Thank you for coming back for more and thank you for your patience! When I published the first chapter, the fic wasn't exactly finished, which is also the reason why I could only give an approximation of the word count. In the meantime, the word count has also increased lmao

Enjoy the climax! After this one, there's only one more chapter left, and I'm hoping to include a list of trivia like on the spn wiki. Reading that wiki (and trivia for other media) is one of my favorite things to do while watching a show/playing a game.

New tags: Dead People, decomposing bodies, kidnapped children, Brainwashing, Injured Sam Winchester

A reminder that I changed the lore/backstory of Saint Nicholas/Sinterklaas slightly. Before you start googling who Nicky might be, I have to warn you that in real life, the people portraying Nicky's servants used to, and sometimes still, use blackface. This horrible custom has a few origin stories, I think, one of which is that they're covered in soot from going down (and then up) the chimney. No matter what the reason for it may be, I'm 10000% against the use of blackface and I have decided to stay as far away as possible from this being a thing in the spn universe. I recognize this is a very heavy subject to some, and although only very few people might want to find out more about Nicky, if I can warn just one person, I have done my job.

For the past thirty minutes, Sam had been making phone calls while Dean drove them along Lake Michigan while they kept half an eye on anything that could be unusual. According to Captain Watson, who had been nice enough to accept their call earlier, there was a vessel on Lake Michigan that was reported as suspicious. They were checking it out now. So far, they had found nothing, though. It didn't help that the sun had already disappeared behind the horizon and they were in a hurry in case dear old Nicholas would up and disappear at the stroke of midnight.

"All right. Yeah, thanks," Sam said just before he hung up the phone. He turned to Dean. "That was Leonard. He confirmed that little Castiel did something Saint Nicholas would consider naughty."

"What's his crime?" Dean anticipated the boy's sin with glee. Already they had learned of the stupidest reasons why those children were kidnapped. Poor Andrea had been so tired she forgot to sing the mandatory song for some candy, Dennis had eaten his sister's candy, which had caused a fight between the siblings, and the others had equally trivial reasons to be abducted.

"According to his dad, Cas Junior is a big boy for his age and apparently, he thought it was a good idea to tell his little brother that Saint Nick doesn't exist." Sam mimicked Leonard surprisingly well.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that would get you kidnapped, all right."

"It's not funny," Sam said, but he couldn't keep an amused smile from his face either.

Dean waved him away. "Sure, it's not. What else did the captain have to say? When he called you?" Sam had already entered Leonard's phone number when Watson had called Sam back. From Sam's side of the conversation, it had been impossible to determine what was said on the other side and Sam hadn't been forthcoming between that call and Leonard's.

"He had just gotten the results back from the lab and it confirmed the blood on the floor all belonged to the parents. The blood on the piece of fabric you found came from Dennis." Sam peered out the passenger side's window. "They checked further up too and found more traces of blood, so he was likely taken up that chimney."

Dean grimaced. Even thinking about it made his skin crawl. He wasn't claustrophobic in the slightest, but the idea of being stuck in a chimney made him very uncomfortable.

Sam was quiet for a moment. "When we get back, we should check if the bunker has info on saints. Or start the collection ourselves," he added.

Dean had a better idea. "How about you go do your nerd stuff while I take a nap?"

Sam huffed but didn't argue. After all this time, he should and did know better.

They were lucky to find the dinghy minutes after they spotted the steamboat for the first time. Or what they believed was a steamboat. Dean didn't know his ships well enough to name it as such. The dinghy looked almost brand new, with a colorful hull and set of oars inside that looked barely used. The name painted on the hull, the Orca, sounded familiar, but he couldn't quite remember where he heard it apart from his latest Jaws rewatch from a while back.

Dean looked around, half expecting Cas, or even Crowley, to jump out from behind the trees and explain this perfect but suspiciously convenient find. Except it stayed quiet and Dean was unsure who to thank. It may have been luck, after all, and Dean didn't trust luck .

