The timing was crucial - he learned it the bloody way. His first four demons were a failure. Before he managed to break them, each of them nearly broke him. Injecting holy water or inflicting burns with holy oil required effort and time. During these long hours the demons taunted him; spat out their own pain and bile reminding Dean of everything he had done. Reminding him of his choices.

No matter how hard he tried to deny it, their words pierced the shell of indifference he'd cultured. They reminded Dean about his own belief that destiny was a lie. Neither God nor fate had brought him to where he stood. Whenever he cast his mind back, he stumbled upon thousands of paths that had been open; that he'd chosen not to tread. Each of them would lead to a world where Dean was not a fiend, where Sam was free, where Cas wasn't gone.

There was the day when could get to Sam quicker instead of failing him, instead of letting him die on that muddy road in Cold Oak.

There were ten years when he could have resisted the temptation to end his torment in hell instead of giving in and drawing blood.

There were their fights when Dean could have shown more understanding and compassion instead for belittling his brother and pushing him away. There were these fights that slowly corroded Sammy's faith in him; that eventually made Sam trust Ruby more than he trusted Dean.

There was nearly a whole year the brothers spent apart, when Dean wasted hundreds of occasions to call Sammy, to ask how he was doing. Hundreds of evenings that Dean spent toying with his phone, unable to find the courage to press "dial".

He wished he could blame it all on a mysterious force; on merciless finality of God's word announced through His prophet, but he couldn't. It was all the fault of his weakness and cowardice, of his iniquity.

After a few months, the anguish brought by these ruminations was the only thing he felt. He kept replaying his most shameful moments; the need to do it was irresistible like the need to touch a sore wound. Each time he felt less and less until the pain was trapped underneath his madness like pus under a blister.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It wasn't until he learned to fill the demon's mouths and abdomens with salt and sew them up that torturing became easy again. He never asked any questions for the first week. The demons welcome the opportunity to speak when they were finally given it. They pleaded and spilled their guts and they wouldn't hesitate to sell anyone in exchange for a quick death. Unfortunately, they knew little. The king of crossroads, if he was still alive, dug himself in deep.

Still, they gave other names. They were always eager to betray their kin. A chance for a quick death at the blade of Ruby's knife was the only leverage Dean needed.

Despite their deals Dean exorcised a few of them instead of giving them the coup de grace he had promised. Exorcisms sent them right onto Lucifer's rack. He wanted to announce himself big.

It was his mistake. By September the demons stopped coming even when they were summoned by their names. From one of the last ones Dean learned that she wished she had chosen to ignore the compelling tug of a summoning spell and slowly dissolve in confusion and timeless, aimeless half-death than to face her fate. He leadned that she wished she'd listened to other demons who had warned her; that she wished she hadn't underestimated the monster that filled the whole Hell with dread.

The demons were not afraid of Lucifer. They were afraid of Dean.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Angels did not come either and it was a real misfortune, because Winchester had concocted unfailing methods to break them as well.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was late September when he managed to hunt down his last demon; it was the middle of October when he dumped what was left of the body into a river and rushed to find a place where he could wash his hands and face.

That last hunt was a success, though. Dean finally got what he wanted. He made the demon puke out that name along with pleads for mercy. At last, the hunter knew the name he needed to summon the king of crossroads.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Apart from the name, Winchester needed a summoning spell powerful enough to break the king's defense. Compared to the limited choice of things that could hurt a demon, torturing witches offered a whole gamut of methods. It was refreshing.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dean stood under the shower with his forehead resting on cold, smooth tiles, waiting for the water to crudely wash down the most of the blood. He would deal with any persistent stains later. Then he would scrub his skin clean, wash his hair a couple of times, shave his face clean, pick the dirt from around his fingernails. Then he would burn his clothes and dress himself in new ones.

Within a few months it became his indispensable ritual. He needed it to interact with people. He needed to masquerade as a human in order to walk around, buy meals, book motel rooms, ask questions and get answers. Sometimes it struck him that people whom he met on his way smiled or tried to engage in small talk with him. They were not afraid of him. They did not abhor him.

Dean vaguely remembered the years when he walked among humans unashamed, at ease, at peace with himself. He remembered how it amused him to see people wince at the sight of his ragged, bloodied clothes or his face covered in dirt. Back in those days he wore his own skin proudly; no filth could taint it, because his deeds were pure and straight. He used to fight for the right cause when he drew the blood that later dried on his face. His soul used to be healthy and untarnished. If someone made a wry face, disgusted by Dean's appearance, it only meant that this person was blind, unable to see past the shell that was not Dean; that was nothing to be ashamed of.

The world had turned upside down, but people were still as blind as they had always been. Now the people he met showed no signs of qualm even though underneath that clean skin dwelt a repulsive monster, an abomination. They failed to see the foulness of his soul. Dean lived among them and was so ashamed of what he'd become that he wouldn't be able to stand even one frightened look; even one wince of disgust. He had to do his best to disguise the monstrosity he'd became with that impeccable skin, and he did it well.

