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Chapter 7 – When the Water Runs Cold

Lucifer nodded to him. It was an odd and thrilling sensation, meeting the devil's gaze. The hollow eyes had flashed with a hazel glow but Dean knew that it had been Lucifer nodding to him. It was as if he knew exactly what Dean had been trying to do.

The idea had come to him when Lucifer had sent the shock through Castiel. It had been just like the demons. Dean only needed to lure him close enough.

As Lucifer flickered and disappeared, Dean felt the presence disappear as well, like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

Dean's plan might have failed but he wasn't dead, and neither was Castiel. Dean sat as a rush of pain hit his chest. His hand instinctually brushed the reopened cuts racing down his torso.

Sammy.

Lucifer was going to kill him again. But it wouldn't work! It couldn't. Would it?

"Dean?" Castiel was standing up. "Are you hurt?" The question was rather pointless.

"No I'm fine," he cursed the tremor running through his voice. He knew Castiel wouldn't believe him but he was done being babied. Dean was thirty years old, damn it.

When Castiel opened his mouth to protest, Dean glared and told him to shut the hell up.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Dean turned and laughed sarcastically. He rubbed a weary hand across his mouth. "You want something?" He was tired of arrogance that clung to Zachariah like ticks clung to an infested dog.

"I want to know why you let Lucifer leave when Castiel knew we were coming to kill him?"

"I'm glad you think I'm superman but last time I checked Lucifer is powerful. Me." He pointed to his chest. "Not so much. Human. Remember. You decided we were all lunch meat."

"You are the one to stop Lucifer and send him back to Hell. By any means necessary you should have held him here until we arrived."

"Hey Lucifer, do you want to sit and have a beer while we wait for the angels that are coming to kill you? I would greatly appreciate it, thanks, I'll have a Miller. I think that would work, don't you." Dean smiled bitterly.

"Your antics are not appreciated."

"Yeah well, sorry, guess you fucked up by not picking the most obedient human." Dean laughed sharply. "And what the hell took you so long. You're one place and, poof, you're in another one. Had to have that one last laugh about how you screwed humanity over?"

"As I recall… your brother started the apocalypse, not me."

Dean's grin turned into a scowl blazing full force at Zachariah. "You can shut the fuck up."

"You are not to talk to me that way. You should respect me as your superior-"

"What the hell are you on, buddy? I didn't sign up for war." Dean was driving his finger into the angel's chest. "You dragged me into this. You dragged Sammy into this."

"It is your duty-"

"The hell it is. I don't owe you anything." Dean turned. He was so tired.

"Your brother chose to drink demon blood. He chose to kill Lilith. He chose to let Lucifer out."

Each word sank deep in Dean's brain. Each one was a blow that fed his anger. His fist connected solidly with Zachariah's face. Just as it had with Lucifer the punch didn't do much and it hurt like hell. "Don't you fucking dare."

"What, state the truth? You broke the first seal. Your brother unleashed Lucifer, gave him a perfect vessel. You don't feel at all responsible for that?"

Dean swung again. He felt his shoulder jar and throb with the contact. "You made him do that. It wasn't his fault. You sacrificed him."

"That may have been the plan but he walked the path on his own. Now. I don't want the apocalypse to last forever, and I'm sure you don't either. So I suggest you do what I tell you, when I tell you, so that everyone doesn't die."

"Plenty are dead. More every second will die because of you. Sammy is," tears built behind his eyes, "going to die because of you."

"So you want everyone else to die because you can't get over the fact that you let Sammy die? Because you can't get over the fact that you screwed up?"

Dean grabbed Zachariah's throat, held on even as Zachariah fought his arm. "Shut up."

"Your father told you to protect him and you failed."

"Shut up!" Dean's hand shifted.

"He knew what Sammy was meant for."

Dean squeezed Zachariah's throat in warning.

"What are you going to do, Dean? It takes a lot to kill an angel. You aren't capable even if you wanted to."

Dean squeezed again and watched the light ripple over Zachariah's skin in waves under his grip. The power that ran down his arm was jarring as it had been with Lucifer. It flowed reluctantly. Dean held on as the angel sank to his knees. He bent down close to Zachariah's ear and whispered, "What makes you think I couldn't kill you right now?" He could smell the fear all around him. It smelled sweet.

Dean let go. He let Zachariah stumble backwards, before the angel rose to his feet. Incredulity crossed his features.

"I will never be your puppet, you arrogant bastard. Your tricks don't work on me. Now get the fuck out of my house." Surprisingly the angel obeyed and was gone an instant later.

Castiel was standing unnaturally still. Dean glanced over and looked away. Defiance wasn't Castiel's strong suit. The disapproval in the angel's eyes was not comforting. Dean stormed out of the room and into the bathroom. It was his refuge.

