A/N – The POV in this chapter jumps all over the place. First up is Sam, then Dark!Dean, and I think you'll recognize everybody else.

Spoilers: In My Time of Dying, Shadow

Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. (You know I have to say that, don't you?)

Then: Final round action and a Winchester family reunion.

Now: The countdown to the end begins…

Dog Eat Dog

Chapter 35 – End Game

Ten

His face was wet, his throat raw from yelling, and his fists were bloody where he'd kept pounding against that invisible wall. Sam was on his hands and knees and he couldn't even remember how he got there. Couldn't remember anything except the sight of Dean, with his hand on Dad's throat. Sam's whole body shook and he rested his forehead against what seemed to be smooth slick glass.

"Shoulda killed me when you had the chance, Papa…You hunt and kill things like me, remember? Hunt down and kill…"

Sam closed his eyes and he saw it over and over again, the way Dad's spirit broke apart, dissolved into nothing…

And Dean just stood there, wild and yellow-eyed…

"Not your son. Not Dean. Not anymore."

…he killed him…oh God, Dean killed Dad…

Nine

It was two against one, always had been, and it wasn't fair, but then again life never had been fair. He was as much a part of Dean Winchester as that other one, that damn yellow-eyed dog, but Dean pushed him away every chance he got.

It wasn't his fault he was every dark impulse and thought Dean had ever had in his entire life. He'd been the second one to get walled up, after that damned mutt, of course (second-best, always second best, after Sammy, after Coyote, after everyone else--).

Ever since the sky over Vashon turned maroon red, dark and twisted, he'd known this was the place that would let him run free. He'd actually hoped that he was out for good, but Dean and that wild dog of his ganged up on him, kept him isolated in the dark, which was why they were able to get up on the roof and burn that sigil into the concrete there. If he had realized what it was, what it could do, he never would have allowed it.

He might have warned that other yellow-eyed eyed bastard, but then again, maybe not, because he couldn't stand him, either.

Having his hand around Dad's throat was sweet.

He couldn't understand why the others stopped him.

Stupid bastards.

Hadn't they felt the pain too, each and every time Dean gave his all during hunts, went above and beyond the call of duty each and every fucking time, only to have the old man take that for granted, and ask for even more?

Had they forgotten that twinge of self-hatred, that hollow empty feeling Dean felt every time Dad ditched him, every time Dean woke up in the morning and John was gone, without so much as a word, or a warning?

Dean followed orders like a good little soldier, and where did it get him? Blood and pain, scars and broken bones, and damned if the idiot didn't man up and go right back and ask for even more punishment, instead of dishing some out himself.

I love you, son.

You can do whatever you want to me, Dean. Right here. Right now. Doesn't change the fact that I love you. I always have, and I always will.

Yeah, right. Figures the son of a bitch would say that, knowing his ass was on the line.

Figures those other two idiots would fall for that line of crap.

He was on the downswing. He was the last, and the least. The second heart was as stubborn as he was. It was dying, but it beat weakly and fluttered around the silver blade it was impaled on.

Eight

Azazel watched Dean through Sam's narrowed eyes.

It could only depend on the evidence of its own senses, and those senses told him that John Winchester had just been annihilated, wiped clean from existence.

Azazel didn't trust the evidence.

A large part of the danger of going up against a Trickster was the fact that you never knew for certain whether the countermeasures you used against the critter actually worked or not, and a mistake was almost always fatal.

The silver knife and the spellwork was intended to daze and confuse Dean long enough to make him highly susceptible to suggestion. First Azazel would suggest that Dean open the hellmouth. After that Azazel would quietly suggest that Dean kill himself.

Permanently.

Having a matched set of brothers would have been ideal, but the Demon considered its flexibility to be a valuable trait. Dean was proving himself to be too much trouble. Azazel was quite willing to cut its losses and concentrate on Sam, if need be.

If the spellwork was still in effect, Dean would come when he was called.

Dean stood there, swaying a little on his feet, his back to notSam. He stared at the spot where John had been. The wraiths backed up, arranged themselves in a wide circle around the two brothers. The demons circled overhead warily.

"Dean, it's okay. Come here." Dean turned, glanced quickly at notSam's outstretched hand and looked away. His shoulders slumped. Despite that telltale golden glow in his eyes he looked too young, his body language awkward, like a small boy who had been caught in the act doing something bad.

"It's all right. I'm not mad." notSam's smile even reached his hazel eyes and shaggy hair. His voice dripped honey. It was like watching someone trying to sucker a puppy in with false kind words while they hid the baseball bat they were going to pound the little furball with behind their back.

