He told himself it was probably best to keep his kills as mundane as possible. The more often he used these powers, the more utter bloodbaths he left in his wake, the more hunters he could have on his tail.

There was one problem.

It was so damn fun.

It wasn't like using the Blade. Nothing was. But nothing was like this either. He couldn't count on both hands how many times he'd been thrown against a wall by some telekinetic entity, and now, he was the one doing the throwing. He killed as often as he could, as flamboyantly as he could. And it never got old. But the higher his body count got, the more he wished somebody would, could, put up a decent fight.

He was somewhere in Minnesota when he caught wind of a nearby demon, the first since he'd started hopping bodies. He was having a small brunch in a diner and reading the paper when he noticed an article about a young woman whose brother had been killed while they were walking home through their neighborhood, by a man whose eyes, as she was quoted, were "black as coal."

It looked to Dean like your classic fear-spreading small fry demon. Ah, memories. And he would have loved to kill it, just like old times—though his reasons had changed, he was just as glad to off demons now. The problem was, he had lost any means of doing so. He and Sam had had plenty of connections, but from where he was standing now, demon-killing knives were rare. Totally unheard of in most circles.

Finding no reason to confront it, and finding himself very much behind the idea of promoting the proper and honestly pragmatic fear of this terrible world that demonic attacks were prone to spread, he elected to do nothing and get out of town.

He started thinking after that though—maybe he should start making an effort to be a little more discreet. It wasn't just Sam and Castiel he had to worry about—Crowley likely had standing orders to all his followers to report to him if they found evidence of Dean Winchester, and maybe he was even dispatching search teams. Yes, he should certainly keep avoiding fellow hell-spawn, and probably start putting a lid on his powers when ripping the life out of human beings.

But he started noticing demons on street corners. Just riding people around in a crowd, minding their own business. Some of them even saw him, despite his attempts to remain out of sight—seeing one another's real faces, they could pick each other out easily—but all he got from many was a nod, or a long stare, before going about their business. Some even quickly broke eye contact and strode on as fast as they could. One or two weren't doing anything urgent and weren't afraid to approach him and say hi. They introduced themselves by what he was pretty sure were their hosts' names—and then confirmed his suspicion that they had no idea who he was by asking, "What are you called?"

He did likewise. His current host, as he recalled after a couple seconds of trying to remember from his driver's license, was named Kaden.

It seemed there were more demons than he realized that were pretty much doing what he was doing—just doing their best to stay on Earth and under the radar, just trying to get by. Sure, they were still assholes at best and couldn't stay in one host and one place for too long without getting convicted of murder, but things really weren't like they had been before. With Azazel and Meg and Ruby and… everyone. There was no master plan anymore. Crowley had taken the throne, but he had no end goal in mind, no great generals, probably not even any devoted servants. If any demon was truly loyal to Crowley it was for personal gain.

Abaddon probably would have been a far better ruler.

Too bad I butchered her, he thought, grinning.

Then there were the traditionalists, who had spent years in the same patterns of killing, who were dedicated to promoting terror, who were actively trying to further the kingdom of hell by dragging human souls into sinful habits. They were more common than Dean had ever realized, if one of the demons he talked to was to be believed. But the ones in this classification still weren't necessarily supporters of Crowley. Some of them were barely even aware that he was in power.

The crossroads demons were a different sort. They answered summons, collected souls, and did the work they'd always done, but the difference was that they reported back to their higher-ups. Not directly to the King himself, but Crowley did have access to that information, and they very much knew what was what in regards to the governing bodies of Hell. They were to be avoided. But they were always either in Hell or in the midst of a deal.

As the weeks went by, it seemed more and more that Dean had little to worry about in the area of being caught. He still needed to be careful, of course. Couldn't fall into serial killer habits to the point that somebody could piece together his patterns with newspaper clippings. In fact he couldn't get caught by hunters at all; they couldn't kill him, but they'd almost certainly exorcise him, sending him to hell and to Crowley, who would send him to Sam, who would kill him. Or at least turn him. Not much of a difference there. So yeah, he'd have to do his best to avoid confrontations. But he didn't have to worry every time he went out in public about being recognized by some Crowley lackey.

