The demons had co-opted an abandoned warehouse. Meg was excited about her new body, with its dark, shoulder-length hair and warm brown eyes. "I've gotta go shopping," she said, pulling uncomfortably at the lapels of the suit the girl had been wearing. "How about you, Clarence?" she asked Cas flirtatiously. Cas looked down at his meatsuit, a man who looked remarkably like the image he had worn in Hell, right down to the trenchcoat Dean had first seen him in.
"I don't need to go shopping," Cas said. He frowned carefully at his appearance, as though wondering what was wrong, before an a-ha expression appeared on his face. He pulled off the wedding ring the body had been wearing and tossed it on the floor.
Meg rolled her eyes. "Sure you don't. —How about you?" she turned to Dean. "You wanna go shopping, or are you still in the mood to sulk?"
"Yeah, sulking sounds good," Dean said sarcastically.
Cas gave him a petulant sort of look, but Dean was unmoved.
When the other demons had finally left, Dean allowed himself to sink to the floor. The reality of Alastair's death crashed over him again, and now, without anyone else in the room, it gained a greater aspect; the shock of it still hadn't left him, and even now he felt almost as though Alastair must just be somewhere around the corner. But he's dead, Dean reminded himself. He's fucking dead. And Dean had been right beside him—unable to move. Unable to do a thing to save his mentor.
He screamed, and the few windows in the building that were not already broken shattered.
They fell to the ground in glittering shards, and then the silence crawled back, worse now for its momentary absence.
He considered running. Taking off to points unknown. But the terrible thing was that Cas, who was not only vastly more powerful a demon but who had also seared his ownership into Dean's soul through the handprint on his arm, would be able to find him no matter where he went.
There was nothing to do to take his mind off the complete pointlessness of all existence. The Earth, which seemed remarkably untouched, still, by the Apocalypse, wouldn't stay that way for long; soon it would be trashed and burning, stripped to the bones like the infernal city. As below, so above. Let Meg have her fun shopping; soon there would be no shopping malls left. There would be no more blue skies—
For the first time, Dean regretted his actions; not sure which, but whichever one of them had landed him here, alone in a warehouse with nothing to his name.
There was only one course of action to take in a situation like this, Dean thought—and that was to get totally smashed.
/
He was in a dive bar, sitting among crowds of unwary humans. The neon lights on the walls made the air waver around them; Dean had been drinking steadily for the past hour and had just realized the one downside to his new meatsuit—the bartender wanted to cut him off.
"I think that's enough for you tonight, honey," she said; not unkindly. Dean, who was only vaguely buzzed, was trying to figure out whether it'd be worth the effort to kill the bartender and all the patrons just to get free access to the drinks, when a man who had been watching him for some time came up beside him and flashed him a smile. "Hey, darlin'," he said. "Let me buy you a round."
The bartender pursed her lips, but Dean smiled back easily. "Would you? Thanks so much." He passed one hand over the little cheerleading skirt the body was wearing, and saw the man's gaze come to rest on that careful expose of thigh.
Of course he'd come back as a cheerleader. Why wouldn't he? The meatsuit looked good too; she had nice breasts he could cup in his hands, sandy blonde hair, and a cupid's-bow mouth. Blue eyes. Just by chance.
He passed the bartender an unsettling grin, daring her to make trouble; but she seemed to have some sense of self-preservation, for she only shivered a little as though at an unexpected gust of cold, and went to get another drink.
/
Outside, in the alley, little miss cheerleader was getting fucked. It was all proper and careful, condom unrolled and slipped on, guy holding tight but not too tight, Dean wouldn't be feeling bruises on his arms. His pigtails had come undone, hair tangling over his shoulders. He drew out his moans for show, wanting to see a light of something—something—in the guy's eyes. Should've picked someone who'd slap him around, should've done this to himself so he didn't have to look at a wrong face, see the sweat bead on some random human's lip.
