"...hunc sanguinem sacro, et donantibus sanguinem, debita dimitto." The young priest cleared his throat. "D-Dolorem remitteat, et voluntati dei serviat." He kissed his cross, then glanced over at Sam Winchester, who gave him a nod. "Doctor," he acknowledged.
"Father," Sam replied. When the priest was gone, he gathered up the medical container with the label 'HUMAN BLOOD'.
When Sam arrived back in the bunker, anxiety began to build inside him. His breathing turned shallow as he turned the corner towards the dungeon. With one hand—his other was in a cast—he stepped into the storage room, then unlocked the dungeon door.
Chained to a chair beneath a dim bulb, shadows casting eerily over his eyes, was Dean Winchester.
A jolt of fear hit Sam, but he refused to let Dean see he was intimidated. He walked into the room, clutching the purified blood.
"Really?" Dean drawled.
"For whatever it's worth," Sam said, "I got your blood type."
"Sam I know you think you're gonna try and fix me, but did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't wanna be fixed? Just let me go live my life. I won't bother you."
Sam unwrapped the vials on a table.
"What do you care?" Dean finished, one eyebrow arched.
"What do I care?" Sam stared at Dean. He shook his head. He began sprinkling holy water over the devil's trap on the floor, chanting in Latin as he went.
"You think I'm just gonna sit here like Crowley, getting all weepy while you shoot me up?" Dean asked. He cracked a sarcastic smile. "Well, screw that. I don't want this."
"Yeah, I pretty much figured that out," Sam muttered.
"You don't even know if this is gonna work, do you? You know, I got a helluva lot more running through me than just demon juice."
"Mark of Cain—got it," Sam replied.
"That's right." Dean leaned forward slightly, causing the shadows to form dark circles around his eyes. He knew all the right ways to scare Sam.
Sam gripped the blood-filled syringe tightly. "Buckle up."
"Sammy... you know I hate shots."
"I hate demons." Sam stepped forward. Dean's eyes flicked black and he snarled at Sam, who sprayed him with holy water and plunged the needle into his forearm, right beneath the Mark of Cain. Dean hissed as his skin steamed. "Look, we got a whole bunch more of these to go," Sam told him, moving back. "You could make it a lot easier on yourself."
Dean gave him a defiant look. Suddenly, his eyebrows pinched together as he exhaled sharply. He winced and grunted, tossing his head back with a cry of pain, then groaned hoarsely. Sam pressed his lips together.
Castiel gripped the steering wheel, gazing out at the dark street ahead. He could feel Hannah's gaze on him, but he couldn't bring himself to look.
"How are you holding up?" she asked him finally, breaking the ice.
"Fine," Cas replied.
Hannah sighed. "You say you're fine, but you don't look fine."
"It's what the humans do," Cas said. "They say they're fine—and even if I don't look it, you say I look well, and in that way, we avoid talking about something we can do nothing about."
Hannah clenched her jaw unhappily. "I'm sorry. I just can't see how Sam Winchester could ask you to drive all this way to help with his brother, knowing your condition."
Cas looked away. Hannah frowned at him.
"He doesn't know," she realized. "About how badly your borrowed grace is fading, does he?"
"He knows some," Cas muttered. "And he didn't have to ask. Sam is alone in this. He's attempting to change Dean from demon to human with a cure of sanctified blood, but..." He winced. "... there's no guarantee that will work. If it doesn't, then Dean is gone, and the demon must be dealt with."
"I just..." Hannah sucked in a breath. "I worry about you."
Cas met her earnest stare briefly, but quickly turned back to the road. This dynamic was growing too personal for his liking.
The next injection. Sam finished pressing the syringe and stepped back. Dean groaned and took in a ragged breath, and for a hot second, Sam doubted he was doing the right thing.
"For all you know, you could be killing me," Dean managed.
"Or—" Sam set down the syringe. He leaned against the table. "—you're just messing with me. Either way, the lore doesn't say anything about exceptions to the cure."
Dean chuckled. "'The lore'. Hunters... Men of Letters... what a load of crap it all is." Sam was silent. "Oh, you got nothin'?"
"You want me to debate you?" Sam asked wearily. "This isn't even the real you I'm talking to."
"Oh, it's the real me alright. The new real me—the me that sees things for what they really are." Dean tipped his head back casually. "Winchesters—do gooders—fighting the natural order. Let me tell you something—guys like me? We are the natural order. It's the way it was set up."
"Guys like me still gotta do what we can," Sam replied.
"Don't be so full of yourself, Sammy," Dean chided. "Cause, see, from where I'm sitting, there ain't much difference from what I turned into to what you already are."
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"I know what you did when you went looking for me. I know how far you went. Crowley told me all about. So, let me ask you..." Dean offered a condescending smirk. "... which one of us is really a monster? Hm?
Sam stared at him. He exhaled shakily.
"Starting to come back to you now?" Dean taunted.
"What am I supposed to do now?" a man slurred at the bar counter, well into his fifth drink. "It's like my life is over." He waved a hand as the guy beside him took off. "Bitch," he muttered. "I should've seen it coming. Why doesn't anything ever work out for me? Huh."
Sam slid into the seat next to him. "Hey, there."
Lester regarded him with crossed eyes. "Hi."
"Sounds like, uh, things have been a little rough on you lately, huh?"
"Rough?" Lester scoffed. "My wife kicked me to the curb."
"Oh."
"We haven't had sex for four months," he continued. "Four. Well, not that—not that she hasn't been having plenty... with a guy in her bowling league—guy with tattoos. Did him right there on the kitchen table while I was at work."