While Dean contemplated his entire existence, Sam was the responsible brother, grabbed all the necessary stuff from the trunk, and put them in a bag. Guns, ammo, the Demon-Killing Knife, extra flashlights, gasoline, and their emergency matchbox among other things. When he was done, he dropped the bag in the dinghy with a heavy thump.

The steamboat already looked on the bigger side this far away and was bound to be impossibly large up close. This had to be where they kept the kids. If the stories were true, and Saint Nicky stashed those kids on the steamboat, they didn't have a lot of time to save them. Dean checked his watch and cursed. It was only a couple hours until midnight. They weren't sure how or when exactly the boat would disappear — would the boat sink? blip out of existence? sail away like a normal ship? — which was all the more reason to hurry.

The steamboat was close enough to their shore that Dean knew with certainty that they could reach it without too much trouble. His arms would complain, sure, but his muscles would survive. Or, maybe, this would be a good time for Sam to flex those ginormous muscles of his. Now that was an idea.

Dean's eye fell again on the dinghy. It was only now that he noticed the lack of snow and dirt on the inside. Adding the near-brand new oars, and it looked like it wasn't abandoned willingly. In theory, Nicky and his troupe of circus freaks could be behind this, though Dean would have a tough time proving it, even to himself, without more evidence.

Sam, when confronted with the question of who was going to row their asses to their destination, wasn't as receptive to the idea of doing all the work as Dean, but relented when he suffered a rare defeat in rock-paper-scissors.

To appease his brother a little bit, Dean volunteered to push the dinghy into the water so Sam could keep his feet dry for now. Dean thanked the stars his boots were waterproof. He wouldn't want to run around killing monsters in sopping-wet socks. The lake's depth increased fast. With only a few steps the dinghy bobbed freely on the gentle waves of Lake Michigan and Dean jumped in awkwardly.

They didn't need to talk as Sam exerted himself. Dean could feel quiet nerves radiating from his brother. Neither of them scared quickly, yet they had no idea what they were walking into. That was concerning, if not worrying. For all they knew, they were walking right into a trap and they were going to die in the next fifteen minutes.

The fact that everything seemed quiet and peaceful put him ill at ease. There was no such thing as 'quiet and peaceful' in his line of work. 'Quiet and peaceful' was either the calm before the storm or an illusion. Dean wasn't sure which side of the coin was facing up right now. He wasn't feeling very optimistic about either option.

Up close, the boat was much bigger than Dean had expected, which meant the kids and themselves were in much more danger than he initially thought. It was going to be a pain in their asses to find them and to get them to safety without getting caught along the way. If they were able to find their way back to the deck, that is.

"How are we even going to board?" He searched the hull for a way for them to climb onto the deck. Even in the bleak moonlight, Dean saw letters that probably made a name, but it was too dark to read it properly. Something-something 13, maybe?

Sam pointed to a dip in the railing a little further along the hull. "There."

They were close enough now that Dean could touch the hull, which he did to prevent the steamboat and their dinghy from smashing into each other and possibly announcing their presence in the process. While Dean held the dinghy steady, Sam tied a rope between it and the steamboat so the dinghy wouldn't drift off while they were busy killing monsters. One of the first lessons in Hunting 101 was the importance of an exit strategy. Dean wasn't yet willing to jump into the freezing water of Lake Michigan and die of either hypothermia or exhaustion. If that happened, he would be both a popsicle and a Knight of Hell and that was just the worst combination ever.

Sam shouldered the bag with all their gear. Dean checked if his machete and favorite knife were still strapped in place and gestured for Sam to give him a leg up.

Sam bent his knees and cupped his hands. Dean stepped into them with a damp shoe and with a soft grunt, Sam gave him a boost. Dean reached and when his hands found purchase, he pulled himself up. Before he climbed onto the deck, he checked if there was anything in sight. When he didn't see anything, he dragged himself up and rolled onto the deck. Dean looked around again and deemed it safe and free from any possible kidnapping maniacs. He scooted over so he could help Sam up, grabbing his hand and pulling until Sam was able to grab the ridge too.