There was a moment when Azazel actually thought Dean was going to meekly duck his head and shamble over to stand right next to him.

That moment didn't last long.

Dean squared those broad shoulders of his, and when he turned around he had that damned smirk on his face. Despite himself, notSam's eyes widened in shock when he saw the second silver blade in Dean's hand.

"Hey, Ozzie," Dean drawled with a wink. "Lose something?"

Seven

…not gonna hide what I am anymore, Sammy. Not gonna hide anymore, not from you, not from anyone…

All Sam could hear inside his head was that low throaty growl Dean's voice had become. It was dark and inhuman.

It wasn't Dean. Not anymore.

What he...what it had done to John proved that, once and for all.

I'm going to have to end this, Sam thought dully. He won't stop. He can't.

Sam felt a calmness descend over his mind, his body. He'd reached a decision, one he couldn't ever take back if he followed through with it.

It's not Dean. Dean's dead and gone. I have to…I have to take care of him…

Sam was more like John than he ever cared to admit.

It was like a door opening inside his head.

Sam reached out with his mind for the Colt…

Six

Bobby found a blue '68 Pontiac GTO out on the parking lot, and he figured that it was a sign from above, or wherever. Maybe the patron saint of hunters was cutting them a break after all. Good luck was in short supply in this godforsaken place, but maybe things were on the upswing.

The Goat was a brute with a 350 V8 engine and a full tank of gas. The keys were in the ignition, which might have been further proof that their luck was turning for the better. The only bad part about it was the fact that whoever owned the car was probably dead. No one stepped up to claim it, no one but Bobby.

It crouched there, covered with a thin film of road grime, and Bobby actually thought it was the most beautiful sight he'd seen lately. The rest of the survivors had gotten into cars, trucks and buses out there on the parking lot and the last busload had just pulled off. When the shit well and truly hit the fan Bobby wanted to be behind the wheel of something that could haul ass, quick, fast and in a hurry.

He had the hood up and was checking the engine out while John leaned against the side of the car and watched as Bobby worked.

Bobby could tell John wanted to go back inside the building. It was understandable, but that wasn't what Dean wanted, and right now Bobby was content to follow Dean's lead. Being dead for over a year hadn't stopped John from being the same stubborn fool he'd been before. John was as weak as a newborn kitten, which was the only reason Bobby had been able to half-carry him away from the building. As soon as he felt better, John was going to make a move on him.

Bobby expected it.

Which was why Bobby held the shotgun on the other side of his body, away from John, and Condie kept an eye on John.

He'd go only so far with Bobby. John wasn't going to leave his boys behind, no matter how bad he felt, and they both knew it.

"So, what's the play?" John rumbled. He stared at the big black German shepherd mix and she stared right back at him.

"We wait for a signal from Dean. Sam comes out, we get the hell out of here." Bobby angled his body so that he could keep an eye on John.

"What about Dean?"

Bobby stared at the engine under the hood. Yeah, what about him? The feeling had nagged at him all along, but he couldn't say it out loud, that if he ever saw Dean Winchester again, alive and well, it would be a first class miracle. Ever since John traded his life for his, Dean was fixated on the idea that he was damaged goods, and he wasn't worth that kind of sacrifice. It was a twisted desire for redemption, a death wish and a world class martyr complex all rolled into one. It was the damndest thing Bobby had ever seen.

But, hell, you gonna tell the boy's daddy that? Bobby shrugged. "Dean'll be with Sam," was all he could say. For all he knew that was true, at least he hoped it would be.

John didn't ask anything about Coyote and Dean, and Bobby wasn't going to volunteer any information. That could come later. The Winchesters could get together and talk things over, but Bobby privately doubted it. Sam was the only one who'd push for a so-called chick flick moment. John and Dean? No way in hell.

Bobby straightened and slammed the hood shut. The fact that he was talking to John again, alive and in the flesh after all these months, suddenly struck Bobby as being funny.

Funny-haha and funny peculiar. He chuckled a little.

John swayed on his feet as he held his arm even closer to his side. His skin was pale underneath that heavy stubble. He was in some pain, Bobby could see that, but naturally he wouldn't admit it. Macho idjit.

John bristled. "What's so damned funny?"

Bobby shook his head. "Among the Navajo people Coyote's known as the First Artist, or First Builder. He creates mankind when he kicks around a ball of mud." Bobby was enjoying this way too much. "And sometimes it's a ball of shit."

"That was so funny I forgot to laugh," John groused.

Bobby managed to keep a straight face. "Shouldn't even bother you, John."

"I guess not." John stared down at the pavement. "Thanks."

Bobby quirked an eyebrow at him. "Thanks for what?"

"For keeping an eye on my boys."