He pushed himself into the sensations of fingers pinching at his breasts, harder! when Dean asked for it, into the wet slide of his pussy against Random's dick, the sweat between them of heat and friction, the dirty alley with its rancid smell of trash and the light from the bar and the scrape of his elbows against the brick wall, he pushed past the dissatisfaction, trying to reach for—
Oh, he could figure out how to come well enough, the mental trick of it, if this guy was even remotely talented. But Dean didn't want just a physical rush, endorphins flatlining after; he didn't want the sour taste in the back of his throat; he didn't know what he was looking for but whatever it was he wouldn't find it here. He wanted to run till his legs burned and he wanted to hurt someone and see the hot flash of pain, see the guts and the bowels and press his hand inside; he wanted, quite suddenly, to kill the guy, but really, Random had been so accommodating so far—it didn't seem polite.
Polite. Why did he even care about being polite?
There Dean was, after, still wondering why he'd let Random live, shaking with aftershocks as he tore ragged breath into his throat—breath he didn't need, but it filled his lungs, helped him sink into the illusion of being alive.
A trail of spit had traced its way down his chin. He didn't know whose it was.
Then—walking back into the bathroom, because he hadn't gotten teleportation in the power lottery, damn it—he pressed scratchy wads of tissues to his privates to clean them, throwing them into the toilet when he was done, and flushing. On the inside of the stall, some enterprising soul had graffitid the words you are beautiful.
/
It was pretty optimistic of him to think he could stay away for this long. Without really knowing what had prompted him to such suicidally stupid behavior, Dean was skulking around the limits of Bobby's property, trying to catch a glimpse of the old hunter.
He was afraid to get too close and get stuck in a devil's trap, so instead he had to hide behind junkers and squint toward the lit windows.
It was nearing ten, but Bobby should still be up. The shadow he saw beyond the glass didn't look like Bobby, though; it was a slight girl who stopped, turning her head and staring for a moment into the gloom outside; some visiting hunter probably; one of Bobby's eccentric collection of friends. Dean had the eeriest sensation that the girl had noticed him, though that, of course, was impossible.
But when the front door cracked open and the girl stepped outside and walked straight toward his hiding place, Dean began to reconsider.
Kill the girl? No. Bobby wouldn't like that. It would defeat the whole point. …Whatever the point was.
He could see, now, that her hair was red; straight and shining under the moon's glow; grey eyes that were looking unmistakably his direction.
And there was something weird about her.
Oh, she looked human, all right, but there was a bright spot by her breastbone. Focusing, Dean realized that she wasn't actually shining, but the sensation of a bright spot didn't go away.
"Dean Winchester?" the girl said.
Dean's eyes flicked black, and he stepped forward threateningly. "What are you?" he said. And then— "what are you doing here?"
"It's a long story," the girl said. "My name is Anna. Anna Milton. I know you went to Hell." She crossed her arms, pulling her green jacket close; but he wasn't actually sure if it was from cold or because she'd been intimidated by him. She didn't seem intimidated, and she spoke in a clear, ringing voice that, despite its flat affect, seemed laced with the aura of someone who expected to be obeyed.
"Sure," Dean said. "You're in Bobby's house. What I wanna know is how'd you recognize me?"
"I'm… psychic," Anna said carefully. It was bullshit, Dean knew, but she watched him evenly as though daring him to call her on it. He shrugged.
"Okay. So, what, you just saw who I was? Or you had some vision shit?"
"I saw you," Anna said. "And I recognized you." She motioned for him to walk as she started through the junkyard, and Dean kept pace with her. "You must know, by now, about the Apocalypse."
"Yeah," Dean said drily. "Couldn't exactly miss it."
"Then perhaps you also know something went—not to plan," Anna said. "I overhear angels, sometimes."
Dean stopped short. "What does that mean," he said, in a quiet voice. "Hearing angels. Like, the ringing?"
