Chapter 3: Bye Bye Baby, Baby Goodbye

Dean felt better outside, away from the demon warding and in the first light of a new dawn. It was as though a slight pressure had been lifted from his chest. It was disconcerting though, being only a few feet away from the front door of the bunker he knew was there, and yet not feel it. He could feel in his mind the spaces around him: the curve of the rolling hills, the shape of the Impala parked haphazardly behind him. Where the bunker should be, however, according to this new sense, did not exist. It was weird.

He walked over to the old car and laid a hand gently on the hood. He could feel the warding in the trunk from here, almost like a magnetic charge, repelling him warningly. He could smell and see the blood on the passenger seat. His, he assumed.

He loved this car. Truly, he did. She was the closest thing to a home he had ever known. She had always been there. She'd saved their necks more than once, too.

Like remembering his brother earlier, he felt no emotional response to the sight or feel of the car he'd rebuilt twice, the car he'd grown up in. He knew he had loved it, but right now, like with Sam, he couldn't think why.

Besides, he didn't need it anymore.

The bunker door flew open and Dean heard the heavy footsteps of his younger brother crunch on the gravel. He was breathing heavily. Dean tensed.

"Dean?"

He straightened, taking his hand off the old car. The Blade surged in his hand and he gripped it tighter, telling it to wait. He didn't want to kill Sam.

Dean took a deliberate step back, away from the Impala, as Sam approached and the younger hunter stopped several feet away, looking wary. His eyes were ringed with red and he looked exhausted, drained.

"Sam."

"Crowley said …" His voice trailed off as he stared at Dean. "You're alive," he whispered, his face lighting up with joy. Did he not know?

Dean smiled. "I guess that'd depend on what you mean by 'alive'."

As he watched his little brother's face fall, Dean blinked, revealing the black voids. He watched Sam's reaction carefully.

Shock. Fear. Anger. Grief.

The Blade in Dean's hand began to hum more insistently, calling for blood. Dean glanced down at it, realizing it wouldn't wait – it wanted Sam's blood.

"I-It's okay, Dean," Sam said, his trembling voice catching slightly. He stepped forward, slowly, his hands raised placatingly. "It's okay. We'll figure this out. We'll make you human again, I promise." He swallowed hard, taking another slow step towards Dean.

The Blade hummed more fiercely, demanding to taste the human's blood. "There's nothing to figure out, Sam." Dean smiled easily, taking another step away from his brother and the car. "I'm a demon." He paused. "A powerful one."

Sam stopped in his tracks, staring at Dean. Horror filled his eyes at the faint note of pride that had crept into Dean's tone.

Dean turned, spinning on one foot away from his brother and the car that had been their home their whole lives. The strength was still coursing through him. He needed to use it, release it. Test his limits ... if he had any.

"Dean?"

"Sorry, Sam," Dean called over his shoulder as he sauntered away, his voice casual and cheery. "But I gotta go."

"Dean! Don't leave!"

The intensity of Sam's cry made Dean turn around. Sam's eyes were wild, on the edge of panic. He didn't understand.

"You can't be around me, Sam," Dean explained, shifting his weight restlessly as the Blade began to vibrate in his hand.

"Why? Because you're a demon? Because you're dangerous? What about me when I was chugging demon blood, huh? I was dangerous; you stayed with me. I'm not leaving you, Dean."

Dean considered him a moment. His words were fervent, and there was no doubting the sincerity in his tired, fierce eyes. He wanted to save him. He wanted him to stay. But he didn't get it. Dean didn't need him anymore. Sam would only get in the way.

Dean remembered every time Sam had run away from his family. To Six Flags, to Stanford, to Ruby … He remembered when he himself had run away, to say yes to Michael, and Sam had brought him back. Running away had never been the right choice, for either of them. But this time it was different. The Blade was still calling for Sam's blood, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore. His hand was shaking. For all they had been through together, because they were family, Dean had to get away from Sam.

"Well, I am."

"What?" Sam gasped, incredulous.

"I'm leaving you." He turned to go.

"Dean! You're my brother! Just give me time; I can fix this, I swear! We can figure this out, together!"

Dean turned his head slowly and fixed Sam with a cold stare. He saw Sam suppress a shiver. The power of the Blade surged through him. When he spoke, his voice was certain. "Your brother is dead, Sam. And I don't need you."

He took another step away and paused. He looked over to the sleek black car, waiting for the next hunt. He wouldn't be needing that anymore. And he didn't want Sam following him. Besides, he thought, as he raised a hand to the vehicle. It's my car. A hunter's car. And I'm not a hunter anymore.

As his hand rose to the height of his shoulder, so did the car, rising to hover a few inches above the grassy, gravely ground. Sam gasped, jumping back, but Dean ignored him. His attention was focused completely on the metals before him. He could feel every speck of it. Every stitch in the upholstery, every groove in the tires, everything but the weapons hidden in the trunk.

"I won't be needing this anymore," he muttered absent-mindedly, and clenched his fist tight. The air was filled with the sound of screeching metal as the car buckled, the invisible force of Dean's will crushing the frame, bending the doors. The windows shattered and there was a loud bang as one of the tires burst.

Dean's lips curved up in a smile that looked slightly manic and did not reach his still-black eyes. He lowered his hand and the twisted lump that had once been Dean Winchester's car dropped unceremoniously to the ground and rocked itself into stillness. He glanced to Sam, who was staring in disbelief at the unrecognizable ruin of the 1967 Chevrolet Impala. He looked up, horrified, at Dean, who was still smiling that strange smile.

"Goodbye, Sam," he called in an alien voice that matched the smile as he raised his hand once more, and, as he had seen Crowley do so many times before, he snapped his fingers. In an instant, he was gone, leaving the man that had once been his brother alone beside a pile of junk that had once been his home.