AN: Whoa, I'm alive!
All recognizable dialogue in this chapter is taken from 10x14 "The Executioner's Song."
Emery is lounging on the seaside, bodies piled up on either side of him, just feeling the warmth and weight of the blood-covered Blade in his hands. Sirens sound continuously in the distance. He's already killed more cops than he can count, and is honestly starting to get a little tired of that particular breed. He's beginning to think he should be moving on soon.
He doesn't know where he's going next. He doesn't know what he'll do.
He just knows he has the Blade back, and he'll never want for anything else again.
Suddenly he recalls the reason he came here. Crowley's bones. They're sitting in an open coffin less than a mile away. He could end Crowley right now.
In a few minutes. Just a few more minutes, with just him and the Blade. He'll burn the bones on his way out.
Emery stretches luxuriously, like a housecat waking up after a long nap in a patch of sunlight. He watches the tide lap at the shores for a few minutes, before closing his eyes. The sound of the sea calms him, somehow. His rapid heartbeat eases just a tick towards normality as he listens to it. It vaguely surprises him that such an ordinary thing can still affect him like this.
"You've had a busy day."
His heart thuds, but he manages to stay still, not betraying his own surprise. And to make a point of how unsurprised he is, he gives it a few more nonchalant seconds before he opens his eyes, landing his gaze quickly on the man clad in black, standing in the sand a couple yards to his side.
Cain's trimmed his wild mane since they last met. Emery might say he looks well for it, except that he looks like an addict searching for his next fix. His hands are shoved into his pockets, probably because they'd shake otherwise, and his face looks sallow. But despite everything, he looks… strong. In control. Emery's not sure how… well, he must be misinterpreting. He knows what it's like to be apart from the Blade. Cain must be hurting—he's just hiding it.
He surveys him for a few seconds, and cocks his head. "How…?"
"Tracking spell," Cain supplies. "Remember? I've been keeping an eye on the news. Every time something atrocious has happened on a large scale, something that I could have wrought myself, I've checked to see if you were there. This time… you were."
If he's had the tracking spell this whole time, he never had any particular gumption to see Emery before now. So something has changed.
Emery glances down at the Blade in his hand. But Cain doesn't acknowledge it. Just stares around at the carnage, the smoke, and says thoughtfully, "I've been doing the same."
"Killing?"
"Far more strategically. Not for all the same reasons." He returns his gaze to Emery. "But yes."
Emery suddenly realizes how tense he is, but he can't betray that. He waves a hand vaguely. "Well go on. How and why?"
"I do still have the Mark. And because of it, I do still have to kill. But I've managed to channel that need into something meaningful. I am one of the first men. In fact I'm the second. And my children, my whole poisoned issue… they cover the earth. A lot of them out there right now… killers, fighters, thieves. Some more peaceful than others. But they still carry it… the disease. If the Mark wants blood, I'll give it mine."
Emery blinks, slowly processing what he's saying. "Everyone descended from you? But that's gotta be, like… what?"
Cain steps forward, and Emery successfully keeps himself from flinching. All Cain does, though, is take a seat in the sand beside him. "At most… one in ten."
Emery blinks, fixing him with a stare. "Of everyone?"
"I've got time."
"You're killing them all. You're trying to end your bloodline." He's reeling, but he's not sure in which direction—admiration, or horror. But there is some strong reaction that burns within him at being in the presence of someone both willing and capable of such an undertaking.
"Yes." He regards Emery for a long time, and finally says, "You're part of it now. Even more deeply than before."
Emery's stolen heart gives a single hard thud in his chest. He attempts to quiet it, to hide the effects. "I'm not just 'part of it,'" he tries. "I'm you. Remember?"
"Yes." Cain suddenly appears to be far away. "'Don't make me be you alone. Don't let me.' You know, Dean, I've been thinking about your last words to me quite a lot in these past months. You were more right than you know. I know exactly how you'll start feeling in about a year. A decade. A century. When the country of your birth crumbles, when your native language no longer exists. I know who you'll be, because you'll be me."
Emery glances over at him. He feels like he should say something snarky, but nothing springs to mind.
