Nighttime in cities does not mean darkness, not even on the outskirts where the lights aren't so numerous or pressed so closely together.
An orange glow hung in the night sky like a heavy vapor, acting as a curtain between the earth and the stars, dulling the brilliance of the not-quite-full moon. The arid heat of New Mexico was completely still, easily carrying the deep rumble of late night traffic on the freeway across the dry, dusty land.
Albuquerque. It wasn't our final destination, but it was where Sam and Dean hit a wall. The seasoned hunters were running on fumes by the time we reached the desert city, and unanimously decided to spring for a couple of beds at a tacky, western-themed motel just beyond the city limits. As someone who didn't require sleep, and as something the boys only vaguely trusted, I was not invited into their room, and was instead forced to kill time with Freya in the wide, uneven parking lot that encircled the inn. At first, Sam had proposed leaving me in the Impala, handcuffed to the steering wheel, but Dean felt less comfortable with the idea of leaving some demon unattended inside his precious baby, and decided I had earned enough trust to be left to my own devices.
Motel parking lots in New Mexico — or anywhere, for that matter —at three o'clock in the morning are boring. I played fetch with Freya and a long, awkward stick for a while before I wondered if anyone was watching, and if they were, I considered how freakishly odd it must appear to them, watching a man throwing a stick that seemed to return on its own. So, to Freya's dismay, I stopped and instead ambled in circles around the motel. We did this for an hour or so until it had become monotonous and boring, and we retired to the sidewalk outside Sam and Dean's door where I chain-smoked cigarettes and sipped whisky from a stainless steel flask.
I gazed up at the moon that struggled against the veil of light pollution, and tried not to think of all the things that plagued me, the things that fueled me to run and made standing still a living — or post-living — hell. I tried not to think about the redheaded man I had killed in Baton Rouge, and I balled my hands into fists when I failed.
It was nearly five o'clock in the morning when their door creaked open and shattered the bitter thoughts that had plagued me in my solitude. I remained still with my head tilted skyward as I lazily puffed on the cigarette I held loosely between my lips. I listened to the sound of boots on the concrete sidewalk, and Dean eventually wandered into view from my left. He was dressed in the same blue jeans and black and white plaid shirt he had been wearing earlier, but now they looked rumpled and tired, matching Dean's demeanor. He did not appear well rested and it took me a moment to realize the weary expression he wore wasn't new and it wasn't temporary. Dean looked tired because he was utterly and perpetually exhausted. It took me a lot less time to understand I was the one that had done this to him.
What have I done?
I liked to think what separated me from the other demons, the more demony demons, was a conscience. And it was, kind of. Mostly though, it was guilt.
Dean sleepily leaned against the trunk of the Impala and exhaled heavily. Crickets sang out to the creeping dawn from god only knew where, and their sound only emphasized the silence that lay between me and my son.
Say something, I mentally barked at myself. Kill the silence before Dean realizes how awkward it is and starts asking questions.
"Can't sleep?" I said as my gaze shifted up to him.
"I got a few hours," he said, stifling a yawn. He stretched his arms and stuffed his hands into his pockets. "You didn't take off."
"I thought about it," I admitted with a shrug. "But I wouldn't get far. Not without smoking out."
"That's why you stayed?" Dean asked skeptically with a raised brow. "You didn't want to find a new meat— body?"
"Do you know how hard it is to find someone willing to let a demon possess them?" I asked.
"Not from a personal standpoint," he admitted with a nod and a thoughtful expression. "But I can't imagine it's an easy feat. What's with that anyway? Your…" He paused to wave his hand as he searched for the right word. "Vessel. Max. What's wrong with him?"
"What's wrong with him?" I echoed, a little more than mildly offended, though I wasn't entirely sure why.
"Yeah," Dean said unapologetically. "I mean, there had to be something a little off for the guy to actually let a demon possess him. So, is Max a devil worshiper or just plain nuts?"
I drew in a lungful of nicotine as I contemplated my response.