Dean was slightly out of breath when he stood up, though he did his best not to let it show. Sam, on the other hand, seemed perfectly okay with the exercise. He muttered something under his breath about the unfairness of it all, but when Sam looked at him with a quizzical expression on his face, he shut up.

Sam readjusted the bag. "Ready?"

As ready as he would ever be. Dean nodded. "Ready."

They looked for a door together and found one close to where they had parked their dinghy. Much to Dean's surprise, it wasn't locked, but after a brief exchange of eyebrow wiggles with Sam he decided it wasn't worth the energy to think about it. Monsters never expected to be attacked in their own den, after all. That was often their downfall.

The door was heavy, and the hinges groaned as Sam pulled it open. Dean flinched at the sound, but nothing moved. He expected to see nothing but darkness inside, or maybe a long corridor leading to the heart of the boat, but instead, they saw a wall of steel, with a corridor running alongside the outer bulkhead. A soft glow was coming from inside. They had to hurry up and get in there before this Bat-Signal would warn anyone watching that they had unwanted guests.

Dean armed himself with his gun while Sam did the same. This was a 'shoot first, ask questions later' situation. He sincerely hoped those servants could die from gunfire or else they would be in all sorts of trouble.

Dean stepped through the doorway first and went left. Neither of them had any idea where anything was, so he had no reason to hesitate about directions yet. Only when they had to find their way back would he start to worry, and then Sam would be the one to get them back to the surface.

The brothers had been hunting together long enough to be able to communicate without words. Other than a gesture here or there, they were completely in tune with each other.

The lights were low, but they didn't dare use a flashlight in case it would announce their presence. It was quiet, too quiet perhaps, and an uneasy feeling took over. This didn't feel like the calm before the storm but the calm before a hurricane and Dean was afraid the wrong people would get killed. The Mark was watchful, scratching Dean's consciousness occasionally like an icky itch, checking to see if Dean was still in control. He was, for the time being.

The boat's corridors were a maze and Dean felt lost. Sam covered his back while he checked around every corner for possible enemies. Nothing moved, though, and it didn't ease his nerves. It made him anxious because either Nicky didn't know they were paying him a visit, which he deemed unlikely, or he was lying in wait for them somewhere, which was much more plausible.

After what felt like an eternity of empty hallways and locked doors, Dean noticed the first odd thing since they came aboard. One of the doors ahead of them was slightly ajar and Dean's hackles were raised instantly. He grabbed Sam's attention and pointed at the door. Sam nodded in return.

They crept closer, careful not to make a sound. Dean peeked through the gap and saw nothing but black. The soft glow illuminated nothing but a small patch of clean floor.

Sam was the one carrying all the flashlights, so he got to go in first. He positioned his flashlight so that it leaned on his gun. He nodded to Dean, who pushed the door open slowly.

The hallway lighting, in addition to Sam's flashlight, revealed an empty room. The only thing there was a pile of something in a corner. It looked like clothing. When the pile didn't suddenly jump up and run at them, Sam approached it as he would a hungry tiger. They couldn't be too careful.

When everything remained still, Sam poked the mysterious pile with his foot. Nothing happened. He tried again and again, nothing moved.

"Dean." It was an invitation, so Dean approached the lump of something . Upon closer inspection, those clothes contained people. Very dead people. They were so dead they were barely recognizable as human anymore. Someone or something got them good.

They appeared to have received the same treatment as the couple from this morning, except these two had been dead for at least a couple of days and that gross cloying smell of decay was rolling off of them. It surprised Dean it hadn't hit him sooner, but when it did he took a step back immediately. He could do without that smell.

"Ugh, that's rank." A very astute observation from himself.

Sam just snorted, used to Dean's genius. Holding his breath, he leaned in a little closer. "Do you think these men are—"

Dean didn't doubt it for a second. "Yep, they're those two missing persons," he finished his brother's sentence. That explained the dinghy, too, and where he had heard its name before. Unfortunately, they had picked the absolute wrong place and time to go fishing. On the bright side, their family wouldn't have two half-eaten bodies returned to them. That tended to freak people out.