"Man," Sam sympathized. "That's, uh, that's cold."
"Now all I think about is revenge," Lester admitted. "Payback." He chuckled mirthlessly. "But that's not gonna happen."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that."
Lester swiveled to look at him.
"It is possible that you can have your revenge," Sam elaborated. "I mean, hell, it's possible you can have pretty much anything you want."
"You were trying to get a 20 on Crowley and me from any demon you could snag," Dean said. "But Crowley didn't wanna be found, and no one showed when you summoned. But you found a way, didn't you, Sam?"
Sam patted down the soil over the box with his shovel, then stepped back. His victim stood beside him, clutching a paper awkwardly. Sam cast his gaze around.
"Alright, stand right here," Sam instructed. "When I say so, read the words off the paper."
"A-Are you sure about this?" Lester asked nervously.
"Yeah. Trust me." Sam retreated a few feet down the road, then crouched in a nearby bush. The darkness helped him blend into the shadows. As soon as he was amply hidden, he called out, "alright, go ahead."
"Okay, um..." Lester steeled himself. "Demon esto subiectus voluntari—"
"Tati!" Sam corrected. "Voluntati!"
"Oh. Voluntati."
"Who summons me and for what purpose?" a demon asked, announcing her presence loudly and arrogantly. Her voice echoed eerily, and her eyes were blood red.
The paper fell from Lester's hands. He stepped forward. "Kill my wife—" he said.
Sam lunged out of his hiding spot. "Lester!"
"—and my soul is yours," Lester finished.
"Don't!" Sam cried. "No!"
"Done," the demon promised. She leaned forward and sealed the deal.
"You would've liked to have gotten there before the deal went down," Dean said. "But you didn't really care about poor 'ol Lester, did you?"
The demon sucked in a shuddering breath, her whole body trembling and causing her chains to rattle. Sam leaned close.
"Why don't we try that again?"
"Nobody knows where Crowley and your brother are," the demon insisted, her voice nearly a growl. At Sam's silence, she cried, "they're off the radar!"
Sam only held up a knife, glinting silver in the moonlight. He reached over and pressed the tip into her skin, eliciting a cry of pain from the demon.
"Kill me if you want to!" she shrieked. She strained against her chains, teeth gritted. "That's all I know. I got nothing for you. And you made that poor son of a bitch sell his soul."
"Oh, and so you know," Dean continued casually, "I killed Lester myself. And that wife of his married the tattoo guy."
Sam smacked his hands against the table. "I never meant—"
"Who cares what you meant?!" Dean snarled. "That line that we thought was so clear between us and the things that we hunted ain't so clear, is it? Wow. You might actually be worse than me. I mean, you took a guy at his lowest, used him, and it cost him his life and his soul." He chuckled mockingly. "Nice work."
Eyes narrowed, Sam jabbed the needle into the back of Dean's neck, no longer as gentle as before. When he yanked it back out, Dean let out a hoarse shout, face contorting with pain. Even through his obvious discomfort, he managed a dark chuckle. Sam tossed down the needle, shoulders heaving.
"Let me ask you this, Sammy. If this doesn't work... we both know what you gotta do to me, right?" Dean exhaled. "You got the stomach for that, Sam?!"
Sam refused to look at Dean—no, the demon—because his emotions played out so easily on his face, and to look would confirm the demon's words. He had to stay strong. And if not for himself...
... then for Dean.
~ Hell ~
"You stand accused of high treason." Crowley's smooth voice rang out across the throne room, causing the demon in shackles to flinch. "Take her away."
Another demon grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her off, out of sight.
Someone handed Crowley another sheet of paper. He crossed one leg over the other, lounging comfortably on the throne. Sometimes, he forgot that Hell wasn't all murder and torture—it was business too. He was good at business, sure. He had the intelligence, the means, the charisma, but he detested the constant paperwork. So boring.
"What's this, then?" Crowley asked, inspecting the document. "Oh, goody, something else to sign. 'Henceforth and forthwith, for the furtherance and expedience and regulation and... yeah. Sure." He scrawled his title messily on the paper.
"Your Majesty," a demon spoke, striding up to him. "Supplicants await without."
Crowley blinked. "Without what?"
The demon bit his lip. "Outside."
"Let them wait," Crowley said.
"They've waited a long time."
"It's Hell," Crowley reiterated. "You wait. It's what you do." He glanced back to the first demon, who was handling his papers, then to the second. He arched an eyebrow. "You're still here."
"I have an update on the angel Castiel," the demon barreled on, looking more nervous by the minute. "His grace seems to be fading. He's losing strength. If one were so inclined, this would be a propitious time for one to eliminate him."
"'One'?" Crowley questioned. He hated this demon. Who uses the word 'propitious' in a casual sentence?
"You, sire," the demon clarified quickly.
"Borrowed grace does have a puny shelf life," Crowley mused. "Castiel should have read the warning label." His tone shifted to a command. "Follow him and keep me informed as to his decline."
The demon bowed his head and retreated, seemingly eager to be free of the conversation. Crowley shared that very same sentiment.
Alas, being without company left him to his less desirable ponderings. Dean Winchester sauntered brashly into his thoughts, sparkling eyes flashing in that charming way of his. Crowley hated him as hunter.
But he hated Dean as a demon even more.
And yet. He remembered the casual banter between them, the strange sort of pull he felt towards Dean. He thought his human emotions were buried deep; obviously not.
"What's it look like?" Dean said, smirking.
