PART III: CURSED LAMB

After hiding the body behind a dumpster, he had gone back to the motel to gather his meager belongings. The sight of his blood-stained face had dissuaded him to go after his brother. He was desperate to be with him again, but he couldn't let Dean see him in this state again. Even if he tried to hide it, Dean would recognize the signs, and the joy illuminating his face would turn into the sad, resigned expression he wore every time he found out Sam had fallen off the wagon.

He had left town immediately and driven all night to put some distance between him and the body poorly hidden in an alley. In the early hours of the morning, he had ditched the stolen car to cover his tracks, ransacked a corner store for food and basic hunting supplies, and walked until he had found an abandoned dump to hole up in.

There, he had laid salt lines at the doors and windows, and locked himself down for two excruciating weeks. That self-imposed rehab had been the hardest. There was no one on the other side of his door, worrying about him, ready to race to his rescue when the demon blood started throwing him against the walls. He had fought alone, clinging to the four-letter name that symbolized all the reasons he wanted to live, and he repeated it like a prayer every time the pain sawed away at his bones.

When he had finally gotten the bloodlust out of his system, he had left his hideout with plans to head straight to Cicero, Indiana. Perhaps it was the excitement, or rather the fact that his reflexes were eroded after the severe detox he had undergone, but his attempt at auto theft had almost turned into a bloodbath.

The owner of the car had drawn a gun on him and, while Sam was trying to wrestle it away, a shot had been fired. Out of the blue, a cloud of black smoke had swooped down, shaped itself into human form, and clawed at the man's arms until he let go of the weapon, shrieking in pain.

The switches, that a deceptively sweet bride-to-be from Peoria had once mentioned, had flipped in Sam's brain. Guided by his instinct, he had raised one hand to send the demon back, and closed a fist to paralyze the man's vocal cords. In a whirlwind of confusion, he had fled the scene and sought refuge in the rundown shack he called home.

The walls and furniture had started shaking and breaking the second he had entered the house. Just as he realized he was somehow responsible for the few windows that had inexplicably shattered in his wake, as he raced through the streets, a chunk of plaster had detached itself from the ceiling right above his head. He had found himself safely standing on the other side of the room a split second before it dropped to the floor and had crouched in a corner, his arms above his head, trying to calm down so things would go back to normal.

Hours later, lying prostrate in the middle of the quiet ruins, he had screamed at what he felt like another cruel test of destiny. Wasn't it enough that he had immolated himself on the four-ring altar and dived into the coldest recesses of Hell in order to pay his debt to humanity?

After all the sacrifices he had made to earn his redemption, he had turned into a bigger freak than before. A whole new specimen, born from the combination of Azazel's blood, the gallons more he had to ingest to house the Devil, and the residues of Lucifer's angelic grace. He was afraid of himself, alone, but too radioactive to go anywhere near the only person he needed to see.

That new bump in his road had forced him to postpone his trip to Indiana for a second time, and he had spent an endless month exercising his new muscles to take control of his powers and learn how to manage his abilities.

He could control demons. Not just pin them down, exorcize, and kill them like he used to, but also locate them with his mind, summon them, force them to possess a host, and pull their strings like a puppet master before disposing of them when he was done using them. It was his greatest power; the one that took the most out of him, but also the most dangerous, as it was to him what owning a vineyard would be to an alcoholic.

He had the ability to teleport himself from one place to another, not long distance like an angel or a full-blood demon could, but from one room to the next, easily, and a few miles at a time with a little concentration. He could also paralyze people and render them mute temporarily. He made a conscious effort not to abuse those particular talents, because the experience was rather frightening to those who were subjected to them, but he had used them enough times to shoplift items he couldn't afford in broad daylight to know they worked perfectly and with very little effort.

Three longs months after his painful return to human life, he had parked his car in front of Lisa's house and skipped to her door with barely contained excitement. He was about to ring the bell when he heard the sound of joyous laughter through the walls. He had peeked through the living room window and the reality of his brother's new life had hit him like an ice pick through the heart.

All this time, all he had thought about was Dean; his Dean,his brother, the missing piece of his heart. It had never occurred to him that Dean now belonged to others.

The unexpected blow had crushed his last hopes and, instead of making his presence known, he had looked on hungrily; a lonely outsider staring at a happy, normal family that had no use for dark and twisted things like him. Ben in stitches, watching Dean drawing something comical on the back of his notebook, and a beaming Lisa lovingly rubbing his brother's back as she sat next to him to join in the fun. He had contemplated the scene, drinking in the sight of his brother's face before turning away, aching with jealousy when she had pressed her lips to Dean's cheek.

He had come back every night, and often followed Dean during the day, watching with melancholy his brother do familiar things and a few new ones: earn a honest living as a mechanic, have a beer with the next-door neighbor every Thursday night, play coach and soccer Dad on week-ends, and dodge waitresses' thinly veiled advances countless times, the way any self-respecting, emotionally invested boyfriend would.

He had seen the love in the Braedens' eyes whenever they looked at Dean. They were good people who cared deeply about his brother; the kind of people who didn't have a devil on each shoulder and wouldn't spill darkness back into Dean's life like a damaged ink bottle.

The realization that his brother was probably better off without him had made him long for the coppery taste of devil spawns' blood again, but before he made his way out of a life that had nothing left to offer him, he needed one last thing; to see his brother laugh the way Lisa and Ben had. He'd even settle for an earnest smile; but he wouldn't leave until he had proof that Dean was truly happy.

Chapter II – One Year, Forever And A Day