harm Sam. You on the other hand, are fair game."

"What about Lilith? She will kill Sam when he finds her. She isn't going to care what plans Azazel had for his boy king, all she wants is to kick start the Apocalypse."

"Lilith is a problem, yes. But I can't come with you if you leave here, Dean."

"Yeah, Dad, I know." Dean sighed. "But I have to go."

John nodded and stepped in close. Dean tensed involuntarily then relaxed into the hug. If there was a tear in his non-existent eye when he broke away and strode off the jetty, nobody had to know but him.

0x0x0x0

Leraye was getting progressively more irritated. The inside of Dean Winchester's head was a confused mess, and yet the human's fragile psyche was somehow defying the demon at every turn. In fact, right now, the demon lord had lost sight of the last vestige of Dean's personality that it had been bludgeoning into submission for its amusement. It shouldn't be possible for such a pathetic specimen to evade a powerful demon like this, yet somehow, Dean Winchester had found a place to hide.

Leraye wanted to carve up the older Winchester metaphorically, to relish the way the scars it had left on the righteous man's pretty body in Hell would be perfectly mirrored in the bleeding core of the man. But it seemed that Winchester wasn't going to play the demon's games any more, and that made the Marquis of Hell very angry. So angry Leraye was having difficulty not showing its frustration on its stolen face. Keeping straight what was happening on the inside its meat-suit with what was happening on the outside was proving harder than Leraye remembered from its last foray topside. Which admittedly was for more earth years than it cared to recall, let alone the total Hell-time. The Marquis of Hell's last stint walking among humanity might have involved working alongside Pestilence, following some flea-ridden rats from the Far East to watch them decimate Europe. Fun times.

While the demon was still as proud as the Deadly Sin to have been given this task directly by Lucifer himself, Leraye was beginning to wonder if the aggravation was worth it. Time to find out what exactly their Lord and Master wanted. Hidden from Sam's sight behind the sandstone outcrop, Leraye watched with satisfaction as Dean's blood flowed into the scrying cup. It said the incantation over the thickening liquid, swirling it with Dean's finger. How handy to have everything required for a connect call to Hell contained in one meat suit, he mused. The wound in Dean's arm sealed shut, the new scar raw and pleasingly ugly on the Heaven-fresh skin.

"I want Dean Winchester broken into pieces in front of his brother's eyes," Lucifer whispered through the bars of his cage. "And I want you to do it for me, my Marquis. You are the only one I can trust to get this right. Do it alone; prove yourself to me. Show me you are more deserving than my first born…"

Leraye wasn't stupid. You don't get to rise to his rank in Hell by being a gullible, impressionable child, but the demon couldn't help its ridiculous delight at Lucifer's praise. His Lord trusted him over Lilith, over all his demons. Leraye schooled Dean's features into some semblance of insouciance, its Lord's words still warming its ego, as it swaggered round the rocks on the way back to re-join Sam and the Impala.

Where Leraye's day was made less than perfect by finding that thinking about one Winchester had been allowed to distract from maintaining its wariness of the other. The demon looked down at Dean's feet in disgust. It had stepped right into a hastily but perfectly drawn devil's trap. Sam had clearly not been fooled by Leraye's impersonation of his brother, and had spent the time the demon had taken to confirm its instructions to construct this snare.

Fucking Winchesters.

Ah well. I guess it's show time. Leraye sighed silently but kept his disgruntlement on the inside.

The demon flung out Dean's arms, smiling.

"Sammy! You've come a little bit late to the party here, haven't you? Makes me wonder what Azazel ever saw in you, really it does."

"Spare me the demon monologuing, I've heard it all before." Sam retorted. Leraye felt like rolling Dean' eyes at the repetition. Did these Winchesters not have any original thoughts in their empty little heads?

"Mmm, maybe so," Leraye said, amusement colouring his voice. "But I doubt they've told you these home truths in your brother's voice before, have they."