Crowley stared at him, then at the woman beside him. "In my bed?!"
Dean raised his hands as if to lament, 'well what can ya do?'
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
Crowley rested his chin in his hands. A sigh that was more like a ragged gasp escaped him.
"The King of Hell, Dean Winchester by his side," Crowley urged, an excited pitch filled with passion he'd never had before. "Together, we rule. Together, we create the perfect Hell."
Dean only knocked back another drink. Crowley tried to convince himself the pang of hurt in his chest was only the alcohol.
Crowley was not the first and would not be the last to fall blindly for those summer green eyes.
"Great one?" A pause. "Your Majesty?"
Crowley jolted. A demon stood before him, and by the look on his face, he'd been calling Crowley for a while.
"Are you... alright?" the demon asked tentatively.
"I was thinking of better days," Crowley admitted.
"Yes—your sabbatical."
"My what?" Crowley sat up, eyes narrowed.
"Uh, we were worried, of course," the demon said, as though unsure if to backtrack but eager to continue all the same. "Your misadventures with the older Winchester was quite the topic of speculation. If you'll forgive my boldness..." He hesitated. At Crowley's expectant look, he said, "I could now be your wingman."
"Could you?" Crowley questioned. He didn't entertain the idea for one moment, but seeing the demon squirm was worth it. No one could replace Dean.
"I, too, love to party," the demon tried. "And I do love the ladies and the classic rock-and-roll. Most importantly, I can debauch by your side without being a personal embarrassment. You'll see what I'm worth."
That was it. The line. Daring to insinuate that Crowley in any way considered Dean an embarrassment... Too far. But Crowley said none of this.
"Oh, I can see already," Crowley told him. The demon smiled hopefully. Then Crowley snapped his fingers.
The demon turned to dust. The ashes billowed up from where he was standing, causing Crowley to fan it away from his face irritably. Around the room, other demons turned to stare, lips pressed together and eyes downcast.
"Anyone else care to comment?" Crowley called, his mouth twisting into a scowl.
Silence. Good.
The car door slammed shut. Castiel gave a near imperceptible sigh of frustration, but Hannah heard it anyway.
"Sorry, I... missed another turn," she apologized, scanning a map with guilty eyes. "I have no idea where the main road is." She frowned down at their car. "These things—they're so confining and primitive. It's..." As Cas leaned wearily against the car, face contorted in discomfort, Hannah walked around to face him. "It's getting worse, isn't it? Castiel, it's time we stopped avoiding the obvious. You and I both know how to fix this—both you and the situation."
"I will not slit some angel's throat and steal its grace," Cas vowed, despite his own stolen grace writhing painfully at the declaration. "Before you say it, we definitely are not going begging to Metatron."
"What about helping your friend?" Hannah asked. "And sending the rogue angels back to Heaven? Your preference to die for principals—it's very noble, but it is meaningless."
"Then you carry on."
"I'm not enough," Hannah insisted.
"Sometimes, enough is whatever you have," Cas told her quietly.
Hannah gritted her teeth, lowering her gaze. When Cas shifted as if to move away, she grasped his arm. Not his hand, but his wrist, and it was close enough. She met his eyes. Her expression was pleading, but beneath it... Castiel saw something else. Something that they couldn't afford to humor.
His ringing cell phone interrupted their quiet, awkwardly intimate encounter. She released him and shuffled back, allowing him his space.
Cas raised the phone to his ear. "Sam?"
"Cas," Sam replied. He sounded tired; Cas couldn't blame him. "Hey, you still coming?"
"I'm a few hours away," Cas told him. "Is the treatment working?"
"No, not very well. Look, it's—it's not like it was with Crowley. Dean's in pain. I mean, he's in bad pain. I-It's like he's barely holding on." Sam paused. The grief in his voice was hard for Cas to listen to. "Cas, I might be killing him."
"It might be," Cas said.
"So... what? Should I stop?"
"And do what? He's not possessed," Cas pointed out. "Exorcism is out of the question. The ritual of purified blood is the only treatment I know."
"Cas, did you not hear what I just said? I could be killing my brother."
Castiel winced. He didn't like the idea of Dean dying any more than Sam did, but the twisting grace inside him and the sweltering heat around him was resulting in a bitter mood. "Sam, he's not your brother—at least not now. You have to be prepared for—"
"Killing my brother," Sam finished. His exhausted sigh over the phone made Cas wish he'd been a bit more sympathetic.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," Cas promised, trying to soften his tone. He glanced back at Hannah, whose expression was unreadable.
"Yeah, alright. I'll, um, I'll leave the entry unlocked for you. Just hurry." As Sam hung up, he turned the corner back into the cell, only to find Dean slumped over in his seat, eyes closed.
A spike of fear shot through Sam. He rushed over and slapped Dean across the face, then grabbed his chin.
"Hey," Sam snapped. "Dean! Come on! Come back." He shook Dean's shoulder roughly.
Dean gave a low moan and whispered, "no..."
"Come back to me," Sam urged. "You there? Hey! Dean, you okay?"
Groaning, Dean's eyes fluttered open. His forehead wrinkled as he grimaced. "Yeah, if you consider drowning in your own sweat while your blood boils 'okay'." Great. He kept his twisted sense of humor.
Sam withdrew cautiously. Regret tinged his voice. "Look, I can't stop doing this."
"Sure you can," Dean managed weakly. "You just stop. There's not point in trying to bring your brother back now."
"Oh, I will bring him back," Sam promised.
