Chapter Nine

Sam sat upon a chair within the dungeon, supervising a body. It struck him as both ridiculous, and necessary. Because while he had seen Crowley's vessel empty of Crowley before, if briefly, he could not shake the feeling that a vessel animated by a demon for so long—particularly a demon who'd worked his way up from the mail room to the CEO's corner office—was more than just inert, empty flesh. Possibly, potentially, a threat.

I could kill you. Snap my fingers, easiest thing in the world.

Sam remembered that abandoned warehouse, that confrontation with Crowley, when he believed he held the upper hand because of Rowena's hex bag. And found he did not.

Powerful magic. Might have worked on any other demon. But me? Please.

He looked at the vessel. A human, once. But so long a demon's host.

From here on, I want you to know that the only reason you're alive is because I allowed it.

How many years had they dealt with Crowley? Five? Six? He'd lost count.

You're right. I am a monster. And I've done bad. I've done things you can't even imagine. Horrible, evil, messy things. And I've loved Every. Damn. Minute.

Crowley was a player. Crowley played them. With consummate skill.

So thank you, Sam. For reminding me who I really am.

And Crowley—that Crowley—was in his brother.

Sam thrust himself out of the chair and took two long strides to the outer rim of the devil's trap. He stood there trembling. Stared. Tried to see if the vessel breathed.

Did Crowley breathe?

Had Dean, when he was a demon?

And that thought, strobing out of the blue with the force of a migraine, dropped Sam to his knees.

Then overlay now.

Dean, tied and cuffed to the very same chair Crowley's vessel inhabited, within the same trap, within the same room. Flesh and blood Dean—oh yes, unquestionably flesh and blood; Sam had seen the crimson stippling left by needle punctures. But Dean had been alive, so alive, more than ever, which was saying something considering the normal power of his personality; and Dean's life force, as demon, was nothing if not brimming with a twisted kind of righteous indignation, throwing back at Sam the tenets of their childhood, the guideposts both had known, the insecurities Sam had always hidden even from his brother.

He was the reason their mother died.

Crowley's vessel was not alive, and threw back nothing other than silence.

But also, somehow, memory of the eldest, suddenly not human, who had been everything, everything to the youngest.

Did you ever stop to think that if I wanted to be cured, I wouldn't have bailed?

Dean had said No to Michael time and time again. In Van Nuys, in the Beautiful Room, he'd tricked Zachariah into believing he'd said Yes, but he hadn't . . . or had he?

Sam remembered his brother's eyes. Sam had believed, in that moment, as he himself spat blood, that Dean was done with denying the prophecy of Heaven, for which angels died.

The little prat's bad for business, Crowley had said. He's uncontrollable. Must be the Mark. Anyway, Dean's your problem now—again, forever.

Dean uncontrollable? Understatement.

But Dean was a problem Sam hoped—no, prayed—that he would have forever.

He'll come back. He will. And he'll be fine.

He had to be. Because Sam could not bear to lose his brother again.

It was raining now, huge cataracts of water dashed against the windshield that crashed, splashed, broke upon glass into fragments that flew dramatically toward all four cardinal points and every possible direction in between. Wipers could not keep up. Dean gripped the wheel so hard his fingers verged on cramping, squinting through the occluded windshield as if his angry, relentless stare alone could stop the storm entirely, or part the waves of water.

Kennesaw, Nebraska. Why could he not be cruising up Highway 101 in California beneath bright sun, blue skies, overlooking the Pacific Ocean?

Nope. Here he was, instead, on his way to Nebraska. In the pouring rain.

'Remind you of anything?'

Dean twitched in surprise. Crowley had been silent for some time. He had almost, almost, forgotten he was—inhabited.

Crowley's tone was amused. 'What, avoiding the term "possessed?" '

"You're hitching a ride," Dean muttered. "That's different."

He doesn't say, You told me it was different, because he knows that would suggest he trusted Crowley to tell the truth; and it might even sow doubt in his own mind. He avoided doubts at all costs. Because otherwise nothing, nothing at all, would ever get done.

Dad had taught him that.

'And so it is different—if I choose it to be. Let's face it, Dean—if I truly wanted to take you, make you mine in all ways . . . well, 'twould be an extremely brief shortcut, I should say, from here to there. But don't let it concern you, Squirrel. That's not the topic of conversation. I asked if the rain, and the state, remind you of anything.'