Sam stepped back to take a cleaner breath of air. "Poor guys."

"Well, that solves one mystery," Dean scoffed. One that didn't warrant to take up any more of their time. It wasn't like they could help these guys out to escape. The best thing he could offer them was to inform the captain of where they were rotting away. After they had dealt with Nicky and his cronies. "We should go."

"Yeah." Sam sounded as excited as Dean felt. Neither of them liked any of this.

Back in the corridorial maze, they soon noticed a second abnormality. From somewhere up ahead, a constant sound was traveling their way.

Dean's ears pricked up and he froze, trying to determine where it was coming from. Its rhythm changed, softly, randomly, far up ahead. The longer he listened, the more inconsistent it became.

Behind him, Sam paused. "Dean?" he whispered.

Dean raised his hand to shut him up. In the silence that followed, Sam made a quiet "ah" sound when he also heard it.

Slowly, they made their way through the corridor, the repeating sound getting closer and closer, until it became clear someone was banging on a door somewhere.

Dean turned to Sam and wiggled his eyebrows as if to ask "the kids?" and thankfully, Sam seemed to understand him because he nodded and took up his position again.

They moved even more carefully forward until they reached the source of the noise. If they were able to hear it, so would others.

Dean peeked through the door's porthole and saw terrified eyes staring back from the darkness. The kids were hidden behind a thick iron door that was armed with a heavy key lock. Even shooting it wouldn't break this lock, not without alerting everyone and their mother in a ten-mile radius.

"Found them." His voice barely rose above a whisper. "Hold this." Dean thrust his gun in Sam's hands so his were free to open the lock. Using his lockpicks, he had it open in record time. With Sam keeping an eye on the corridor, Dean finally grabbed Sam's flashlight and opened the door as quietly as he could. He used the flashlight to look inside the room and entered. Sam stayed at the door, keeping watch.

All the kids stepped back as one. Dean swiftly counted their heads and felt a wave of relief coming over him to know all the missing kids were accounted for. They were huddled together, shivering, all of them still wearing the pajamas they were abducted in, albeit now much dirtier. Dean wondered how much food and water they had received, as some of them looked like they were starving and close to passing out. The kids sported varying degrees of scrapes and bruises, but he saw nothing that required immediate attention. That, too, was a relief.

"Is everyone okay?" Dean asked in his calmest voice while making sure none of them were blinded by him. Anything to make this escape as smooth as possible. There was no need to upset the kids just as they were being rescued. He spoke softly, though not in a whisper, to ensure they would understand what he was saying from several feet away. Having to repeat himself constantly was both annoying and frustrating and he had no use for either of those things right now.

One of the smaller children started crying silently while most of the others deferred to the tallest — and therefore presumably the oldest — kid present, who simply nodded. It was an obvious lie, but Dean didn't call him out on it. Kids also had their pride and Dean wasn't about to ruin that.

Dean recognized the boy as Dennis, the newest addition to this group of padawans and the upset new owner of a bruised temple and dried blood in his hair, and nodded in return. "All right, kids, that's Sam and my name is Dean. We're getting you guys the hell out of here."

The crying kid only cried harder, but Dean hoped it was now in relief. Sam eyed the kid like they could explode any second. He probably wasn't far off.

Elsewhere, far too close for comfort, a door slammed shut. The younglings jumped and the crying kid froze. Sam also stepped inside the room, to get out of sight in case someone happened upon them. If they were discovered with the kids, they would all die. There was no time to lose, those kids had to get off the boat immediately.

"Looks like Daddy's home," Dean muttered under his breath. It was a small blessing someone was dumb enough to announce their presence and not jump them when the brothers least expected it.

Sam awaited Dean's orders silently, keeping an eye on the children and the rest of their surroundings, while Dean took two seconds to think. The kids had a much bigger chance of getting out of this whole ordeal alive if one of them stayed behind to distract the circus Stormtroopers. And the answer to the question of who would stay behind was a no-brainer. Dean closed his eyes for a second and mentally prepared himself for Sam's imminent protests. This wasn't going to be pretty.