Sam's frown deepened but he said nothing. Time to up the ante, Leraye thought.

"Think of it like a game of Battleships, Sam. Except you know your ship is on this square. So, ask yourself. Do you want to risk blowing your brother to smithereens? Is it worth the risk, even if you've got the strength, just to exorcise little old me?"

The grin widened, stretching Dean's lips over his teeth, at the stricken look on Sam's face.

You shouldn't have done that, a voice whispered. You don't want to piss Sam off. The voice didn't sound triumphant, or satisfied; just matter of fact, with an undercurrent of something familiar. Leraye only had a startled second to realise two things. Dean was back inside his own head again, and Dean was …scared.

And during that second of distraction, Sam Winchester's expression had changed. Now he looked dangerous in a way that no mere human should look, and Leraye felt a chill spread through his borrowed body. The demon could no longer distinguish its own fear from Dean's dread as it stared into the twin abysses that had taken the place of Sam Winchester's eyes.

Sam was talking.

"I don't know who you are, and I don't fucking care what you have to say, but I'm sure you know what I did to Alastair, don't you? Why would I bother sending you back to Hell, when I can snuff you out like a candle?"

Sam stretched out his arm, palm facing the demon.

No no no no nononono…

Leraye didn't know if it was its demon self or human host keeping up the litany of denial that was pouring out of Dean's lips; perhaps it didn't matter any more.

Sam had taken hold of Leraye's very essence and was searing it into oblivion. The Marquis of Hell thought it had a chance of fighting back, had thought the Winchesters were weak. It was wrong. Wherever the demon turned inside Dean's head, there was pain. It had been a long time since Leraye had felt anything like this. For so many centuries it had worked its way up the food chain until the suffering it had felt as a new soul in the pit had become a distant memory; but now it burned and the agony was unbearable. Almost worse than the pain of dying was the knowledge that came to Leraye just before oblivion – Lucifer had known. The Lord of Light had sent it here, not to test Leraye's loyalty or skill, but to test Sam Winchester and make him stronger. It wasn't Dean Winchester who was on the doomed battleship's square, it was Leraye.

It was a moment of revelation Leraye could have done without, a layer of bitterness that would accompany the demon as it descended into the eternal darkness. The only consolation was feeling how much Dean Winchester was suffering alongside the demon under his brother's hand.

0x0x0x0

Sam's power chased the demon out of his body with a fire so cold that it burned and Dean wasn't sure but he thought he was being chased out too. He might have been able to hear Leraye screaming, but it could be that he was screaming so loud himself he was drowning it out. It's wrong… wrong…wrong. Sammy's eyes were too dark, his fingers like claws as he squeezed, and the breath left Dean's lungs as if those fingers were literally inside his chest, gripped tight around the spongy organs, wringing every last atom of air from them.

In some ways it was easier for Dean to think that might be true, that it was those competent hands that had stitched him up more times than he could count that were doing the damage, rather than face the terrifying knowledge that Sam was doing all of this simply with the power of his demon-enhanced mind. There was a part of Dean that wanted to run and just keep on running and never, ever stop so he didn't have to face that fact.

What had the angels called Sam? Abomination. If running away from that made him a coward, well fuck them. This was his little brother, and he didn't want to think about what this meant.

Dean felt it when the last remnants of Leraye were scorched out of his body, and he wanted to tell Sam it's okay, you can stop now, but he couldn't speak. All his words seemed to have disappeared, burned up along with the demon, and Sam's magic hand or whatever the fuck it was kept on scouring out his insides with that burning ice until there was nowhere left for Dean to hide except one place.

So Dean found himself back on that jetty on Kincaid Lake. Empty and alone, but no longer in pain.

He sat on the edge, let his legs dangle over the quiet waters and waited.

oxoxoxo

Sam watched Dean light up on the inside like a lava lamp and felt nothing but a sense of satisfaction at the heady flare of power that was flowing through him into Dean. Even when he felt the demon in Dean die, he didn't stop. He didn't want that feeling to end. The rush was like nothing else; not an adrenaline high; not that time someone had slipped him uppers in college; not getting his Stanford acceptance letter – nothing compared to this.

