Rain lashed against the windows and pounded against the weathered pavement of the lonesome highway that cut through tall growing fields of corn. The roar of the Impala's engine collided with the slapping of water against the car's undercarriage to create a familiar white noise that echoed just beneath the melody of Hey Joe. The wipers scraped against the windshield in a painful whine, causing Dean to curse the worn blades that left a thick arch of water in his line of vision. He bobbed his head and twisted his neck in awkward angles in an effort to get a clear view of the road between the blurred streaks of water.

Aside from Dean's grumbling, no one said a word. In fact, the whole southbound trip through Michigan into Indiana and Illinois had been almost entirely wordless. Dean had tried to get a hold of Castiel a few dozen times during the commute, and had left irksome messages, but that was it. Neither of my sons pressed me for details of my daring escape from the demon's clutches, or questioned my ability to pull off such a feat. Dean was too preoccupied with trying to reach his celestial pal to wonder too long or too hard about things like how the demon sitting behind him had eluded Crowley for so long. Sam, on the other hand, appeared as though he were desperately trying to ignore me. He sat in the passenger seat with his body turned at a slight angle to remove me from his peripheral view.

The Impala was quiet, but my mind was not. Far from it. I was locked in an internal battle where guilt fiercely collided with lust. It was the same war I had been fighting since Baton Rouge, but this battle was different. This battle was violent. It was bloodthirsty and frantic. It was the Gettysburg to my Civil War, the Normandy to my second World War. It was Vietnam in its entirety.

It didn't help that Max was awake and full of piss and vinegar.

Get out, he chanted at me, over and over until the words had lost all meaning. Get out.

My fingers curled themselves into fists and I tried to concentrate on the music. The smooth growl of the Impala's engine. The back of Dean's head. Anything but the incessant whispers Max was drilling into my skull.

Get out. Get out. Get out. Get out.

"Shut up!"

Dean's eyes reflected against the rearview mirror, his brow creased sternly in question. Sam, for the first time since Traverse City, turned to look at me. He gave me a discontented look as his gaze hesitantly lingered on me; he was torn between going back to ignoring me, and making sure I wasn't going to go nuclear in the car. I cleared my throat and shifted uncomfortably in my seat as they stared me down.

"We got a problem back there?" Dean's rough voice asked, his eyes flickering between the road and my reflection in the rearview mirror.

"Nope," I lied through my teeth. "Could use a cigarette, though."

"We'll be stopping soon enough," Dean said, offhandedly refusing to pull over for me or my habit. I sighed and sat back in my seat and stared distantly at the flat farmland that passed by in dull smears of green and brown.

Get out, goddamnit!

My fingers dug themselves into my thighs. I withheld the explosive desire to bark another heated response. God only knew what would happen if even a little of my rage were to slip out.

Get the fuck out! Max raged, and an involuntary growl softly rumbled in my throat.

No.

Yes! I changed my mind. You do not have my permission to possess me.

I never needed your permission, I reminded the voice.

I thought you said you were different, Max grumbled. But you're not, are you? You're just like the rest of those black-eyed bitches.

No, I replied. I'm smarter than the rest of those black-eyed bitches.

That's not comforting, man.

Look, I began with an internal sigh, closely eyeing Sam and Dean, who had returned their focus on the road ahead. I'm sorry. This isn't exactly what I had mind when I crawled my way out of Hell. But I wasn't given much of a choice.

Bullshit, Max's voice scoffed. You could have let them kill you.

You mean us, I reminded him.

Yeah, man, Max said with a heavy sarcasm. Cause I'm totally against that. There was a long pause and for a minute I thought he might be done berating me. And then; If they don't eventually kill us, they're gonna figure out who you are.

My muscles tensed, and I sat rigid in my seat.

Don't go digging around in there, I warned my host against rooting around my memories.

When they find out who you are, Max continued, ignoring my advice against searching for thoughts that were none of his business. They're gonna be horrified their father didn't kill himself the instant he turned demon.

Doubtful, I shot with hostility.