"Sam." His brother looked up at the sound of his name. His face contorted, already knowing where this was headed. "Someone needs to get them out of here. Get them ashore, keep them somewhere safe, and then come back for me." Dean bit the bullet, half-glad he didn't have to explain how he was going to achieve that. Sam knew him too well to have to wonder.

He said this, though Dean couldn't guarantee there was something for Sam to come pick up in this fun house when he returned. That thought made Dean wonder if he could drown as a Knight of Hell and what would happen to him if the steamboat sank. It was probably best not to wonder about it, so it went on the pile of hot, steaming garbage thoughts that has been getting a little too big lately.

"I'm not leaving you here." Dean's heart hurt hearing the panic in Sam's voice. Neither of them knew how far Dean would spin out of control, but Dean was damn sure he didn't want Sam or those kids anywhere near him when the Mark took the wheel. Once he gave in to it, there would be no going back. Not until the Mark's bloodlust was sated and everyone — or he — was dead and gone. The aftermath was a bridge they would cross when they got to it.

"Sammy," Dean started, his eyes pleading, "someone needs to stay behind to distract that son of a bitch and his clowns, and," he swallowed, "you need to be far, far away from me when things get ugly." He would never forgive himself if he hurt his little brother.

Sam took a moment to weigh their options but in the end, could only agree. "I'll be back as soon as I can." Dean didn't waste any more words on the topic. There was no need. Sam knew exactly what was going to happen and neither of them would be able to stop it. Acknowledging it only made it worse.

Dean knelt in front of the kids and put on his best Uncle Dean voice. "I know this has all been very scary, but Sam here is going to get you out of this place safely, all right?" He aimed his next line specifically at the smaller kids. "He's an actual giant, so everyone, including monsters, is afraid of him." They regarded Sam with eyes the size of dinner plates, in awe of his impossible height. Sam smiled awkwardly under their scrutiny.

Dean continued. "All I need you to do is be as quiet as possible. Do you think you can do that for me?" He looked each of them in the eye until they all nodded. Satisfied, he looked to Sam, who took his cue.

He opened the duffle bag he had carried with him the whole way and pulled out a couple of their spare flashlights. "Does anyone want to hold a flashlight?"

Dean felt like there was a joke in there somewhere but decided they had more important things to worry about at the moment. A first for him, really.

Three kids stepped forward to receive the flashlight Sam handed them while a fourth kid stumbled. One of the other kids caught her before she fell onto the ground. Upon a closer inspection, Dean saw dark bruising around the girl's ankle. There was no way she would be able to walk on that.

"Dammit." Dean cursed mostly to himself. Apparently, Dennis and he had different ideas of being 'okay'. He tried to think of a solution but Sam was already way ahead of him. He shouldered the bag again, grunting softly at the weight of it.

Then he offered his own flashlight to her. "Can you hold this for me?" He asked the girl, who nodded. She held it firmly with both hands as Sam scooped her up, set her against his hip and held her tight against him with one arm. In the other, he held his gun, just in case they walked right into danger. The girl buried her face into his shoulder. It was quite a strange yet adorable sight. Sam made it look so easy to hold a kid her size, Dean was actually impressed.

"All right, guys, remember, try to be as quiet as possible," Sam said while the kids gathered around him. His eyes met Dean's and he gave him a firm nod. There was a lingering hint of betrayal in there, but it was nothing Dean wasn't used to by now. It disappeared as Sam offered a reassuring smile to the young ones.

"Give me fifteen seconds before you start running and whatever you hear, don't run back." He aimed the last part at the kids, who all regarded him with huge eyes. He winked at them with a confidence he didn't feel. Dean knew better than to linger. It was time.

He stepped out of the room, just in time to hear Sam tell the kids Dean was going to hulk out so he could get them to safety and no, they shouldn't follow Dean because the Hulk couldn't differentiate between friend and foe. Sam wasn't all that far off with this kid-friendly explanation. The idea of Dean turning into the actual Hulk made him smile. It was fleeting, but it was there. He tried to focus on that instead of what was ahead of him. He failed miserably.