Blood ran in a thin trickle from the corners of Dean's wide eyes, and more from his ears. He was struggling to speak, but Sam only stopped when his brother's eyes rolled back in his head until only the whites were showing. Sam's hand was suddenly trembling and the muscles in his outstretched arm cramped viciously as the roaring pressure snapped back into him as if on a bungee.

Dean's legs buckled and his body crumpled to the floor as though only Sam's power had been holding him upright – and maybe that was true, Sam didn't know any more. Sam leapt forward too late to catch his brother, and he winced as Dean's head hit the rocky ground with an audible crack that seemed insignificant in the face of the harm Sam had just inflicted. Guilt swept over Sam in a crippling wave.

What had he done?

"Dean!"

He wormed an arm under Dean's head, lifted the heavy, lax body off the dirt. In spite of the desert heat reflecting up of the sandy rock Dean's skin felt cold and clammy under Sam's shaking fingers. Dean's pulse was thin and thready and Sam could barely feel it over the thick strong loud pounding of his own. Dark red dripped down onto Dean's pale face and Sam realised his own nose was bleeding. He wiped aimlessly at the much brighter red of Dean's blood where it trailed across day old stubble and freckles that stood out against the white of his brother's skin. A headache spiked through Sam's skull while a rising nausea brought bile up into the back of his throat.

Sam swallowed convulsively. He didn't know what to do, he couldn't think straight. Every nerve in his body was fizzing as if he'd stepped right into the middle of a plasma globe, tendrils of power still sparking out of him randomly, making his muscles twitch. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back as he held Dean close.

When Dean finally opened his eyes, Sam was worn down with anxiety and indecision. Dean's pupils were huge and his eyes roamed randomly before finally fixing on Sam's face. Anxiety consumed him as he waited for Dean to say something, to judge him for using his demon powers.

"..t'fuck happ'n'd?" Dean mumbled.

Sam's smile was as blinding as his relief was huge. Maybe Dean didn't remember. Maybe he didn't know.

"You were possessed, dude. How'd you let that happen?"

Dean stared blankly for a second, and Sam thought he saw a glimmer of something flash through those green eyes then it was gone, and Dean was fixing a trademark grin on his still-too-pale features.

"That demon jumped me, tore up my chest, man, and stole all my gear. That's the last time I pick up a random chick in a BigGerson's, I can tell you."

Dean closed his eyes for a second, weariness in every line of his body, and then Sam felt his brother's muscles tensing as he prepared to try and move out of Sam's grip. As unobtrusively as possible, Sam helped his brother to his feet.

"Come on, bitch," Dean said, as he started to walk towards the Impala, while trying (and failing) not to lean on Sam. "Let's get the fuck out of this godforsaken desert before my baby overheats."

He paused at the side of the car, fumbled in his pocket for the keys, looking around at the dirt track road in disgust.

"Where the fuck are we anyway?"

"Devil's Canyon Road," Sam said as he caught the keys over the dusty black top of the Impala.

"Seriously?" Dean gave a huff of disbelief when Sam nodded, then grinned for real. Something Sam hadn't even realised was knotted up inside him loosened at seeing it.

"Yeah. Apparently, it's a demon joke."

"Man, I always knew demons had no sense of humour, Sammy. Come on, let's get the Hell out of here."

0x0x0x0

Dean let Sam drive, trying not to wince as the Impala bumped her way back down the dirt track and sighing in relief when they finally moved onto smooth blacktop again. He kept his eyes closed, leaning wearily against the window, even though the lack of sight made him feel he was still trapped. He really didn't want to face Sam right now.

Everything hurt. Every breath, every movement, every thought. Every memory.

And he was mortally afraid for his little brother.