"In fact, your, uh, guilt-ridden, weight-of-the-world bro has been M.I.A. for quite some time now." Sam didn't like it, but the demon's voice rang with truth. "But I'm loving the new model—lean, mean, Dean."
"Right," Sam muttered.
"You notice that I tried to get as far away from you as possible?" Dean remarked. "Away from your whining, your complaining. I chose the King of Hell over you. Maybe I was just tired of babysitting you, or always having to yank your lame ass out of the fire since..." He chuckled, noticing Sam's flinch. "... forever. Or maybe—maybe it was the fact that my mother would still be alive if it wasn't for you. That your very existence sucked the life out of my life."
Sam wheeled around and stared Dean in the eyes. He smiled, but rather than appearing triumphant, he only looked broken. "This isn't my brother talking."
"You never had a brother!" Dean snarled. "Just an excuse for not manning up. But guess what. I quit."
"No. No, you don't," Sam replied. His plastic smile wavered as he jabbed a finger at Dean. "You don't get to quit. We don't get to quit in this family. This family is all we have every had!"
"Well, then we got nothin'," Dean snapped.
"Would you say that to Dad?"
"Dad?" Dean scoffed. "Oh, there's a prize. Here's a man who brainwashed us into wasting our lives fighting his losing battle." He watched Sam grab the next syringe. "Oh. Ooh. Is this you manning up?"
Sam lifted the needle. "This is me, yanking your lame ass out of the fire." With the force he used doing the injection, it could qualify as stabbing. Dean gave a wheezy chuckle as Sam stormed off, the door slamming shut behind him.
~ Hell ~
"You have coerced others into aligning with Abbadon." Crowley's slightly-bored voice rang out across the throne room as he gazed down disdainfully on his next prisoner. The demon only glared balefully back. "You've spread rumors and fostered doubt as to the competence and authority of the crown. Guilty of treason. The sentence is death." He passed off the document to an accounting demon. Those fools were obsessed with their paperwork, like Crowley used to be.
The demon let out a choked noise as the blade stabbed between his ribs. Orange light flickered beneath his skin before going out.
"Anyone else hungry to betray me?" Crowley sneered. His cold, all-business smile returning, he said, "next." When another demon was dragged before him, he was near succumbing to his boredom. He scanned the document in less than a second. "You're guilty of... something, which I won't tolerate, whatever it was. You are condemned to—"
"Stop, stop!" someone cried, stepping into the light. The demon stood in front of the prisoner, as if to shield him.
"Stop?" Crowley questioned.
"You cannot do this," the demon said. His eyes gleamed with desperation and something else... something resembling fear. But he was not afraid of Crowley. That much was clear.
"Weren't you watching? 'Course I can. I just did."
"This is your idea of ruling?" the demon asked.
"Yes," Crowley replied. He would have put an end to the mutiny right there and then, but this recklessly bold demon intrigued him. He leaned back to listen.
"We've killed and tortured for you, stolen souls, destroyed lives, tempted and tormented with distinction. And for all this, what's our reward?" The demon's lip curled. "A slap in the face." He dug into his pocket and yanked out a flask. When he shook it, liquid sloshed around inside.
Immediately jumping to the obvious conclusion—holy water—the demons around the room burst into nervous chatter and drew back, crowding into the edges to protect themselves and their brethren. Someone cried, "get back!'
"You disappear," the demon snapped, "you binge on blood, approach the edge of becoming human. And salt in the wound—you run off with your boy toy, Dean Winchester, and now he's running amok, and you can't control him or the kingdom."
"What's he doing?" someone muttered. Another whispered, "what does he have?"
"You've squandered our loyalty," the demon accused.
"What will you do?" Crowley wondered aloud, twirling a pen in one hand. The comment about Dean struck him, but he refused to show it. He just regarded this rebel calmly. Let them talk, vent, whatever, and then he'd kill them in the end. Make a proper example out of these insurgents.
"Not live in a Hell you've made." The demon unscrewed the flask and poured the contents over himself.
The pungent scent brought a memory of holy oil to the forefront of Crowley's thoughts. He tossed the flask to the ground with a clatter, then flicked open a lighter. Crowley watched him in confusion. And then, with one last bitter scowl of defiance, the demon touched the tiny flame to the holy oil. Fire promptly exploded from his shirt and engulfed him, drowning out his agonized shrieks with crackling and the scent of burning flesh. The demons around him yelled and scattered, pressing themselves against the walls in terror. Even in his immense pain, the burning demon managed to pin Crowley with hateful glare.
The demon fell to his knees. His skin boiled and blackened, scorched until he was unrecognizable. And still, his corpse burned.
"Did not see that coming," Crowley murmured.
Castiel and Hannah stopped at an old, worn down gas station to refuel. The sun bore down on them, casting down waves of unrelenting heat. Hannah started to walk towards the entrance when Cas called her back.
"You know," Cas began awkwardly, "this—this road we're on, it's—it's dangerous."
"Alright."
"Um..." Cas tried to phrase it in a way that wouldn't directly address the issue, but would hopefully get through to her all the same. He'd learned a lot about subtext from Dean. "We can't afford to lose our way."
"I know that," Hannah said, nodding. "I'm sorry about the map."
"No detours of any kind," Cas told her firmly.
Hannah scoffed lightly. "Castiel, if these are metaphors and you're attempting another human communication, it isn't working."
Cas sighed and broke their eye contact. His face felt hot, but not from the sun. "I'm just trying to say that this mission is everything."
"I know that," Hannah repeated.