Because they had come from the left, Dean went right. Now that he was out of the kids' sight, he grabbed his favorite knife, which had been strapped to his back, and put his gun away. The Mark of Cain demanded blood, unending rivers of red, and only the knife could fulfill that demand. He didn't bring enough ammo for more than a dozen henchmen anyway, and he expected there to be many more than that. He was a one-man army going against a literal army and that thought was more than a little terrifying. He steered clear from that train of thought before he lost his nerve and chickened out.

Dean sent a quick prayer to Cas that Sam wouldn't get caught in the crossfire once he returned here. With that done, he tuned out everything else to concentrate on the one thing he would rather not think about for the rest of his short, miserable life. He suppressed a shudder. It was his plan, he offered, so he had to follow through, no matter how much he hated this version of himself.

He slowly released his grip on the Mark and almost immediately the pressure of its presence in the back of his mind grew until it was close to taking over. His whole body was tense in horrid anticipation. This was one of the, if not the first time he let the Mark take over voluntarily. His memory was starting to get foggy along with everything that made Dean Dean. The take-over felt like liquid fire running through his veins until he was engulfed in invisible flames.

Dean was a man with a mission now, and that mission was to kill every single being aboard this stupid boat. It was time to raise Hell.

His entire demeanor changed, from his walk and how he carried himself to his facial expression and the way he held his knife. He tried to keep his face lax, but his remaining will was no match against the force that produced a wide grin. It was cold and hungry and his curled lips were frozen in place. Dean was afraid it was going to split his face in two.

What little humanity he had left was scorched away. He was burning from the inside out and the Mark was delighted. It compared the feeling to that good ague he felt in his muscles after a long day of hunting, except this was a million times worse. Should he live through the night, he was going to hate himself in the morning. He considered it a positive thing to look forward to living through this.

Dean closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, using the rest of his fading willpower to keep himself from blinking out of existence. As long as that last scrap of humanity remained, he hoped he would be able to come back again. And with it, he was able to keep watch, at least for a little while, to make sure he didn't accidentally slice up the wrong person.

When he was sure his steps couldn't be traced back to the kids' temporary prison and hopefully the way out, he announced his presence with a loud yell.

"Hey, assholes! Are you looking for someone?" He emphasized his presence by hitting the butt of his knife against the bulkhead. The sound echoed through the corridors, speeding ahead of him.

And indeed, he immediately heard movement in front of him that was coming closer with the second.

His senses heightened, courtesy of the Mark, and between one moment and the next, he could tell how many of Nicky's helpers were approaching. The still-human part of him wondered how many there were in total, how many he would have to kill, but the demon part of him was just looking forward to slaughtering every single one of them. No matter his resentment for the Mark, it did have its uses. And despite the obvious danger, he was much more likely to get out of this alive — or a semblance of being alive — with the help of the Mark than without.

Dean rounded a corner and nearly bumped into a servant, with a second one following close behind the first. Dean got his first good look at what he would be dealing with.

He smiled, a devilish grin that showed no humanity remained. All he needed to complete the demon look were those pitch-black eyes he feared more than death itself.

Nothing Sam had shown him in old paintings could have prepared him for seeing the real deal. Dean would have laughed at their choice of clothing had it been different circumstances. The colors they wore were bright, much too bright for their dreary surroundings. Him calling them the Swiss Guard still felt on point. If they had the matching face paint he would call them certified clowns. In one word, they looked ridiculous. In more than one word, they looked absolutely ridiculous. Those clothes belonged in a circus, maybe a period drama, or at a Renaissance fair. Anywhere but here. Even their feathered berets — he didn't know what else to call them — were ridiculous. The French should be ashamed of this invention.

Because of their distracting outfits, it took Dean some effort to draw his gaze away and take a look at their faces.