"No problem. Somehow you managed to raise 'em right. Both of 'em. After this is over we'll all head back to my place. I won't even try to shoot you this time."

John laughed, but Bobby didn't hear it. Something was inside his head again, a faint, sad whisper, barely heard.

Bobby, I need to take this back…

Bobby startled as the Colt vanished from underneath his back waistband.

John caught the movement; his eyes narrowed. "What?"

"That wasn't…that wasn't Dean," Bobby said slowly. He reached behind him, but even as he did he knew the damned gun was gone, taken away, and that suddenly made Bobby feel uneasy…

Five

He didn't hurt anymore.

Anywhere.

Dean almost laughed out loud, but he kept his poker face on. Inside, though, he felt something loosen inside his chest. That tension and soreness in his back and shoulders melted away. The ache in his soul…God, he'd felt so hollow all those months after Dad died. He'd felt lost, off balance, out of control.

He'd sensed a wrongness about himself, and even when Sam asked him how he was feeling, Dean still couldn't find the words to describe his emotions. Dean hated the sorrowful look on Sam's face when he'd told him that "what's dead should stay dead", but it was the truth. He couldn't deny it. But now…

Dad died because of me. Only fair that I be the one to bring him back. What's the sense of bein' able to do all these things, if I can't help my family?

All the pain he'd experienced in this place was worth it. All that information locked deep inside his head…his life experiences as Coyote, the spellwork, all of that arcane knowledge, all of it came flooding back into his consciousness. It didn't seem strange or alien, like it might have seemed at one time. It didn't overwhelm him, like it might have in the past.

And when he stared into his father's sad calm eyes, heard that deep velvet rumble of a voice once again, when he stared at that face that he would have given his very soul to see one more time, Dean knew exactly what he had to do.

Dad was back, alive and breathing, and even with Hendricksen on Sam's trail, it would be all right, it would all be okay.

It was only fitting that he wouldn't be around Sam or John after this. He'd be constantly reminded that he was no different from the things they hunted.

After this mess was all over, after he and Bobby got Sam and John to a safe place, there was the deal Dean had made with Coyote. The Old Man had kept his promise, for the most part, and helped keep Sam safe, and Dean fully intended to keep his end of the bargain. He'd let Coyote take his body once John and Sam were safe. He'd gladly go behind the wall like he promised. He wouldn't fight. He'd be true to his word.

The knife in his lower side pinched a little, but he barely noticed it. Pain was the price, especially for someone like him. Azazel made him two-hearted. Azazel had to be the one to take it off. Even darkness has rules. He couldn't heal himself. Not in this place.

So while Dean was inside the Demon's head, while Azazel was inside the cop's body, killing Maureen, Dean had suggested the spellwork with the knife, had suggested using the silver knife to spear the second heart.

And the dumb yellow-eyed jack-ass fell for it.

Dean held the second silver knife he'd taken off notSam and he smirked a little as yellow heat shimmer rose up around his right hand. The knife liquefied into a small pool cupped in the palm of Dean's hand. The wraiths backed up; so did the demons. They all formed up around Sam, the wraiths on the ground, the demons circling overhead like eels. They were afraid of Dean.

Damn well better be.

He felt good. Hadn't felt this damned good in years. No more hurt, no more pain. That ache deep inside his soul was gone. He felt like celebrating, and maybe that was something he could do later on, in what litte time he had left. Not now.

Now he had some evil sonsabitches to kill.

Four

Sam recalled the first Marine speech John had ever given him. It was one of many Dean took to heart. It was the speech Sam hated with a passion:

"There are things out here that can slip into us. Because we hunt them, they might decide to hunt us. We have to do whatever is necessary to protect one another. And if that's not enough, we have to take care of each other, and do the hardest thing we've ever done. Sometimes death can be a kindness."

Sam sat there with the Colt in his hand. He was dimly aware that the Demon was in control of his body.

For now.

He was also aware of the fact that he was somehow able to shield the Colt from the bastard.

Something was happening on the outside. Sam could feel it.

He couldn't let what was left of Dean be used by Azazel. He couldn't. He sat there, and he remembered his brother, remembered all the years Dean took care of him. He remembered Dean reading to him, helping him with his homework. Dean sitting there with him when Sam was nine and scared of the dark, scared of what was lurking in the closet. Dean taking care of Sam while John was away, making sure Sam was fed and cared for. Dean putting himself in harm's way on hunts, shielding Sam from harm, Dean bleeding for him, hurting for him, and finally, killing to protect him.

Dean deserved to rest in peace. Sam would see to it.

Azazel was bound to make a mistake, just like he had with Dean, and one mistake was all that Sam would need.