"Getting to Dean and hunting these rogues—I'm not at full capacity, so I..." Cas didn't know why he was still talking, still making this bad conversation worse. His grace wasn't the only thing causing discomfort at this point. "We n-need total focus."
"Like a laser," Hannah agreed. "Got it."
"Just—I've been around humans for long enough to see..." Guilt hit him as Hannah's blank mask wavered for the first time. "... how easily distractions occur."
"'Distractions'." Hannah nodded slightly, sucking in a breath.
"Emotions, feelings," Cas continued, "they're dangerous temptations."
"How very Biblical, Castiel," Hannah commented.
Mentally smacking himself, Cas said, "I don't mean to be unkind."
"You don't need to be kind," Hannah assured him quietly.
"I just... I'm trying to keep our priorities clear."
"Not to worry, then." By the look on Hannah's face, there was something to worry over. "I am very clear on my priorities. And yours." Her steps quick and uneven, Hannah spun on her heel and marched inside the store, letting Cas watch her go with an apology on his lips and sadness in his chest.
When Hannah closed the door with a light jingle, she released a long, shaky breath. She swallowed thickly and began to scan the shelves for anything they might need later.
Only when that uncanny silence stretched on longer than it should have did she grow suspicious. She found it especially odd that no one greeted her upon her entrance. It was a human custom to always greet other humans (or those they believed to be human). No one else occupied the store.
"Hello?" she called out uncertainly.
Her gaze landed on a mug knocked sideways over the counter. The contents were dripping off the counter; abandoned by its drinker. She stepped forward, dreading what she would find.
On the floor, sprawled out behind the counter, was a dead cashier.
His eyes were burned out of his head.
Outside, Castiel finished getting fuel and headed over to the store, wondering what was taking Hannah so long. He swung open the door, only to stop in his tracks.
"Hey, there," Adina purred. She held an angel blade dangerously close to Hannah's throat, a scowl twisting her features when Cas walked in.
He took a step forward. She dug the knife in deeper, causing Hannah to gasp.
"I've been tracking you for days," Adina told him. "You will be punished for what you did."
"Daniel's death—that was unintentional, Adina," Cas tried. "I feel you know this."
"Unintentional?" Adina hissed. "You killed him!" She shoved Hannah roughly away, sending her crashing into racks of merchandise with a cry of pain.
Castiel's blade slipped into his hand. Adina eyed it with disdain.
"Seriously?"
Adina met his blow with a quick disarming maneuver, knocking the blade away, then punched him across the face. Cas reeled backwards, breathing heavily. He leaned on the shelf as the stolen grace refused to cooperate and heal him.
"Just... kill me," he gasped, fighting the urge to collapse where he stood. "But let her go."
"Stop," Hannah forced out.
"'Stop'," Adina mocked. An ugly sneer marred her otherwise pretty face. "'Kill me'. I mean, so many suggestions, I don't know what to do. I know—I will kill you, Castiel, but very, very slowly so your—your honeybunch can watch. Sound good?" And with that, she kicked him viciously in the chest, momentum hurling him through the large window and slamming him into the ground. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.
Storming through the newly-made hole, Adina grabbed him by the shirt collar and began to strike him, over and over with desperate passion, fueled by only her hatred and grief over the angel who didn't have to die.
~ The Bunker ~
Sam opened the door to Dean's room and flicked on the lights. Everything was untouched. He hadn't come in here since Dean left. Guns hanging from one wall, books tucked messily into low shelves, the sheets folded neatly, his magazines and other newspapers strewn about. This place was Dean in every aspect.
One one desk was an old carton of pie, the lid still flipped open. Sam picked it up and moved to throw it away, but something else on the desk made him pause. Beneath a notebook, tucked into the brittle pages, was a stack of photographs. Sam recognized them immediately.
The top one was a picture of Mary Winchester, laughing as young Dean wrapped his arms around her.
Sitting down on the bed, Sam flipped to the next picture. Unbidden, his lips turned up at the corners, warmth blooming in his chest.
John and Mary grinning, so close to the camera they weren't fully in the frame. Sam and Dean on each side of Bobby Singer, who was older and shorter than both but still smiled the brightest. Dean turned away, half-hiding a flustered chuckle, while Sam openly laughed at him. The last picture showed the brothers sitting at Bobby's kitchen table, both smiling at someone beyond the frame. Their smiles were genuine. Their laughter was real. Dean still had a spark of hope in his eyes.
Sam's fingers trembled. This was a bad idea. He shouldn't have come in here.
He put the pictures back on the desk and shut the door as quickly as possible, the very last photo still clutched in his hands. He kept the lights on as if, somehow, he could keep the darkness at bay.
But how do you banish the darkness if it's inside of you?
Cas' vision warped and twisted, ebbing and flowing like the pain deep in his core. Not just from Adina's beating, no, but stemming from the grace of his brothers and sisters he'd wrongfully stolen. He deserved whatever retribution came with such a crime.
Interrupting his peaceful—albeit rather blurry view of the ground—came a pair of sleek black dress shoes. They stopped right beside his head, sending little vibrations trembling beneath him. He painstakingly raised his gaze up, up, up—
Only to find the King of Hell leering down at him.
"Hey, champ," Crowley said. Glass crunched beneath his heel as he scanned Cas from head to toe. "Look at you. Talk about roadkill."
Inside the store, Hannah let out a cry of pain as Adina traced the blade across her skin.
"Attagirl, Hannah," Adina praised. She grabbed Hannah by a lock of her hair. "Suffer. Just like my Daniel suffered before you killed him."