John Winchester would never let himself become this, Max taunted scornfully, trying to push me over the edge, trying to force me out or get us killed; both, if he was lucky.

You may have found a way to access my memories, I growled in return. But you don't know shit about me.

I know all that honor you used to be so full of went out the window the minute your eyes went black, Max said. Lieutenant Pierce would be disappointed in you.

"Shut the fuck up, you ground-pounder grunt!"

Goddamn it. That was out loud, wasn't it?

I glanced up to see Sam and Dean had turned in their seats and were, once again, shooting discomforting glances my way. I blinked a few times, attempting to clear my vision and my head of the trance-like state I had been in during my mental discussion with Max. I coughed and shifted awkwardly, and absently reached out to stroke Freya's rough coat.

"Max," I explained my second sudden outburst. "He's being a whiny ass son of a bitch. Private can't seem to handle a little demon blood."

You're the son of a bitch, you jarhead prick.

I flashed a grin, signaling to my boys that I was fine, and to Max that I found his insult anything but. Dean rolled his eyes and, giving Sam a stern look, pointed to his own eyes with his index and middle fingers before jabbing his thumb in my direction. Sam grumbled at Dean's wordless command, but didn't protest as Dean reached for the handle and popped his door open.

It was then that I noticed we weren't moving. The Impala was parked at a nearly-deserted rest stop alongside the Illinois highway. Rain continued to spill from the dreary skies above, temporarily catching on the canopy of old oak trees before cascading down in weighted droplets. Dean stepped out into the wet afternoon, and hurried across the parking lot to the dry shelter of the restrooms.

I seized the opportunity to stretch my legs, and exited the Impala without a word. Freya leapt joyfully from the constraints of the car and bounded instantly for the small wooded area on the opposite end of the parking lot. I followed my hound at a distance across the trim, wet grass, and it didn't take me long to realize that I, too, was being followed.

"Seriously?" I said without turning around. "You don't trust me enough by now to let me have a smoke in peace?"

"Do you really have to ask me that?" Sam's voice calmly returned from behind, and I sighed. I stopped to light a cigarette with my silver zippo, and turned to face him. The way looked at me now was different than he had in the beginning; before, his eyes were filled with distrust and disdain, but now they appeared thoughtful, and worried.

"What, you and your brother trade roles or something?" I questioned bitterly with a mouthful of smoke. "He's the bad cop and you're the good cop now?"

"Neither of us are cops," Sam replied as he stuffed his hands inside his jacket pockets. "We've just been burned by too many demons." He paused to study me, watching a thin wisp of gray smoke dance at the end of my cigarette. "Where'd you serve?"

A small frown creased at my brow and my lips tightened. With my cigarette between my fingers, I vaguely scratched at the stubble under my chin and contemplated whether or not I would respond. I opened my mouth to speak, to say "'Nam", but instead I sucked in another breath of smoke. They already knew too much, and the way Sam's demeanor towards me had drastically changed, I could tell he had begun to suspect something.

"I know you're a military man," Sam said knowingly when I remained silent. "You did just call Max a grunt."

"And?" I challenged.

"And back in Vegas, you referred to Cas as an 'ate up motherfucker'," he said as he tilted his head slightly. "I've only ever heard that expression from a Marine."

"And?" I said again, using a cold and careless voice. "The fuck do you care? I'm a demon now. Last time I checked, you didn't give a damn about who I used to be."

"That was before…" Sam began, but trailed off. He shook his head and took a small step back, as if he had suddenly remembered my demonic condition. "Never mind," he muttered. "I thought for a minute…" He paused and a thin, faux smile awkwardly spread across his lips. "It's nothing."

I cocked a brow and tried to pretend like I didn't know what he was talking about. Like I was indifferent to what he might have thought, or, in all likelihood, was still thinking. I turned my gaze from him and moved my grip on my cigarette, holding it between my thumb and my index finger to create a makeshift shelter with my hand for my tobacco against the rain. I took a long drag of nicotine and stared across the parking lot where Dean stood under a weathered brown awning with his cell phone clutched in one hand and his flask in the other.