Anna nodded. "But I can understand them."
"So you just happen to be hooked into angel radio?" Dean said skeptically.
"Yes," Anna said. She raised an eyebrow at him. "Dean, I heard about the attack on Hell. How they were trying to rescue you. What went wrong?"
"Look, you seem nice enough, but why do you think I'll trust you?"
"What have you got to lose?" Anna said. She held out her arms as though to gesture to herself. "I'm obviously no threat to you. But I know things you might not."
Dean sighed. This looked like a bad idea but… on the other hand.
It was quiet. A cool breeze was blowing, but the air was fresh in a way it never had been, downstairs. Dean looked up into the sky, black and soft like velvet; and instead of the dry, featureless expanse he had suffered under for so long, there was instead the fullness, the sparkling vastness of the stars.
/
He got invited inside.
Still cursing himself for a fool, Dean edged in carefully, making sure, before he stepped, that the devil's traps were all broken as Anna had said.
And there he was in the cluttered living room; Bobby, tired and worn but still so recognizably himself, hale and alive, looking toward Dean with an expression of unease; and beside him lounged Bela and a girl named Tessa Dean didn't recognize, with a short dark bob and a skeletal creature underneath her outward appearance—oh, of fucking course; not a girl, a reaper. That explained Bela, at least.
Who smirked at him. "Seems like I got out first after all."
"Bela," Dean said, sinking into a chair that had been pulled out, and feeling weirdly like he was on trial as Anna moved to stand behind Bobby's shoulder. "Good for you. What's all this about stopping the Apocalypse?"
/
Sam was still alive.
Cas, that dick, had lied to him.
"Well, not completely," Sam said. "It turns out I uh… I was supposed to be Lucifer's vessel, but the angels have to ask for consent. They can't just smoke in like—well. So of course I said no. He was pretty pissed but said he'd find a way to convince me. I'd been on the run for a while, and after Ruby, I wasn't ready to trust anyone, but Anna found me. Right, you don't know about Ruby. She convinced me to drink demon blood so my powers would get stronger, but it was all just a bid to make my body strong enough to hold Lucifer. I killed her when the Cage opened. I killed Lilith, too—and screwed up the world;" he added, with a bitter chuckle. "I didn't know she was the last seal."
"Don't," Dean said, flatly.
Sam, who had been sitting across him, talking down into his hands, as if that was the only way he could bear to speak about this—or maybe the only way he could bear to speak to Dean—started, and looked up.
"Don't apologize for killing Lilith," Dean said. "The bitch deserved it."
"He's right," Bela said.
There was an awkward silence throughout the room after that. At last, Bobby cleared his throat and said, "So, after that—"
"Yeah," Sam said, this time looking at Dean with the expression like he was trying to piece together a puzzle, "After that, Anna convinced me to come back to Bobby's house. Convinced me to, um. Try to dry out, too. After everything that had happened—I agreed. Since then we've just been trying to stop the Apocalypse. Oh," Sam said, as though in afterthought; "and we've got a brother we didn't know about. Half-brother. He died, but the angels brought him back and he said yes to Michael."
"So basically you're the only hold-up to the entire world getting fucked," Dean said. That was bad—as was the devil's threat to make Sam say yes. Dean knew well enough that there was only so much you could stand up against certain methods of persuasion; and Sam hadn't given any details, which meant he didn't want to talk about it, and that was—not a good sign. "Do any of you have a clue how we're actually supposed to stop Lucifer?"
/
Everyone left him alone with Sam, after that, though Bobby warned gruffly that they had a reaper in the house and she'd know the moment Dean tried any funny business. With that threat hanging over his head, Dean and Sam were just standing awkwardly in the kitchen.
"Hey," Sam said at last, quietly. "I don't know what happened to you—down there—but I'm sorry—"
"Save it," Dean said. "It was my own fault."