He also realized one day that he'd become very comfortable riding around Kaden. He'd been in him for about a week now and it had started out just like all the others, but after the first few days he'd become very… familiar. Dean knew his range of motion, he was accustomed to the sound and timbre of his voice in his throat, he'd grown used to his height (six feet, five inches, almost—taller even than Sam, the thought of which always filled him with triumph). The way his fingers moved and the size of his feet were no longer nearly so strange and the extent of his speed and agility had been thoroughly scoped out.

He was a much more obviously formidable foe than that girl Rachel had been, but killing in this body felt just as good.

Around the ten-day mark, he was sitting in a bar, sipping beer, as he pondered how much longer he was planning on giving it before he moved on. And whether he even wanted to move on. Sooner or later he hoped to find a vessel that would work well enough for him that he could stay in it for years and become familiar enough that he could go for extended periods of time without remembering that it was not his own.

Maybe he should just stay like this while he could.

He was just starting to think the effects of the alcohol were kicking in when there were suddenly these two drunk bastards in his face, and one of them was the fugliest son of a bitch he'd ever seen while the other had a laugh to match his friend's face, so he counted backwards from ten, stood up, and dragged them both outside, where he made quick work of them before some other guy came out looking distressed. He didn't know whether he was another of their friends or just a concerned citizen or just at the wrong place at the wrong time, but he was there, and Dean wasn't satisfied yet.

It wasn't till the sirens started that Dean's brain slowed down enough for him to realize how far he'd gone. The third guy had done nothing to provoke him, sure. But more importantly, he'd used his abilities, in a big way, and had gotten too swept up in the rush of things to even realize he was doing it. At least he was in a back alley, he reasoned to himself as he stepped onto the street, and had no reason to suspect anyone had seen a thing…

His eyes fell on the two terrified faces peering out of the driver's window of a car twenty feet ahead of him.

He first thought that he'd probably have to flee this body. Unless he killed these two as well. It would be pretty quick work.

The woman's eyes shone with tears as she clung to the man, who wrapped his arm around her protectively even as his face betrayed the same terror.

The sirens were getting closer.

There was no time. It didn't matter anyway; he was still riding the massive adrenaline rush triggered by those three kills, and, fueled by this energy, he simply turned and sprinted down the street.

He secured a new vehicle the quick and dirty way, by threatening a man just stepping out of his car until he handed over his keys. He also demanded the guy's jacket, because he sure as hell looked conspicuous covered in enormous amounts of blood.

He drove until he found himself in a reasonable-sized town, and once there realized that he could still use a couple beers. He'd barely finished one before those guys started bugging him. In fact, he was pretty hungry too. Nobody would have to die this time; all he needed was to get at least a little drunk, have a little fun, and maybe get a hotel room with a total stranger, who knew.

There weren't a lot of options when he first walked in, so he just ordered a beer and a burger, which he enjoyed quietly. A couple very becoming blondes entered and took seats at the bar after about an hour, at which point he almost immediately approached and offered to buy them drinks. They declined—go figure—but were unable to resist his charm and soon fell into conversation with him. Par for the course, really.

The beer was quality, the ladies were obviously into him, and he was feeling pretty damn good on the whole when he looked up and suddenly noticed the trenchcoated man approaching him, sea-blue eyes trained on him with all the intensity of a holy fire and all the pain of the bitterest truth.

He thought of the first time he'd ever seen this man, how impassive his expression had been then, how casual and unafraid. The most intense emotion he'd shown had been curiosity, and nothing Dean did had been able to stop him. He had tried so hard to pretend he wasn't shaking in his boots.

Oh, how things had changed.

This was going to be interesting.