"Daniel's death isn't on my head," Hannah shot back. "It's on yours."
"We did nothing," Adina spat. Her voice broke. "We wanted nothing but to be left alone."
"You killed an angel. You had to answer for it."
"An angel who would have hauled us back to that Heaven of yours," Adina said. She pressed the blade tip below Hannah's chin. "You should have left us alone."
"And that will do," said a voice behind them.
Adina whirled around to find Crowley standing there, his expression betraying only patient amusement. As soon as she rose to face him, his blade flicked across her neck, faster than she could see, filling the room with a low ringing noise. Crowley lifted a vial to the slit and watched the silvery-white grace slip out of her. When he was finished, he shoved his blade through her chest.
"Why can't you people just sit on clouds and play harps like you're supposed to?" Crowley lamented, aiming his question at a battered Hannah. She could see his true form, being an angel, but to her credit, she didn't flinch away. He yanked the blade out and capped the vial with a little plastic skull lid. Ignoring the questioning look Hannah gave him, he turned around and went back outside for Castiel.
~ The Bunker ~
Sam rounded the corner into the dungeons and froze.
The chair within the Devil's Trap was empty. The ropes were sawed off, and the handcuffs lay broken in the seat.
Dean was gone.
Panic seized him. A demon was on the loose in his home, and with added strength from the Mark of Cain, a physical confrontation would only end with Sam dead on the floor. He needed to be smart about this. Play the game with your head, not your fists.
He crept into another hallway and held still, waiting for a noise, anything. Then, in the distance, a door clicked shut. With a silent step, Sam turned and fled around the corner, descending deeper into the bunker.
Dean walked through that hallway a moment later, his stride filled with purpose. He swung open the closest door, checked the room, then moved onto the next one.
Meanwhile, Sam was in the main area, back pressed against a pillar. He was trembling badly, but his breathing had never been steadier. He could do this. He would fix his brother.
The light from above was slanting and awkward, slashing irregular patterns over Sam's tense face. The table had an abandoned beer sitting on top, and the map still glowed faintly. At least he could see. Slowly, carefully, he peeked around the pillar, and once he was sure Dean wasn't there, he darted out into the open, the demon knife clenched tightly in one hand. He quietly slid open a drawer and picked up the ring of keys inside. To prevent them from clattering, he wrapped his hand around the keys and closed the drawer.
A clatter in the distance made him jump. Heart pounding wildly, he slipped back into the winding tunnels. This was one shitty, shitty game of hide-and-seek.
Dean pulled open a kitchen drawer. He reached inside and picked up a butcher knife—turning it over, rubbing the hilt with his thumb—until he sighted another weapon. The hammer was heavier, but he knew it would cause more damage. Perfect.
"Come on, Sammy!" he called, spinning the hammer once. "Don't you want to hang out with your big brother? Spend a little quality time?"
He stalked down the hallway, tossing the hammer from hand to hand leisurely. When he reached his own room, he lifted his foot and kicked in the door with a crash. He found the space empty.
In the control room, Sam opened the metal gate and slipped inside. He couldn't let Dean leave; that would ruin all the work he's done so far. So he opened a panel in the wall, wrapped his hand around the lever, and yanked it down.
The bunker lights went out, with only the emergency lights continuing to flash an eerie red, accompanied with a droning alarm. Everything powered down, sealing the brothers inside.
Suddenly plunged into darkness, Dean cracked a smile for the first time. "Smart, Sam," he said. "Lockin' the place down. Doors won't open. I get it. But here's the thing: I don't wanna leave! Not 'til I find you."
Clink.
Dean's head snapped to the side, his grin absolutely wolfish. He took off down the hallway.
The main area was just as dark as the rest of the bunker. A few red lights here and there, but empty. Dean called his brother's name again, not that he really expected an answer.
"You're just makin' this worse for you yourself, man!" Dean continued loudly. "Oh, by the way, you can, uh, blame yourself for me gettin' loose. All that blood you pumped into me to make me human—well, the less demon I was, the less the cuffs worked." He spread his arms wide, pausing in the entryway of the library. "And that Devil's Trap—well, I just walked right across it. It smarted." He waved a finger. "But still..." He yanked open another drawer to find the keys gone. How unfortunate.
At least he knew where Sam was now.
When he reached the control room, the door was left open by a crack. Now, Sam wasn't that stupid. Probably hiding somewhere in there, the little coward. Too afraid to face Dean head-on.
Well, Dean wasn't afraid of his pain-in-the-ass little brother.
He pushed the door open, barely able to hear the creaking over the blaring alarm. He stepped in, his gaze sweeping over the corners with enhanced vision. He could see as if it were daylight in here.
Dean grabbed the lever and shoved it back up. The lights flickered on, and proper functioning returned to the bunker. Finally. That damn alarm was getting on his nerves.
"Yeah, that's more like it," Dean muttered.
Then, from outside the door, Sam lunged for the handle and slammed the door shut, locking Dean inside.
"That's your big move?" Dean taunted from within.
Sam held up the knife to the door, as if that would make any difference in the end. He was shaking violently, but his voice remained steady.
"Listen to me, Dean!" Sam urged. "We were getting close, okay? I know you're still in there somewhere. Just let me finish the treatments."
Silence. If anything, that was scarier than Dean's echoing threats.
"Dean?"
Thud.
The door trembled. Sam stumbled back, nearly tripping over himself in his terror. A sliver of wood splintered and fell from the door. The head of Dean's hammer became visible as he hit the door, over and over with impossible strength.
