He lays in bed and its here in the bunker. It's just a short walk down a hallway up a staircase. The Blade. He can feel it from here. It wants to be used. It wants blood, hungers for the taste of it.
Dean squints his eyes and wills himself to stay away from it. Sam, Cas, Sam, Cas. He repeats it like a mantra. Grounds himself with the names of all he has left in this world. His brother who now sees him only has a hunting partner. His angel who fought the forces of hell to save him. How disappointed he must be in what the Righteous Man has become.
Sam, Cas, Sam, Cas.
He can smell it, the pungent odor thickens the air until the he chokes on the stink of sulfur. It's the stench of a thousand slain demons, the incense of the blood of man, the perfume of a slain brother. This is the object that destroyed the first bond of brotherhood. It is salvation and damnation, separating Cain and Abel for all eternity. It reeks of fear, betrayal, isolation and suffering.
Sam, Cas, Sam Cas.
Its mere presence is poison in the air. The thick taste of bile sticks to his tongue no matter how many times he washes his mouth. He is certain nothing will ever taste sweet again.
Sam, Cas, Sam.
It is so loud! He rolls over on the memory foam that has lost all sense of comfort. It no longer remembers him, doesn't mold to his body the way it should. Now it feels like a pebble in his shoe. He tries pulling his pillow over his head to drown out the noise but it's no use. The voices penetrate the soft down barrier he tries to hide beneath.
It sings a morbid siren song to him. It's one he has heard before. He sang that ancient melody for thirty years, his voice harmonizing in the cacophony of a million terrified pleas. It's an orchestra he conducted for ten years, he's a virtuoso of this song. He knows how to tear flesh to extract the fortissimo of the desperate screams. He has mastered how the slightest flick of his wrist will draw forth a delicious gasp. And he is the maestro of wresting the pianissimo of a defeated whimper from a quivering soul. He hears them now, thousands of them – humans, demons, angels – the seduction of their song, a promise of power, revenge, an end.
Sam, Cas.
Against his will, his feet take him down the long hall of the bunker up the stairs to where it sits, waiting, watching, calling. He can still feel the phantom remnants of it in his hand, fingers tingling with the reverberation. The awesome power that surged through him with the Blade in his hand, it had whispered to him - take take take. He stood between a brother and a demon. The Blade had taken down plenty of those in the past, what's another? Two more? Armies?
The hurricane of power had slammed up his arm, lighting the mark like fire, like lava it coursed through his veins, poisoning from the inside out. What does it matter now? He's already malignant with it. Toxic. He could take it now. Wield its power. Slaughter Abaddon, kill Gadreel, carve up Metatron, slay Crowley, control them all, rule them all.
Sam.
It's right here and it's vibrating with anticipation, singing to him a serenade of might of birthright. His hand hovers over the hilt and he can feel it like static electricity, a hum of magnetism. He tries to remember the reasons he shouldn't pick it up, wants to recite his mantra. What are the words? He tries but their faces, their voices, their names become fuzzy, grey and distorted, only the blade coming into focus, sharpening his senses, feeding off love like a succubus, leaving only bloodlust.
His hand grips the Blade – he has a new mantra now.