"It reminds me of Nebraska," Dean snapped, peering through the rain-lashed windshield as the Impala powered down the highway, sheets of roaring water thrown up beneath her undercarriage. "Nebraska's just—Nebraska."

"Eleven years ago, Dean. Have you forgotten? You were dying. You were riding shotgun in your own car while a very young and very frightened little brother—oh he of great faith—was convinced he'd found a way to save you. It's still sitting up here in your memory bank, you realize. Roy Le Grange, a man of the cloth, who cured you with a hand laid upon your brow. Marshall Hall, who died in your place. And the lovely Layla, who died perhaps six months later, also in your place, because you stole her chance at healing.

Pressure formed a knot in Dean's throat. He didn't want to think of Layla. He couldn't think of Layla.

And what a fascinating collection of memories it is, Dean! All I need to do is Google you right here in your own brain, and there it is: Dean Winchester's life. Of course it's not exactly entirely accurate . . . it's all your POV, after all, not Sam's, not anyone else's, and thus the information is suspect. But I'm rather enjoying this. Dean Winchester in living color, unadulterated. Porn over here, sex over there . . . killing, kissing . . . so much violence, but oh so tender with the ladies. And of course there's Sammy, and Dear Old Dad—"

Fury ripped the shout from his throat. "Leave my father out of it!"

'Can't be done, Dean. Not only did he provide the sperm that fertilized your mother's egg, but he made you what you are today. He trained you, shaped your human clay, created a weapon in his own image, but better. Superior. Because you were raised to it from that night in the nursery, when you were all of four. John Winchester?—oh, he didn't join the war until he was unquestionably an adult. But you? Born to it. Born for it. Dad's blunt little instrument—'

"Stop it!"

'Dad's perfect soldier—"

"Stop it, Crowley!"

'And destined to be even more. Michael's vessel! Michael's sword. And Heaven might have gotten what it wanted, except Zachariah handled you very badly. Heaven erred, in sending a dick. And dick is not what you crave, is it? No . . . it's chick. Heaven should have sent a woman. And so I wonder—would you have done it for Anna? Had it been her from the beginning? Would you have said "Yes?"'

Tension sheeted down his spine, knotting muscles on either side. "Crowley, we're not talking about this."

'Your father made you a weapon. He made you for Michael. He just didn't know it.'

"And Michael's in the cage!" Dean shouted into the confines of the Impala. "How's that for Heaven's all-powerful plan? My brother as Lucifer's vessel, me as Michael's—didn't work out so well, did it? Not exactly controllable, are we Winchesters? You found that out, didn't you, Crowley?—when I was a demon."

And even as he spoke those words, the words only Sam had ever heard from him—when I was a demon—Dean felt the shame take hold of his gut and knot it, tie it up in a pretty holiday bow. Red for Valentine's, red-and-green for Christmas, blue for a boy and pink for a girl . . . and what was he? How had he been gift-wrapped? A present for God's firstborn archangel to unwrap, to use, first thing on Christmas morning? Not a toy at all, was Dean Winchester. And never a gun, despite his talent with them. No, he was a sword.

That's what knights used,' Crowley affirmed. Steel, Dean. Clean, shining steel. Blinding bright beneath the sun of God's making. And you, well . . . clean, and blinding, and bright, and oh so righteous . . . until you crawled off Alastair's rack. And then you were just like everyone else in hell, scrambling to find a way to escape the pain. I applauded you for holding out so long—we all of us were mightily impressed—but in the end, as I noted, you were indeed like everyone else. Shedding the blood of others so your own wasn't shed any longer.'

And Dean smiled. It was shaped of bitter knowledge, of an almost shameful pride. "I'm not like everyone else, Crowley. I wasn't before, I wasn't then, and I'm not now. Or we wouldn't be here, would we? You wouldn't need me to go to hell to fetch yet another Hand of God, if I was just another moke. Oh no. That's not me at all, is it? Because you wanted me as your Knight of Hell. And Michael?—yeah, he wanted me, too. And Heaven sent Cas and a garrison of angels to raise me from perdition. Try another one, Crowley. Or else I'll just turn this car around and head back to Lebanon."

Crowley laughed inside his head. 'Dean, Dean, Dean. You said No to Michael. But you said Yes to me.'

The rain poured down upon the only true home Dean had ever known, the place that offered much peace, and, again, he wanted to vomit.