Dean felt utterly disgusting. He could feel the hideous taint of human blood still clinging on inside him like some poisonous insect that had burrowed through his skin and into his bloodstream. He was almost tempted to rake his nails – or the First Blade – along his forearms to try and get the awful, cloying feeling out. Almost.

The anger pumping faster than his heart kept his mind clear and his muscles tensed. His healed knuckles were white around the hilt of the First Blade. He could hear it inside his mind, softly calling for blood, like a lover's whisper in the dark. So alluring. So tempting. He knew holding the Blade was all that was stopping his hands from trembling. Its power steadied him, anchored him. It allowed him to think.

His weeks of torture at Maalik's mercy had been unpleasant to say the least. He had felt a weakness he had been sure could not exist in his new body, his new self. Fear. And when Michelle had appeared, it was almost as if he'd awoken from a nightmare. Only instead of seeing the trusted, loyal friend he should have recognised, he saw a demon staring down at him.

And he had panicked.

Dean Winchester. The Lord of Souls, demon-killer extraordinaire had panicked at the sight of a demon.

'Embarrassing' didn't even begin to cover it.

But what was worse, in that inexplicable moment of terror and confusion, he had teleported to Sam.

That was surely unforgivable. Treasonous. He had warned – no, ordered – every one of his demons to avoid Sam Winchester on pain of annihilation – by Dean himself. It was one of few decrees. And yet he had zapped off to his old brother as though he were, what, a human?

It made no sense.

Yes, it does, whispered a malicious voice in the back of Dean's mind. Of course you went to him. You needed help. The only reason you forbade the demons to approach him was to keep him safe. He's still your brother.

Dean shook his head sharply, barely stifling a snarl. Human blood. He could almost taste it in the back of his mouth, like zinc: dry and metallic. He shook its lies from his mind. He was a demon. Hell, he was more: he was the Lord of demons. The Lord of Souls, both black and white.

He admitted that if Sam – or someone – hadn't broken the sigils carved into his chest, he might not have been able to heal himself as he had now. And yes, the blessed human blood had tingled a little, and yes, it had seemed to speed his recovery, but it had not cured him. He was still a demon. One hundred per cent.

His mind flashed back to wrenching his wrists apart, breaking the demon handcuffs.

Okay, ninety per cent demon. Maybe eighty-five. But once he got the last remnants of human blood out of his bloodstream, he'd be fighting fit.

And there was not much longer to wait. He could feel the delicious power flowing out from the branded mark on his right forearm, slowly but inexorably annihilating any trace of humanity inside him, restoring him to his true, black-souled self. Feeling the blackness gradually filling him once more, Dean was comforted. As long as he had the Mark, he need never fear becoming human again.

With that comfort, that surety that he had not allowed himself to be lost to the agony of humanhood, came anger. Raw, indignant rage pulsed through him with every beat of his heart, with every thought. He was infuriated he had allowed some overgrown moose of a human drug him with humanity. He was enraged he had felt his powers falter, if only for a moment. If that cure had worked, if he had been made human again – he cringed at the thought – then what would he have been left with? He would have gone from an all-powerful, utterly free being of desire and impulse to some pathetic, guilt-infested failure. Someone who was so preoccupied with family and fighting the good fight and all that bullshit that he had let his own life be ruled by someone else. First his father, then angels, demons, Leviathans, and through it all that indestructible, overriding sense of obligation to his little brother. Someone who defined their worth not by who they were or what they had accomplished, but by the role some obsessed widower had bored into him so efficiently he didn't even make sense without it.

That man, that Dean Winchester was nothing, nothing, compared to the Lord of Souls. He lived his life for himself. In the space of a year he had fulfilled every goal he set himself. Better still, he had lived free for the first time in his miserable existence. He had finally stopped holding back, stopped fighting that darkness that had always churned inside him. Instead, he had embraced it. And it. Was. Bliss.

The Blade's whispers were becoming stronger, more insistent. Dean could feel its restlessness, its eagerness to taste new blood. He needed to kill. He hadn't used the ancient weapon since the church, when he had killed Crowley.

Now that had been sweet.

Few kills had been as rapturously satisfying as killing Abaddon had been, but with Crowley ... that had come close. Tantalizingly close.

The Blade began to hum in his hand, like a contented purr.