Three

notSam cocked his head to one side. "You're a clever little mutt, you know that?"

Dean shrugged carelessly. "It's a gift."

Azazel couldn't help but answer Dean's smirk with a slightly lop-sided grin of its own. It frowned as it sensed something else, and it pulled up Sam's shirt and jacket to exposure his bare skin. There was a mark on Sam's skin there, right underneath the jacket pocket where the knife had been. It wasn't a burn. It looked more like a thumbprint. Dean's thumbprint.

"Dad," Dean breathed softly. He frowned up, shook his head. He tried to push closer to notSam. "He…he…yelled at me…don't…wanna…talk to him…"

"What the hell is this?" notSam poked at the mark with one finger. He stared at it. Azazel gave an experimental push against the confines of Sam's body. It couldn't get out.

"A binding lock? Now, why would you want me to stay inside Sam's body?"

"You're always running off. You never call, you never write. We don't get to spend much quality time together."

"Insolent bastard. I still have Sam. He's mine, always will be."

"Like hell, bitch." Dean glanced at the bare concrete underneath notSam's feet. Azazel stood on top of the sigil, at the center of a circle seven feet wide. Beyond that was a thin layer of sand colored gravel that covered the rest of the rooftop.

Azazel looked down and that grin of his got even wider. It didn't recognize any of the lettering. or symbols. It was a series of four circles within four triangles, arranged around a fifth circle in the middle, like a cross. The lettering in and around those symbols looked like Arabic, but with long sweeping slashes through some of the letters. There were too many blank spaces. It didn't look like any containment sigil it had ever seen before, and the Demon laughed.

"You didn't finish it." notSam's brow furrowed. He bent over to take a closer look. "What are you playing at, Dean?"

Dean didn't answer. His shoulders tightened as he heard gravel crunch behind him. Something moved just inside the corner of his vision.

Redd and Slymm sat on their haunches behind him, side by side, on his right. They stared at Dean intently.

"He's leaving us," Slymm whispered. "Leaving us again."

Dean turned around long enough to glance at them. Despite their fearsome appearance they looked like two sad little abandoned kittens sitting dejected by the roadside. Dean could relate.

Hush, chica, Coyote thought at them warmly. I'm not going anywhere.

"You're out-numbered." Azazel murmured. "Even your little pets have turned against you."

"Pets?" Redd snarled. She stalked forward on all fours, took up position on Dean's right side. After a moment's hesitation Slymm walked over and sat down on his left.

Azazel laughed. "Still doesn't matter. Nothing you do will make any difference. I still have your brother." notSam took a step forward and stopped short as he ran into an invisible wall. "Cute trick," he snarled.

"You like that trick?" Dean said mildly. He threw the handful of liquid silver onto the loose gravel on the ground between them. "Here's another one."

Two

The wraiths shuffled around nervously as the gravel underneath their feet flared with bright white light. They died first, folding in upon themselves. The light grew stronger and erased all traces of them.

Azazel shielded notSam's eyes with his hand, stepped back into the center of the sigil. It heard their dying screams inside its mind.

He was the only one unaffected, and it knew why. He was next.

Dean was saving him for last.

Above him the smoke demons tried to leave the circle. They couldn't. They were speared by the light, locked into place. Flashes of flame and bright light erupted inside them, and they dissolved into dead grey smoke, curling in the air.

…he won't harm his brother…he won't, not if I go deep inside, use Sam's flesh as a shield, and let Sammy out…

One

Sam squinted, raised his hand before his eyes. The light was blinding, but he could see Dean's outline. Sam could see his brother standing easily several feet away, head cocked slightly to one side, watching intently. Dean's eyes glimmered with a faint yellow light.

Those two cat things sat calmly, patiently.

Sam frowned to himself, shook his head. It wasn't Dean anymore. It wasn't. Killing Dad proved it. If he kept thinking of that...thing… as Dean, he'd never be able to do this.

Only Dean's physical body remained. His spirit, his soul, was long gone, Sam was sure of it, and it was up to him to give his big brother the rest that he deserved.

Sam tightened his grip on the smooth handle of the Colt. As soon as the light died out…

Zero

The light faded out, and Dean moved forward. He couldn't give Azazel any breathing space, couldn't give it time to damage Sam as it tried to fight back.

Dean stared into those hazel eyes, and what he saw there made him stop short.

He saw his death in those eyes.

He saw Sam.

Sam was out. Sam was back…

Sam smiled weakly, sadly. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry---"

Sam raised the Colt, aimed, and pulled the trigger.

000000

Let me know what you think. And, no, this is not a trick. Dean's been shot with the Colt.