Cain seems to return to the present day, and nods in the direction of the Blade, still held tight in Emery's hand. "I wondered how quickly you'd get a hold of it again."
Emery looks down at it. He tries to rub off some of the blood with his thumb, but both the Blade and his hands are completely coated in red. All he does is move it around. "Happened quicker than I'd imagined."
"Oh, that can happen. It calls to you. In ways you don't even realize."
Of course, that's not what he meant, but there's no real reason to explain. Emery looks at Cain's face searchingly, but he's pretty stoic. "It calling to you now?" he asks cautiously.
"Oh, of course," he responds nonchalantly. "Always is. We may be the same, but we're also enemies, by necessity. We'll be fighting constantly for that thing until one of us kills the other."
"Well, if you feel that strongly, here, why don't you have it?" Emery offers lightly, and immediately continues, "I'm joking. It's my turn now."
"That's not how this works. This isn't the playground, and there are no turns."
"Okay, so that's why you're here? For the Blade? Makes sense, you've never shown up at any of the parties I've thrown until now, even though you could've." Emery tries to play it cool, but he's beyond nervous. He has the upper hand because of the Blade, but Cain has the entire history of the world as experience, and all it takes is one weak moment for him to snatch it away… then it's over.
Cain smiles at him. Emery wishes he wouldn't. "You know how this ends. The Blade pierces your heart, and you're gone. An eternal sleep. What would be so bad about that?"
Emery stares down at the Blade, feeling its comforting weight in his hands. It seems to stare right back into him, assuring him, There's no way you could ever sleep soundly without me. "I wouldn't have it," he says quietly. "You can't take it from me. I won't let you."
"Let me guess," says Cain. "Everything you've done since the last time I saw you has been in pursuit of that Blade. Everything. You've thought about it morning, evening, and night. Nothing that would normally appeal to you does anymore. You've worked to hone your powers as much as you can on your own because it increases your chances of reuniting with the one weapon you were built to wield, and you've been perfectly frank or the biggest liar in the world, whatever was more conducive towards that ultimate goal in the moment."
Emery shrugs. "You make me sound like such a one trick pony."
"You had the whole world, but you forsook it all just for the Blade."
"Okay, first of all—forsook?" He pulls a face, and lets that speak for itself. "Second—you just said you know who I am. You know the Blade. I didn't have the whole world. Because this?" He holds the Blade up, though he's careful to keep it out of Cain's reach and maintain a firm grip. "This is worth the world a hundred times over. Everything else can go to hell. I was nothing without the Blade, but with it? I'm free. Finally free."
Cain smiles, but this time it's an amused smile. Emery is immediately uneasy. "'Free,'" he repeats. "Same word that always pops immediately into my mind whenever I try to describe what it's like to hold that Blade. I knew it was only a matter of time before you produced it as well. But I know where this ends. Because I've been there. We've been over this. Dean, let me clue you in on a little secret." He leans over towards Emery conspiratorially, and Emery doesn't move any closer, but he doesn't pull away either. Cain looks him in the eye, his own gaze completely clear, and says, "You and I will never be free again. We are chained to that Blade. We are slaves to it. It lets us think we're free when we have it in our grasp, but there is no choice, no agency. We must return to it, always. That is our lot, Dean. The Blade is indeed the world to us, because it is all we have, all we can ever have again. Maybe you'll be the one to kill me. And if you are, you'll spend the rest of your eternal life chasing that Blade and never wanting for anything beyond it again. Like a dog after fresh meat."
Emery stares at him.
Magnus is an absolute prick, and normally he might regret not being able to see the look of surprise on his face as his shoulders are relieved of his head, but he's a little distracted by the roar of blood through his brain. He stares down at the Blade in his hand, unable to comprehend the depth of power he wields. Up until now, he'd had no idea, but now he knows this is only the tip of the iceberg. He has never felt more powerful. The Blade beckons to him, telling him to follow its call to the ends of the earth and it will reward him with power beyond all reckoning, and he is ready to follow no matter what. There is no room for thought in his head, and he doesn't mind. Sam's voice pulls him out of it, and he convinces himself it's for the best.