Dean's mouth curled into a smile that would have stopped a hardened soldier dead in their tracks. Having the First Blade back again made him feel whole. It wasn't a weapon so much as it was an extension of his arm. The crushing, desperate emptiness it had left in him during his imprisonment had almost consumed him. Now, reunited with the Mark, its other half, it wasn't just Dean's power that was being restored. His very sense of self was revived.

The Blade gave a slight shiver. Dean smiled down at it, relishing the feel of its firm, grounding weight in his fist. The sinew-wrapped hilt fit his palm as though it had been made for him. Feeling its smooth resistance in his palm felt right. It felt like safety. Like home.

The old jawbone twitched eagerly, reacting to his thoughts, showing its readiness to prove just how right they were together. It was time to get back to work.

Readjusting his grip on the Blade, Dean turned and pushed the heavy double doors of the office open. Without breaking his stride, he started down the hall.

There was one problem he had to take care of before the fun started.

Lucius.

Michelle had filled Dean in on the supposedly trustworthy Knight's behaviour during his brief absence. It seemed that the 'unwaveringly loyal' demon who had professed his immortal and eternal fidelity and allegiance to Dean and none other had not considered it 'necessary' to look for his missing master.

Call him idealistic, but Dean didn't consider leaving him for dead a promising trait for a lieutenant.

Unfortunately for Lucius, firing was done a lot more literally in Hell than on Earth.

Dean entered the meeting room without knocking. Michelle and Lucius were waiting for him, each seated in a cushioned armchair to either side of the grand fireplace that dominated the far wall.

Michelle stood when he entered, her lips pressed into a sly yet welcoming smile. Her auburn hair tumbled down her shoulders like a copper waterfall. Her deep brown eyes sparkled with the unique fire that had first drawn Dean to her, back when she was human.

Her loyalties, at least, were far beyond questioning. Not only had she saved his life, she had kept Hell running as smoothly as was possible in his absence. Not to mention she had welcomed him back with open arms ... and more. His moment of weakness was forgotten in her eyes, and during the weeks since his return, their bond had grown stronger.

Lucius rose more slowly to his feet, neatening his perfectly straight tie unnecessarily and avoiding Dean's eyes before eventually meeting them.

"Lucius," Dean greeted formally, coming to a halt beside Michelle and curling his arm snugly around her middle.

"My lord Dean." Lucius bowed his oil-slicked head.

"I think it's about time we made our move," Dean said casually, as though pondering the idea of going for a round of golf. "We have more than enough strength to overrun the place without needing to replenish our stocks."

Lucius's eyebrow cocked. "You're certain? Forgive me, Dean, but I hardly think now is the time to –"

"Why not?" Dean's voice may have been friendly but the threat was blatant in his burning eyes.

The Knight's gaze did not falter. "I mean," he said boldly, "that you have only been back from your ... vacation a few weeks."

In the time it took Lucius to blink, he was pinned by the throat to the wall above the fire. He gasped and choked, fumbling against Dean's wrist, trying to break his hold.

"Funny you should mention my 'vacation'," Dean snarled in a mock-friendly tone. "I was just thinking about that, about how" – he tightened his grip on the demon's throat – "you decided to just sit here, cosy and snug in your armchair in the middle of Hell" – Dean's voice lowered as he spat the words through gritted teeth – "and left me to rot!"

Lucius gagged, his eyes widening as he fought for air. "I – thought – you – h-had gone after y-your" – he heaved a breath against Dean's fist – "brother!"

Dean stared at him in disbelief. "After everything I've done for you – after everything we've been through together, you think I would abandon you for him!"

Lucius's mouth worked soundlessly, his hands wringing Dean's wrist raw through his black shirt.

Dean let out a low, mirthless chuckle. "Oh man, Lucius," he said, a touch of sorrow in his voice. "You just never understood it, did you?"

Dean pressed the tip of the First Blade gently against Lucius's abdomen, just hard enough to press the silky fabric of his shirt against the hidden skin.

"Family means more than blood."

With one quick thrust, the blade sank into Lucius's soft middle. Red-orange lightning flashed through the demon's meat suit as a soundless scream distorted his features.

Dean wrenched the weapon out of his former lieutenant and let his corpse fall in a heap in front of the fire. Breathing heavily, he turned his burning gaze to Michelle. Dean's blood sang with the heated joy of killing, mixed with the exquisite release of the joined power of the Mark and Blade. He closed his eyes as a shiver ran up his spine. He felt the last of the human blood burn away in the swell of black energy.

When he opened his eyes, they were black.

"It's time," he told Michelle, his voice laced with restrained fury. "We move on the Veil."