"Max…" I haltingly began, breathing out a cloud of smoke that seemed to cling to the breezeless air and lazily drifted into the parking lot where it hovered before it dissipated. "Max did four tours in Afghanistan. Saw a lot of fucked up shit. Kind of messed him up." I rolled up my jacket sleeves and turned my forearms up. Dean leaned over to peer down at the raised, white scars that ran down Max's wrists.
"Oh." Dean spoke so low it was almost a whisper.
"I offered him something in return for letting me pilot his skeleton," I continued, offhandedly confirming Dean's suspicions.
"Which was…?"
"Peace."
"Peace?"
"I can make him sleep," I explained as Dean leaned back and I rolled my sleeves back down. "He's asleep most of the time."
"That's it?" Dean asked, not entirely satisfied with my response.
"Believe me." I paused to take in a long drag from my cigarette. "It's a lot better than what he was dealing with."
Dean crossed his arms, but pondered my words. A subtle smile tugged at his lips and an almost inaudible chuckle escaped his throat.
"What?" I asked, narrowing my eyes at him.
"Nothing," Dean said, shaking his head. "It's just, you're either the weirdest demon I've ever met, or you're doing a decent job playing us."
I didn't respond to this. Instead, I took in another deep breath of smoke. Dean shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat.
"You think I could bum one of those?" he reluctantly asked, nodding towards the cigarette. I wordlessly tossed the white and gold box to him.
"Thanks," he said, helping himself. He stared down at the pack in his hands and a small, fond smile spread across his lips. "My dad used to smoke these."
"Yeah?" I asked nervously, watching Dean light his cigarette with a silver zippo. He inhaled deeply, and exhaled with satisfaction. I hadn't thought twice about it when he'd asked for a cigarette; I had seen him smoking thousands of times, back when I was alive and still his father. But his look of guilty indulgence told me this was his first cigarette in a long time.
"You ever run into him?" Dean asked thoughtfully. "My dad? You were a hunter, right?"
At first, I didn't know what to say. I didn't want to lie to my son. But didn't want him to find out what had become of his old man.
"Can't say I did," I settled on a vague, half lie.
"How long you been a demon?" Dean prodded curiously after a moment, attempting casual conversation to fill the silence.
"Long enough," I supplied another hazy answer.
"You know, there's a cure for demonism," Dean informed me in a low tone, as if he were telling me classified information.
"Is that so?" I asked with uncertain interest.
"It is," Dean confirmed with a nod. "You do us a few favors and we might consider curing you."
I wordlessly nodded at his offer as my gaze fell to the black asphalt. I pondered the prospect of being cured. Of being a human again. Crowley couldn't drag me back to Hell if I wasn't a demon. Unless…
"Don't look too excited," Dean said archly. He flicked the ash from the tip of his cigarette. "I know demonism is fun when you're a demon. But you don't actually want to be one, do you?"
"No," I quickly shook my head. "Fuck no. It's just, if I'm cured, what happens to my soul when I die?"
"I dunno," Dean said with a shrug. "I guess maybe that depends on how you spend your second chance?"
"And if my soul technically belongs to Hell?"
Dean's brows furrowed in confusion before they raised with sudden realization.
"You sold your soul?" he asked, though it came across as more of a statement.
"I'd like to be human again," I insisted, neither addressing nor ignoring the question. "Believe me. I hate being a demon. This is not fucking fun."
It's a little fun.
"But I'd rather not go through the trouble of being cured if I'm just going to end up in Hell again."
"My dad sold his soul," Dean casually mentioned. "And he got out."
"You don't think your old man is in Hell?" I asked with an arched brow.
Where do they think I am?
Wisps of grey smoke encircled his head as he carefully puffed on his cigarette and carefully considered my question.
"I guess I don't know where he went," he admitted, a fact that visibly weighed on him. "Why?" He asked, his body suddenly tense. "Have you seen him? Down there?"
Shit.
"Not that I know of," I lied. Dean exhaled a short breath of relief and eased his rigid stance.
"I mean, if he were in Hell, Crowley would have bragged about that, right?" Dean tried to justify his belief that I was somewhere else. Somewhere other than Hell. Somewhere other than possessing the twenty-eight year old man sitting on the sidewalk beside him.