"You act like I want to be cured!" Dean exclaimed.
The door shuddered under the force of his blows. Dean broke past enough wood so Sam could see his face; that hungry, manic gleam in his eyes that shocked Sam to the core.
"Personally," Dean continued, "I like the disease."
"Dean, stop that!" Sam shouted, watching in horror as Dean smashed his way through the door that wouldn't hold up for much longer. "Look, I don't want to use this blade on you!"
"Oh!" Dean paused to speak. "That sucks for you, doesn't it? Cause you really mean that." He tipped his head back and laughed, gearing up for another hit.
"Look, if you come out of that room, I won't have a choice!"
"Sure you will!" Dean shot back. His entire head and shoulders were visible now. "And I know which one you'll make. Isn't that right, Sammy? But see, here's the thing." He drew back, adjusting his grip on the hammer. "I'm lucky. Oh hell, I'm blessed! Cause there's just enough demon left in me that killing you? It ain't no choice at all." Then he was striking the door with renewed vigor, eyes narrowed in concentration, before he kicked away the last shreds of wood and stepped into the hall. Sam spun on his heel and fled.
Crowley uncapped the grace and started to bring it to Cas' lips. Cas weakly set a hand on his wrist, stopping him.
"Don't be an idiot," Crowley chided. Cas looked up at him warily. "Yes, it's hers, but she was killing your girlfriend. Your hands are clean. Much as it pains me to say this, you're useless to me dead." He pushed Cas' hand away and held the grace up for him.
Cas' lips parted in acceptance. The silver-white grace spiraled from inside the vial to Cas, eager to be bonded with an angel. As soon as it vanished from sight, Crowley drew back, knowing the consequences of touching an angel with new grace.
A warm glow lit up his chest, radiating upwards and outwards and engulfing him in white light. When the light faded, Castiel's injuries were gone, and a faint blue glow illuminated his irises. Hannah watched the process with great relief.
"You owe me," Crowley told him.
Castiel staggered to his feet. Beneath the openly suspicious, even downright hostile look he gave Crowley, the demon knew he felt some sort of gratitude; whether he chose to show it or not was none of Crowley's concern.
"Why did you help me?" Cas demanded.
"Purely business," Crowley replied. He wanted nothing more than to see Cas fix Dean Winchester, even if that meant helping him out once in a while. He didn't tell the angel this, but he didn't outright lie either. "Since you're five miles away from the Winchesters' clubhouse, I can only surmise that you're headed there. That Dean has become... a handful. Having him as a demon has caused me nothing but grief. Fix the problem."
"You realize—worse comes to to worst, that means killing him." Cas regarded him with something like sympathy.
Ah. Seemed the Seraph wasn't as dull as previously assumed. Only now did Crowley tell a blatant lie.
"I'm not sentimental," he said. He took a few steps back, knowing that the only reason Cas wasn't prying into it more was because he, too, had his fair share of affections for the eldest Winchester.
And with that, he left the two angels alone so he could drown his bloody emotions with whiskey in private.
"Sammy?"
Sam had no regards for noise at this point. He was blind with panic, his mind spinning and every limb shaking like a tree in a gale. The only time he'd felt like this before was when his hallucinations of Lucifer chased him down a dark alleyway.
He mentally kicked himself for having the audacity to compare Dean and Lucifer.
"Come on, Sammy!" Dean shouted. "Let's have a beer. Talk about it. I'm tired of playin'." His voice took on a dark tone. "Let's finish this game."
Breathing shallowly, Sam leaned around a corner. Relief soothed his rattled nerves, if only for a moment. He turned around.
Dean's hammer buried itself in the wall with a violent crash!, right where Sam's head just was. Sam flung up the demon knife and pressed it against Dean's neck, eyes blown wide with pure terror.
That—Dean—
Dean aimed to kill.
Only then did the true reality of the situation hit Sam. The Mark always drove its bearers to some form of fratricide. He should have been expecting it, but for some reason, he'd denied the idea that Dean would actually want him dead until this moment. Dean stared at him, lip curled into a snarl.
Even telling himself 'this isn't Dean' over and over couldn't change the look in Dean's dark, shadowed eyes.
Hatred.
Dean wanted him dead.
"Well..." Dean released the hammer. Sam was horrified to see it was securely wedged into the plaster. "... look at you." Dean settled his chin against the serrated edge. "Do it. It's all you."
Sam's breathing turned to ragged gasping. He couldn't. He couldn't do it, no matter the venom in Dean's words or the sadistic gleam in his eyes, Sam couldn't kill Dean.
He lowered the knife.
Dean's lips tugged into a wry grin, as if he'd expected this. Inky blackness drowned out the green in his irises, and he went to attack Sam, but strong arms clothed in a tan trenchcoat wrapped around him and restricted his movement.
Castiel held him still, gritting his teeth. Angelic power flooded his natural strength, lighting up his eyes with blue. "It's over. Dean, it's over."
Struggling against his grip, Dean growled viciously, panting harshly as a shout of fury ripped free from his chest, filling the bunker with the hoarse, animalistic shrieks of a demon eager to finish off his brother.
"It's over."
Sam withdrew the last injection from an unconscious Dean's arm. As he tucked the supplies away, he said quietly, "what the hell are we doing to him, Cas? I mean, even after I gave him all that blood, he still said he didn't want to be cured. That he didn't want to be human."
Cas' deep blue eyes glittered with the solemn grief of someone who understood. "I see his point. You know, only humans can feel real joy, but... also such profound pain. This is easier."