"What's your brother's deal?" I asked. Sam turned his frame slightly and followed my gaze to Dean.

"Oh," he said with a small, bothersome shrug. "He's what he likes to call a 'functional alcoholic'."

"Not the day drinking." I rolled my eyes, but I could feel the guilt knot in the pit of my stomach.

You did that to him, Max whispered.

Yeah, I somberly admitted. I know.

"For a minute there, I thought Dean almost kind of liked me," I said and I pushed the shame away, stuffed it down into the dark pit where I stored every uncomfortable emotion.

"Yeah, well," Sam began with a shrug. "Dean almost kind of likes Crowley sometimes, too."

"Thanks," I scoffed sarcastically. He turned his eyes to the parking lot and watched a gold Lincoln Continental slowly pull its way across the pavement.

"Come on," Sam said, motioning for me to follow him as he lumbered across the wet grass to the Impala. A long sigh of smoke tumbled past my lips as a wave of dread flooded my veins. The last place I wanted to be was in the backseat of that car, trapped in a cloud of stiff silence, feeling like I could explode at any moment.

Demonism is not agreeing with you, John, I thought to myself. And, from somewhere in the back of my mind a dark voice – my voice – replied; Stop fighting what you are and let it agree with you.

I flexed my fingers, tried to shake the icy chill this thought had created. I closed my eyes and I drew in a slow, deep breath. I attempted to clear my mind of everything, but all I could think of was letting go. Abandoning the last shreds of humanity I held on to. Finally ending the internal conflict.

I'm not opposed to suicide, Max gently whispered in my mind, fully aware of what I had been thinking.

I turned. I tried to ignore Max and his words, and instead searched for signs of Freya.

You can't hold back forever, Max went on as I swept my eyes through the trees.

"Yeah, we'll fucking see," I mumbled.

I spied Freya cowering behind the thick trunk of a grand old oak tree. She trembled in fear as she warily peered at the parking lot, and she crouched with uncertainty; she couldn't decide if she should hide, or run like hell. When she noticed me, she shot me a pleading look, silently begging me to join her.

Freya was, for the most part, not a coward. She was the runt the other hellhounds used to pick on, but she was typically fairly fearless. Outside of Hell, I had only seen Freya cower in fear once, and the thing that had caused her to feel such terror had been Crowley. So when I saw her whimpering and shaking behind the tree, I knew we were not alone at that roadside reststop.

I turned on a quick heel, expecting to find the king of Hell waltzing smugly through the parking lot towards my sons. Only there was no Crowley. There were no demons at all. Just a dark haired man in a tan trenchcoat who, to Sam and Dean, looked like nothing short of a mortal man. But not to me. I could see the pure, blue-white light that glowed from within him, and encircled his head in a luminous halo. It was beautiful and awesome in the most literal sense.

And I hated it with every fiber of my being.

I had never seen anything like it before, but I knew, without a doubt, that what I was looking at was an angel. A hot rage cascaded over me, flooding my body from head to toe with an uncontrollable fury that shook me to the core. I blinked, and I could feel my eyes change from blue to solid black. A low, menacing growl rolled through my throat and I automatically went for my Kurdish blade.

No! Max bellowed in my mind, beyond horrified by what I was about to attempt. Do not kill that angel, do you hear me? Do not kill–

His pleas stopped abruptly, and my host passed into a deep slumber. I had unleashed the demon part of me – the part of me I had desperately been trying to withhold – and he was stronger than I was. He could force the resilient Max back to sleep as if it were nothing. And he could kill an angel.

Not with that pig-sticker, you idiot, something somewhere inside of me said, but I didn't pay it any attention. My Kurdish blade couldn't kill him, but I was willing to bet the angel carried a weapon that could, and I was confident I could take it from him and use it against him.