Sam frowned. "I'm not sure it was," he said carefully. "Bela didn't talk about much, but… Dean, you were tortured. Tortured until you became a demon."
"No, Sam," Dean said. "I became a demon almost two hundred years after I'd gotten off the rack. That was all me."
The silence fell between them again, even worse.
Dean knew, now, that Ruby had been playing them the whole time—what a shocker—and yet her words flashed in his mind now. I remember, she'd said. What it was like to be human. He wondered, distantly, if she had. He felt, himself, as though he were putting on an act; just a hollow thing filled with smoke. Pretending to be something Sammy wouldn't recoil from. And why? Why was he doing any of it?
—What else could he do? Hell was no place for him anymore; without Alastair. And Sam was alive.
There was still something on Earth that deserved to be saved.
/
"You've been gone for a long time," Cas observed, when Dean slipped into the warehouse again. He was wearing much the same clothes as before, though Meg had seemingly convinced him to try a striped blue tie instead of a plain one.
"It's been barely twenty-four hours," Dean said.
Cas just tilted his head, looking at him with a trace of suspicion. No, Dean thought—he was projecting. There was no way Cas would think to be suspicious of him; why would he guess that Dean had basically thrown his lot in with a bunch of humans and decided to save the world? It sounded ridiculous even in his own head. In all the time Cas had known him, the only thing Dean had done had been run and hide, following Alastair's orders like a good little soldier.
Even though it was probably gonna fail spectacularly, there was something about knowing Dean was gonna stand and fight that made Dean—well. Not feel. He wasn't sure he remembered how to do that. But, still, it hovered in his chest like an ember. It was something. Something to fling against the nothingness, even if it didn't matter.
Even if it was all far too little, far too late.
/
Earth. How could he have forgotten what it was like? The brightness of it. Sure, there was a general lack of carnage that made Dean antsy, it didn't hold the purity of the rack, he couldn't find the stripped-down place inside himself where he didn't have to worry anymore—but even worry felt like a novelty.
He had someone to worry about. He had Sam.
So much older than the last time he'd seen him, in that house where Lilith had murdered him, where he'd seen the clock strike midnight and heard the baying of hounds, watching them dart into the room with shining eyes and teeth opening to rend his flesh—
So much older, and yet Dean still could feel the edges of himself settling into the knowledge. Sammy was there to protect. He hadn't yet failed.
Perhaps he wouldn't?
Too much to hope for. But, still—
The wind in the trees; the way the sun fell warmly onto his borrowed skin. Like an undeserved kindness. No one watching him, and the only leash that still held him was Cas.
Cas, whom he had ruined.
Dean admitted it. He'd done it happily; he'd done it without even thinking, just because it was work, and he was good at it. Perversely, he'd somehow also felt as though Cas would never break, even though he knew full well it was possible—and inevitable. After all, even the devil, the center of Hell to which all things were drawn, had once been the brightest star.
/
So, now, they moved together on the sheets of some craphole motel; and Dean, as he shuddered around Cas' cock, made sure to look him in the eyes, as a reminder. This is what you do, Dean. You make the monster that ruined you; you burned down the home you can never go back to; it is only right.
.
.
.
Notes:
• "the fullness, the sparkling vastness of the stars" that Dean observes during the scene with Anna is inspired by the ending of Dante's Inferno (Canto 34), as he observes upon leaving hell,
"My guide and I came on that hidden road
to make our way back into the bright world;
and with no care for any rest, we climbed—
he first, I following—until I saw,
through a round opening, some of those things
of beauty Heaven bears. It was from there
that we emerged, to see—once more—the stars."
• the description of the devil as "the center [of Hell] to which all things were drawn" is also from Canto 34 of Inferno.
• in 4x07, "It's the Great Pumpkin, Sam Winchester" Dean says, "yeah, well, if you were a six-hundred-year-old hag and you could pick any costume to come back in, wouldn't you go for a hot cheerleader? I would."