Despite the topic of conversation being Dean, Sam couldn't help but glance over at Cas sadly. He'd had such a rough time with things recently. Sam would talk to him later, after things had time to sink in.
Eyes still closed, Dean twitched. His head jerked to the side. A soft grunt escaped him. Slowly, he raised his head, eyes fluttering open to reveal they were still black.
But, as they watched, the darkness shrank and coiled in on itself until only his gentle, summer green irises were left. Dean blinked blearily, as if seeing clearly for the first time. He exhaled sharply, then looked up at them, eyebrows pinched in confusion.
"You look worried, fellas," Dean managed. Sam and Cas exchanged a look. Sam picked up a flask and splashed Dean's face with holy water. Dean flinched, but his skin didn't burn or hiss upon contact.
Relief nearly overwhelmed Sam. A hesitant, honest smile tugged at his lips. Even Cas' forehead smoothed out, the desperation fading from his expression. The worry in his eyes, however, remained.
"Welcome back, Dean," Sam said.
Cas picked up one of the many books strewn across the table, all about demons and curing demons. He felt like Sam had gotten obsessed in Dean's absence, which obviously wasn't healthy, but he didn't want to put a damper on things so soon. Instead, he just flipped through the pages, scanning them with slight disinterest.
"Hey," Sam said, coming to a stop beside him.
"How's he doing?" Cas asked.
"He's, uh... he's still a little out of it," Sam admitted. "But better, I think. I mean, I think this whole thing—the blood cure, and the—all of it, really wrecked him, you know?"
"Yeah."
"On the plus side, he's hungry again, so I'm just gonna go pick him up a big ol' bag of crap food and stuff it in his face myself." Sam smiled a bit, but Cas could tell even that simple expression was strained and exhausted. "You mind keeping an eye?"
Cas nodded. "Yeah." He sighed. "Sam."
"Yeah?"
"You realize—one problem is solved, but one still remains," Cas said. "Dean is no longer a demon. That's true. But the Mark of Cain—that, he still has, and sooner or later that's gonna be an issue."
"You know what, Cas? I'm beat, man."
Cas didn't doubt it.
"One battle at a time, you know? So I'm just gonna go grab my brother some cholesterol." Before Sam walked off, he added, "and then I'm gonna get drunk."
Cas didn't doubt that either.
When Castiel had stopped Dean from killing Sam, the younger Winchester was shaking like a leaf, his whole body tense and his expression twisted with fear. Sam was genuinely terrified of dying at Dean's hands. Cas had never seen Sam that scared, in all his years of knowing the brothers and their various hardships.
Perhaps more than anything else in the world, Sam was not scared of archangels, of the Devil, of his past, or of his brother. He was not scared of dying, not scared of sacrifices.
But Sam was scared, terrified of failing Dean. And if he died because he couldn't cure Dean, then he was failing his brother. That was what scared him; not the idea of death.
It filled Cas with rage to know that Dean let himself get to that point. He could blame the Mark all he wanted, but it was Dean's choices that led them here, and Cas hated him for it.
And Cas also loved him.
You could see the position he was in.
One of Dean's photos was missing.
As he combed through the stack he always kept by his bed, he noticed that he couldn't find the one with him and Sam at Bobby's house, laughing at someone beyond the camera. He loved that photo.
And he couldn't find it.
He knew, rationally, that Sam had probably taken it for himself, but he couldn't help but assume he was also missing a memory from being a demon where he'd ripped up the photo. It would make sense.
Knock knock knock.
Dean quickly tucked his pictures away. "Yeah?"
The door opened to reveal Castiel. Dean tried to hide his surprise.
"You look terrible," Cas told him bluntly.
Classic Castiel. Dean chuckled. "You know, it wouldn't kill ya to lie every now and again."
"No, it wouldn't kill me. I just... you—"
"Forget it," Dean interrupted. Cas fell silent. "Well, you, on the other hand, you... looking good. So, are you back?"
"At least temporarily," Cas replied. "Yeah, it's a long story—Crowley, stolen grace. There's a female outside in the car."
Dean blinked.
"Another time," Cas dismissed.
"Well, thank you for, um, stepping when you did," Dean said, trying and failing to not stumble over his words. Deep shame welled up in his chest when he thought about his crazed hunt through the bunker for Sam. "What does Sam say? Does he want a divorce?" He turned away.
"I'm sure Sam knows that whatever you said or what you did—that wasn't really you. It certainly wasn't all you."
Oh, Castiel. Always quick to comfort where it isn't welcome, always eager to forgive where it isn't deserved.
"I tried to kill him, Cas," Dean muttered.
"Dean, you two have been through so much," Cas said, his voice softening. "Look, you're brothers. It'd take a lot more than trying to kill Sam with a hammer to make him walk away."
"You realize how screwed up our lives are that that even makes sense?"
Cas chuckled.
"I'm glad you're here, man," Dean told him honestly.
Bowing his head in acknowledgement, Cas turned to leave, but paused. "Hey, maybe you should, um... take some time before you get back to work—allow yourself to heal. It's, uh... I don't know. Timing might be right. Heaven and Hell—they seem to be reasonably back in order. It's quiet out there." He closed the door gently behind him.
Cas was trying so hard to help, but the only thing Dean gleaned from it was that Cas believed he was too volatile to go back to hunting right away. He was too dangerous.
Not that he wasn't absolutely correct. Dean closed his eyes. He'd consider it, at least.
Maybe he did need a break.