"I'm sure someone would have mentioned it," I agreed, despite knowing the truth. Being the truth.
Dean nodded and drew in a breath of smoke.
"Crowley definitely would have mentioned it," he reassured himself again. "He didn't deserve Hell, anyway."
"No?" I questioned with a challenging tone. Dean raised a brow and I realized what I'd done. I wasn't supposed to question anything Dean said about me, John me. I wasn't supposed to have known me.
"Don't get me wrong," Dean began. "He wasn't father of the year or anything. But he definitely didn't deserve to end up in the pit. It wasn't really his fault. Not all of it."
"What wasn't his fault?" I asked, as I carelessly tossed the stub of my cigarette into the parking lot.
"You haven't heard the story?" Dean casually asked.
"I've heard some stories. Apparently not all of them."
"My dad had been marked," Dean explained. "By a cupid. He and my mom."
A coldness crept into my chest and my heart stopped.
"What?" I whispered. I sat rigid, unable to breathe. "My mom's death, Sam's curse - it was all part of Heaven's fucking plan. He was basically under an Enochian love spell," Dean continued, blithely unaware of the change in my expression as the coldness inside me began to give way to a fiery rage. "His whole quest for revenge was pretty much fueled by that. Intensified, anyway."
I clenched my fingers into fists as the fury blazed inside my chest, extended its flames and engulfed every part of my very existence. The anger was so deep, so raw, I began to shake. Everything I'd done since falling in love with Mary had been out of my control. Turning to hunting, allowing fear and vengeance to consume me for decades, destroying the future my sons could have had; they were all things I never would have done had it not been for those goddamn angels.
"Why—?" I trailed off, my voice breaking as I tried to hold the temper from my tone. "Why would the angels want us— your parents to get together?"
"For me and Sam," Dean casually replied, seemingly unaware of the slip or my look of shock. "We had to be born. So we could be the vessels for their fucking family feud bullshit. I bet they regret it now," he added with a rueful chuckle. It was all Fate. My life, all our lives, had been predetermined by angels. And I had gone to Hell for the things they had always intended me to do.
I wanted to put my fist through the asphalt. I wanted to let out a terrible yell and rip something in half. I wanted to kill an angel.
Instead, I shakily lit another cigarette. I attempted to quiet my rage, for the sake of Dean, and the safety of every person sleeping in that motel. For the sake of my cover.
"I hadn't heard that story," I said, attempting — and miserably failing — a calm voice.
"You okay?" Dean asked, clearly detecting a hint of wrath in my voice. He took one last puff of his cigarette and flicked the stub into the parking lot where it landed with a tiny explosion of embers. "You look a little on edge."
"I'm a demon," I replied with an hurried huff of smoke.
"So, good and bad?" Dean stepped away from the Impala. "I'm gonna try to grab another hour. We'll hit the road in a few hours tops."
Right. The grimoire. In the midst of the revelations of what Heaven had done to me, I had nearly forgotten about the goddamn grimoire and fucking Las Vegas and that bastard Crowley.
"Take your time," I said with a bitter sarcasm, turing to face Dean as he ambled behind me towards his room. "The grimoire will just jump out of Crowley's hands on its own."
A small smile tugged at Dean's lips as he cracked the red door open.
"Man, you and my dad would've gotten along great," he commented, shaking his head as he stepped into his room.
I turned back to face the parking lot and Dean quietly closed the door, leaving me to my thoughts and my rage. Freya wandered to my side and laid herself beside me, slumping lazily against the concrete as she put her head on my lap and stared up at me.
"I know what you're thinking," I spoke quietly, gently petting her head. "Vengeance is what landed me in Hell in the first place."
Fate or not, the revenge I craved was all me. It was who I was.
Or did the angels make me that man?
A frustrated growl rolled through my throat as another surge of hot rage coursed through me. I clenched my fists and fought the urge to slam them onto the pavement. A restlessness began to pull at me, a hunger that would not be satisfied until I saw an angel dead.
"The first one I see, Freya," I said, my voice a dark, low grumble. "I swear, I'll kill it."