Thanks to this charade he had no problems obtaining most of the ingredients needed for the spell. Herbalists, art collectors, butchers, pet shop owners - they all attended to him with kindness sparkling in their unseeing eyes and with no fear that would make their voices quaver. Within three days from ripping his last witch to shreds Dean was ready to summon Crowley and ask for the Colt.

He waited for the right hour, watching thin, white threads of smoke wafting above candles on the altar he'd built. He kept imagining how it would be like to hold the gun again; to run his finger along its slender, embellished barrel, to slide heavy bullets into the cylinder. To lift it, press it against Lucifer's forehead and see the blood flood Old Nick's mutilated face...

Except that it would be Sammy's hazel eyes that Dean would have to look into while pulling the trigger.

This image struck him with a force that made him curl up and lean against the altar, fighting the blinding pain and daze. With a beastly growl he knocked it over. Among the shatters of statues and a crystal chalice, on a floor littered with bones and herbs, in a pool of blood he knelt, rocking back and forth, cursing his own weakness and crying.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was nothing but a deathwish that lured him to Detroit when he first heard the news about an unknown disease's outbreak in an addiction treatment center. He hoped he'd see Lucifer somewhere there, watching the horror unfold and gloating at his creation. Dean hoped he'd be able to look in that hazel eyes, shadowed by that unkempt black bangs; to see how the spark in them had transformed into something cold and cruel. Perhaps he'd find the strength to fool himself; to make himself believe that Sam was dead. Perhaps he'd be able to hate that creature. Or perhaps he'd die at his brother's hand and be relieved from the burden of his own deeds.

It was strangely calming to have to sneak through sanitary cordon and hide from the police like he used to do during his hunts with Sam. Except that this time he did not know what to expect, nor did he care. There was something alluring in that complex of old, single-story buildings scattered in a tree-covered park; something that beckoned him, forcing him to go rushing through the evening fog, to abandon the path and wade through a carpet of withered leaves.

He'd almost made it to a small, dark warehouse when he heard a warning shot and a policeman's harsh voice ordering him to stop and put his hands in the air. Dean obeyed. He was in the middle of making up a story that would justify this forced entry when he heard the footsteps right behind his back and felt a barrel poke his back. Dean turned around with a studied, innocent smile and took breath to reel off his story, but words got stuck in his throat.

The policeman's eyes were black.

His instincts did not fail - after a short fight the demon fell down in a flare of russet light. Before his body fell onto the ground the park around came alive with the rustle of dry leaves and barking, and Dean did not even try to check if he would be able to see the hounds. He broke into run. A stab of pain tugged at his calf; he fell face down.

There was a gunshot. A warm mass fell onto the ground next to Dean's face. He let out a huff- it wasn't a hellhound, just a german shepherd shot in the head with a very ordinary gun. Dean's relief did not last long. Two more demons ran towards him and he had barely managed to scramble to all fours when a forceful kick on the jaw made him fall again. The pain that quaked his body after another kick on the stomach was blinding. He saw nothing more, forced by an instinct to curl up and protect his head from mighty jaws of two more dogs. Dean heard more gunshots, thump of bodies colliding in wrestle, the dogs yelping and someone shouting his name. Before he caught his breath, the fight was over.

Winchester slowly moved his arms away form his face and blinked. There were people standing around him; their faces hidden by the twilight and the pain still blurring Dean's sight; their breaths quickened after the fight.

One of them made a few steps towards Dean. The hunter's eyes focused slowly, slowly discerning more than just the silhouette, ripping the sight from the darkness detail by detail. The man seemed to be a soldier or a militant. His combat boots were spattered with mud and blood; his worn-out camo pants were weighed down by something heavy hidden in the pockets that gave out metallic rattle as he moved - extra clips perhaps. His head was framed by an upturned collar of a tactical jacket. There was something familiar in his craggy, unshaven face, but it wasn't until Dean heard that gravelly voice that he recognized the man.

"Hello, Dean," he said, reaching down and before the hunter could gather his thoughts strong hands closed around his arms and pulled; the grip so was firm that Dean was sure it would bruise his skin; the force dragging him up was irresistible, compelling, urging. Winchester would not be able to stand on his own, but the man did not just help him up. He pulled Dean into an embrace that was so tight that it didn't even matter that Dean's legs buckled beneath him.

"Jesus..." Dean whimpered against the man's warm neck, leaning heavily on the man's strong shoulders; his voice was strangled and throaty, "Jesus Christ, Cas..."


As you might have guessed, we're slowly heading towards Croatoan End!Verse with a bit more gore and violence, yet with a bit more action and OC's as well. Fear not, there will be Chuck, Camp Chitaqua and off-roaders, but we'll get to it. I promise it was one of the most angsty and bloody chapters and now that you scraped through it, things will get a bit better.

I'd like to thank you for your comments and support so far. I appreciate every opinion and suggestion.