All Roads Lead to the Same Destination...
She knows before she even opens her eyes. She doesn't need to pull herself upright, cross the room and go through the bathroom door, stare into the mirror. She does these things, but they aren't necessary. She can feel it.
She feels strong. She feels free. Was there something heavy weighing on her mind before? She can't quite grasp the feeling anymore. The guilt that has crowded her soul for as long as she can remember has cleared away like so much morning mist, burned out of existence by the rising sun.
That's what this feels like: something huge and hot and indomitable rising inside, scorching her soul to the clean, uniform shade of gorgeous black she sees staring out of her eyes in the mirror.
It aches for that first split second, to see herself but not herself. Then she blinks, and the black is replaced by her own familiar green. She smiles.
Dean wanders back into her room to find Crowley still standing by her bed; he cocks a quizzical eyebrow at her grinning face. But now Dean can see beyond that, beyond the short, stocky, aging body, the receding hair and the watery eyes. Crowley, the real Crowley, is hideous...and magnificent. He is darkness and cunning and deception, and sadistic joy, mingled with something unfamiliar and vaguely unpleasant that Dean once would have understood as regret.
"Have a nice nap, squirrel?" Crowley rasps at her. "Feeling well-rested?"
"Like Rip Van-fuckin'-Winkle," she snarks back. "Nice little speech you gave over my corpse there, Crowley. I still haven't decided if I'm gonna kick your ass or not, but the answer to my next question will go a long way toward making up my mind. Where's Sam?"
"Still holed up in your old cell, trying to drag me out of hiding to save you." The King of Hell grins, and it's almost more fond than condescending. "Damn disrespectful to call a man away from a wake like this. Clearly I've been getting too cozy with you boys. Ah well, if you give a moose a muffin. Shall we?"
"We ain't doing nothin'," Dean says, amiable tone clashing with the harsh words. "I'm gonna go tell my brother to stop freaking out and put away the candles, and you're gonna figure out what the hell happened to Cas."
Crowley sighs. "That's Winchester gratitude for you," he grouses. "Fine. You go change the baby, I'll go save your boyfriend."
Dean rolls her eyes. Once upon a time-maybe less than a couple of hours ago-the boyfriend jab would have gotten under her skin. Right now, she doesn't give a flying fuck what anyone thinks Cas is to her. She just wants his feathery ass back home in one piece, so they can start figuring out how to keep his vessel from burning down around his ears along with his stolen grace. That is without a doubt the next order of business.
She leaves Crowley to it and goes in search of Sam. She finds him right where Crowley said he would be; kneeling in front of a roughly-drawn pentagram in the room he and Cas had tried to lock her in earlier. His shoulders are slumped in defeat. She smiles a little sadly, a swell of affection sitting in her throat like a stone, bitter and not entirely comprehensible to her. Clearly being a quick-burn demon didn't quite level out the human emotions.
"Crowley's busy," she says, unable to resist. It's worth it. Sam jumps about a foot off the floor, all arms and legs and whirling hair, and then he's nearly barreling her over with a gigantic hug that might once have felt like it would crush her lungs. Now Sam feels fragile to her, despite his size. She's pretty sure she could snap his neck just by thinking hard enough about it...and she studiously tries her best not to think about it at all, because apparently, some things apply to Dean Winchester no matter what color her soul has turned. Hurting Sam is still anathema to her.
"Dean!" Sam chokes out above her head, voice thick with tears. "I thought you were dead!"
"You are such a liar," she says. Sam pulls back, confusion writ large on his features and tear tracks drying on his cheeks.
"What are you talking about?" Sam asks. Dean smiles.
"All that b.s. about letting me die if our positions were reversed. You were trying to summon Crowley, weren't you?" Her tone is half-accusatory, half a deep, abiding affection for her big, dumb brother.
"Of course I was trying to summon Crowley," Sam shoots back. "What'd you expect me to do, just let you die? After the things I said to you, after you...after you fought so hard...after everything?" Sam is choking out his words, half angry and half desperately sad. Dean decides to put him out of his misery.
"Sam, it's alright. I know. Look...you were right about some things, before. And we need to talk it all out." Somehow, the thought of an honest conversation isn't the horror show her mind always made it into before. "But right now, we got other stuff that needs to be handled."
Sam takes a deep breath, visibly reigning in his emotions-not least of all his surprise that Dean seems to want to talk-and nods. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Right. Such as?"
"Crowley's trying to find out what happened in Heaven," Dean says, turning and leading the way out into the main part of the bunker, heading for the tables where they'd spent countless hours tracking omens and researching ways to defeat Abaddon. She plops gracelessly into one of the chairs, turning so that she can prop her arms against the hard wooden back, legs splayed out to either side. "If he can, he's gonna get Cas and bring him here. In the meantime, there are some things you need to know, things I think will be easier coming from me, without an audience."
"Okay..." Sam says, sounding uncertain. He isn't sitting down. He looks at Dean with narrowed eyes. "Like...what kind of things?"
"Sammy..." Dean sighs. She runs a hand through her tangled hair. There's still some blood matted in the back of it from Metatron slamming her against that wall, one of the many times. "Look...you know how this works. These resurrections. There's always a price."
"I know," Sam says, sounding stubborn. "I was ready to pay it."
"And you know I don't want you to do that. I'm glad you didn't have to." Dean sighs again, not sure how to proceed. How do you tell your brother you're a demon? Maybe even the demon? That there are things bubbling under the surface of your skin, things that have always been there, just no longer kept in check by your humanity? Things like the kind of twisted peace that only comes from a blade in the hand and the certain knowledge that you are the one in control, that the pain will come from you and that you will feel none yourself? How do you make him understand that somehow, impossibly, you're still you as well? Maybe even a better you...Dean doesn't remember the last time she felt this good, this at home in her own skin. Not to mention this in control of that driving urge that comes from the Mark of Cain...the urge to watch the light go out of a living thing's eyes. She suppresses a shudder.
"Just spit it out, Dean," Sam says finally. "You're freaking me out. Whatever it is, we'll handle it. Like we always do."
"That's just it, Sam," Dean says, a note of sadness creeping into her voice. "This isn't something we've ever handled before."
"Just. Tell me," Sam says.
"Fine." Dean stands up. "Fine." She squares her shoulders and looks Sam in the eyes.
"I want you to remember," she says, emphasizing every word, "the last few minutes, okay? I want you to think about that and remember that I'm still me."
"Tell me," Sam says again, though there's a note of dread creeping through his voice, like he knows what's coming.
"Okay," Dean says. "Here goes nothin'." She closes her eyes and braces herself. She hears Sam draw in a breath, waiting for the hammer to fall.
She opens her eyes.