Dean turned the shower on and was surprised that the water was still connected. He removed his jeans. Surprisingly they weren't stained expect for his finger prints etched in Sam's blood across the fabric.

The water ran hot down the back of his neck.

He tried to ignore the power and pleasure he felt when Zacharias was kneeling before him. He tried to ignore the rush of sensation filling him. He had liked it. He had wanted it. The thing inside of him had wanted it. Dean felt as if he had been infected with something horrible.

Dean shook the thoughts from his head. Focused on the water and the rush of heat running over his tense muscles. It burned the blood from his skin. Dean was careful not to irritate the flush bruises radiating across his chest. Nothing good could come from the pain. Steam clouded the air. Dean realized he never turned the light on. The dark was nice, peaceful and quiet. He tried to imagine he was anywhere but Kansas.

Sam's voice echoed in his head. His brother would have made a Wizard of Oz joke to that thought. There's no place like home. Dean let a single sob escape his lips. The rest settled in to a hurricane behind the walls he constructed in his mind. Dean was used to shutting his emotions down but…

Sam was alive.

Sam was fighting; he was winning, until…

Sam was going to…

The door squeaked open and light radiated through the steam and curtain. An uncomfortable tension filled the room.

"What are you doing in here?" Dean didn't turn his head from under the steady flow. He wanted peace.

"I came to see if you were alright."

"I'm fine Castiel, please leave," Dean huffed.

"But you were wounded…"

"Don't worry about me. Trust me, everything is perfectly fine." His chest throbbed in angry protest.

"Dean…"

"Get out!" Silence followed the demand; it was deafening. The light began to fade and the steam closed off his senses again. His mind scrambled to fill the sudden blackness pressing in on him. Dean needed to think of anything but this night, this week, this life…his life. He wanted to escape into his mind but it filled the emptiness with Sam, filled it with the one thing Dean couldn't take right now. Sam's smell still clung to Dean's skin, followed him around in a cloud of sorrow. He hated it; he loved it; he needed it. Sam, everywhere, but more importantly here, now. Dean felt his heart tighten. He sobbed. The tears rolling down his cheeks were lost in the torrent of water streaming over his head.

The faucet stuttered and turned frigid. The icy water pelted his hot skin. Dean turned the knob with a shaky hand and the water stopped. His skin rippled and his arm hair stood on end.

There was no towel waiting on the rack. Dean walked over to the sink but there was nothing in the medicine cabinet. Dilute blood was rolling down his skin in a thin trickle. He should take care of that. Dean flipped the small light on.

Dean closed the door of the cabinet. The mirror revealed the hand shaped bruise developing around his neck, echoed darkly against the paleness of his skin. He could see the details, the long lines of Sam's fingers, the broad black mark of Sam's palm, the rough circle of Sam's thumb.

His fist flew out again. The glass was less resistant then either angel's face was. The mirror cracked, streaked red with blood. The cuts were jagged and harsh across Dean's knuckles. The mirror still held in its frame and Dean looked into his own tired eyes. The vibrant green was replaced by a lifeless pale color. He missed the vibrancy. The old green had been so alive.

Now his eyes seemed dead, pure, holy…inhuman. Dean had been drafted into this war and this was what they took from him. Staring into his own eyes, Dean couldn't feel alive, couldn't imagine anyone seeing anything but this emptiness staring back at him.

Dean pulled a piece of glass from the frame. Ran the jagged edge across his thumb. A bright red line marked the cut. A sharp sting reminded Dean that people needed him. He held the edge to his wrist, the sharp mirror's edge flush with the soft tissue and the throbbing pulse resting just below his skin. Voices thundered through his mind but none of them were his own. His father yelled in his ear about watching out for Sam. His brother pleaded in his ear about needing him. Castiel spoke about his destiny. Zacharias taunted him about his duty. Millions of people cried for him to sacrifice himself to save their lives.

Dean's hand shook. There was something hidden beneath the commotion. A soft whisper, a shy voice.

It is your duty. It is your job. It's what you're good at. You are a soldier. You are a warrior. That is all you ever were and all you'll ever be. You can save these people. You owe it to them, to Dad, to Sam.

Dean fell to his knees; the only thing filling his ears now was his own voice, slowly building in strength and confidence.

Your duty. You promised you would save him. It's your fault and your mess… You fix it.

Dean hands gripped the sink in an effort to keep himself upright, but his own taunts and encouragement beat down on him until the glass pressed to his wrist seemed like the most vile temptation. Instead Dean just slid to the chilled tile and let the tears streak hot down his cheeks. The glass clattered in the sink.

He couldn't control the violent tremors running down his body.

He wanted it to be over. He wanted it all to end.

He wanted his brother to live.

He wanted Sam.

"Sammy."