He's looked forward to this moment practically since the first time he heard this ginger bitch's name. The Mark on his arm burns in anticipation of the kill, even as she repeatedly throws her hand out in front of her, trying to keep him in check, but the Mark retaliates fiercely, and he is able to walk. With great effort, he pushes himself across the glass-covered tile floor, never loosening his grip on the Blade—until a surprising show of force from Abaddon wrenches it from his hands. He hangs pressed against the wall, and he'd feel helpless but for the energy pulsing through him from the Mark. Everything would be lost, save for it. She stands there laughing in preemptive triumph as he beckons the Blade to him—or, perhaps, as the Blade beckons him to it. It returns to him faithfully, and Abaddon stands there foolishly as he strides up to her and shanks her. But it's not enough. Give me more, the Blade commands, and he obliges without a thought, plunging it into her again, and again, and again. For the second time, it's Sam who eventually stops him, and after several seconds spent coming back to himself, he drops the Blade, gaping in horror at what he's done. But the memory of the kill… he can't stop replaying it, and it's impossible not to enjoy it every single time.
He never meant for Tessa to die. When she throws herself onto the Blade, he actually couldn't be more surprised, though in retrospect it should've been obvious. He knows he's screwed up, and yet, as he watches the light pour out of her eyes and mouth… he doesn't regret his mistake. Not one bit. He tells them the truth, that Tessa offed herself on the first chance she got. Sam doesn't believe him. Maybe because he can see the look in his eyes. He's not lying—he didn't make a single move on the reaper—but damn did he enjoy it when she died on his Blade. And Sam can sniff that kind of thing out. He knows there's something wrong with him. And he knows he should care. He just… doesn't. The Blade assures him there's no reason to. It will keep him safe. All he has to do is give it blood—in fact, there's nothing else he'll ever have to do again.
It's different this time. Sam's not standing in the wings, yelling at him to stop. Because Sam is the one whose life he is about to wrench away. This time, he doesn't have the Blade—and yet he feels it calling to him, through the Mark, even now. Dean's brother screams, and screams, until he can't anymore, until his eyes slide shut and blood stains all his clothes as well as the hands, face, and everything else of the unfortunate sap playing host to Cain's heir. Keep going, he hears as a whisper in his mind. Show him that you've chosen me over him. And he does. He keeps at it, breaking bones, shredding flesh, and laughing all the way. Sam's voice doesn't stop him this time. The voice of the Blade is all that matters.
The memories all rush through Emery's mind in the same split second, and he cannot find a single discrepancy with what Cain has said—the Blade is his master. There is no way out.
So what? he thinks fiercely, and Blade in his hand soothes him, assuring him, Of course it doesn't matter—I am a good master, I give you everything you will ever need.
He wishes it would shut up. He wishes for silence, for choice. Just for a moment!
But then the Blade…
But—
To say he's distracted would be a gross understatement, but he's not so much so that when Cain lunges for the Blade, he doesn't instinctively throw himself as far away as he can get. As it turns out just an instant later, that point is somewhere in the middle of the ocean. He bobs at the surface, gasping, his mouth filled with saltwater, and he doesn't see a hint of land in any direction.
This is beyond words. Discontent should be impossible. Conflict should be a distant dream! He has the Blade, and that should be the end, of everything.
He never would have dreamed for a moment that he'd wish for separation from it. And even as he does, the Blade, still clutched tightly in his fist, springs back to the forefront of his mind, telling him firmly, You don't wish for that. You know you don't, you never will, and you'll never have reason to. You are mine, and I am yours. We are one—you are nothing without me. Why would you want to be nothing?
It's right.
It's absolutely right, and these thoughts need to stop, he needs to stop, he needs to keep killing.
Fortunately, he has a list prepared, from a long, long time ago. It's not much of one, but it'll get him started.
A certain trio of pests who had no idea just who they were exorcising are about to serve a very, very important purpose.
Emery focuses all his power on moving himself across the world, and moments later, water rushes in to fill the space he previously occupied.