I stormed across the wet grass towards the celestial being that conversed with my sons. He noticed me and my hostile advances almost immediately, and his eyes widened with surprise. His expression lacked completely the sense of fear I had hoped the vision of me madly marching towards him with black eyes and a sharp blade would invoke. Instead, he seemed genuinely astonished by my presence; baffled and a little confused, but not remotely scared.

Which was infuriating.

"I'm going to fucking kill you, you ate up motherfucker!" I growled, and his face smoothed into understanding.

"What the fuck, Maddox?!" Dean cried in outrage, mortified by my behavior towards his friend, but I barely heard him. I barely heard anything as I descended upon the angel, and drew my blade back to gain enough inertia to drive it through his chest. My hand, clutched tightly around the bone hilt of the blade, speedily descended with a savage force, but the angel expertly blocked my attempt to stab him. He clasped his fingers around my forearm, and his electric blue eyes gazed upon me with an empathetic air. I growled at his sympathies and threw my left fist towards his face, but the angel caught my hand in his. My right leg came up and I forcefully kicked him square in the stomach. The angel lost his grip on me as he stumbled backwards, but only a few steps, and he held onto his balance.

"Stop!"

I could hear Dean's desperate barking above the rhythm of my pounding heart, but I ignored him. Instead, I swung my blade at the angel again, aiming this time for his head. His arm lashed out at mine, striking me in the inside of my elbow with such a force it caused me to lose my grip on my mostly-useless blade. My left fist swung up and struck the angel's jaw, and he fell back a tiny step.

"Goddamn it, I said stop!" Dean barked.

I threw my right fist in the angel's direction, but he swayed out of my way and took another step back.

"It's okay, Dean," the angel's deep voice assured my son with his eyes set on me. "I won't hurt him."

"Fuck him!" Dean said. "Don't let him hurt you!"

The angel's brow folded gently into a look of confusion, but he quickly dismissed it when he noticed that I was charging him. A violent growl escaped my lips as I tackled him to the ground where I straddled him at his waist.

"You!" I snarled and struck him in the cheekbone with my right fist. "You did this to me, you son of a bitch!"

I threw another punch, but he caught my fist with ease.

"I know," he admitted with a calm regret. "I'm sorry."

His placid and apologetic demeanor was infuriating, and I couldn't help the low, demonic grumble that bubbled up from my gut. I drew my fist back, ready to wipe his righteous empathy off his face, when I was stopped quite unexpectedly from behind. A torrid liquid slapped me against the back of the head and scorched my flesh. I gasped in agony as the acidic substance rolled down my neck, but soon the pain paved the way to a new kind of fury. I twisted around, prepared to utilize my demonic abilities to send whomever had splashed me with holy water sailing through the parking lot.

And then I saw Sam's face. He was brave and fierce, but he was scared, especially once he saw my arm outstretched, ready to push him back, ready to hurt him. I blinked. My eyes returned from black to blue, and I gradually lowered my arm. Sam's expression fell to a look of pure shock as he stared at me with wide eyes and a heavy breath.

He knows.

Dean's hands suddenly planted themselves against my chest and he shoved me backwards with a forceful thrust. I allowed myself to tumble to the wet grass below where I sat, shaking with rage and remorse as Dean helped the angel to his feet.

"You okay?" he asked with concern, tightly gripping the sleeve of the angel's trench coat.

"Yes, I'm fine," the angel replied as he dusted himself. Dean's brow folded with a cold hatred as he glared down at me.

"What the fuck was that?" he barked aggressively.

"It's okay, Dean," the angel said, his eyes on me. "He has every right to be upset. I'm sure it's difficult for him to hold back the animosity he holds for my kind in his current state."

I shakily rose to my feet and exhaled a slow, uneven breath. I glanced over to Sam, who continued to gawk at me with a terrified awe, and I quickly looked away, bowing my head in shame.

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked, looking between the angel and me. "You know him?"

"Not personally, no," the angel shook his head. "But I do, of course, know who he is." He glanced to Dean with confusion laced across his brow. "Why didn't you tell me the demon you were working with was your father?"