These servants could barely be called people anymore. They appeared to be adults, at least. Dean could tell there was not one conscious thought jumping around behind those soulless eyes that were deep-set in pallid faces — they looked more like generic zombies than actual living and breathing people. Had he been in full control of himself, he would have checked.

There was no way of knowing where these people, if they were actual people, came from and how they ended up in this place. A small voice told Dean they were previously kidnapped kids, broken in every way while reaching adulthood until they could only obey their master's commands. Dean wouldn't be surprised if there was some truth to that. It would explain what happened to the disappearing kids. Unfortunately, he had no way of checking everyone's ID before going on a killing spree till next Thursday. Besides, he was pretty certain only a few — if any — of these servants were American, which would complicate things even more. He doubted agencies overseas would accept his fake credentials as easily as they did in the Land of the Free.

They advanced with their weapons raised. Dean didn't get a good look at those, but if asked, would have said it was some sort of whip.

His blade bore blood before Dean knew what was happening. The monsters were dead before they hit the ground but by then, Dean's feet had already carried him beyond. It was go-time and there was no time to waste.

His blood had started singing at the sight of blood and a sense of euphoria was spreading through Dean's body. This was what he was made for, regardless of the Mark. This was his true purpose. The Mark yearned to hold the First Blade but seemed satisfied with the alternative. If he did have the First Blade, Dean was uncertain he could ever be stopped killing.

He banged the butt of his knife against the wall again as he strolled through the corridor, updating his location to everyone on the boat. It seemed the henchmen received the memo that Sam and the kids were out of Dean's way because more found him soon after the first two. And similar to what happened with those first two, their heads rolled in seconds.

Dean felt an annoyance that wasn't his own. This was so easy, it couldn't be called a fight. A boring scuffle or a friendly tap with his knife were more appropriate terms. Thankfully for his Mark-induced insanity, this didn't last.

At each intersection, he chose a random corridor, and each time, he encountered a group of zombie-like minions. Their numbers increased, but their chances of survival did not. Each one that fell didn't get up again. And as their numbers grew, so did the Mark's enjoyment. The euphoria he felt was artificial, like he was a toddler on a massive sugar rush running around scream-laughing the entire time.

Dean, in his current less-than-human state, hoped these opponents were only drones, controlled by a queen bee, aka the final boss fight. That would mean that the group was built like an army where the weakest would be sacrificed first and the monsters sent to him would be stronger and stronger. His blood sang to the melody of his kills. It was a rhythmic dance and only he could hear its tune.

Dean rounded yet another corner. Four servants came at him at the same time, surrounding him, all carrying their own blades and knives. Dean kicked one in the stomach, pushing him back as he slit the throat of the helper on his right. He twirled around as the body fell, just in time to see the third helper push his knife toward Dean with the intent to run him clean through. In one fell swoop, he lopped the guy's hand right off. Still holding the knife, the hand fell on the floor with a clang. He didn't get a chance to do more before Dean cut his neck open to the bone.

In that same movement, Dean evaded number four's knife and grabbed their wrist. With a quick squeeze, he broke the wrist, forcing the helper to let go of the knife. Dean didn't hesitate and stabbed him perfectly between the ribs, piercing the monster's heart. They were dead before they fit the floor.

The softest shuffle behind him alerted Dean to a fifth assailant. He twisted, accidentally avoiding having his arm cut off, and went for the kill. When the monster didn't scream out in pain, Dean glanced down to see why and saw them holding his wrist. The tip of his knife was an inch away from piercing through skin and even when he pushed, the knife wouldn't budge. If he wasn't quick, the same thing he did just a moment ago would happen to him. Even with his demonic healing abilities, he couldn't risk a broken bone.

Dean pretended to let go of his knife. The servant was startled by the movement. They reacted to the feint by letting go of Dean, which in turn gave Dean the opportunity to jam the blade upwards in their throat. Their mouth opened to produce a soft sigh and Dean could see the knife protruding from their tongue. His arm was soaked in blood and the Mark relished the feeling.

He met even more resistance as he got closer to where the final boss was waiting. That damned Mark wasn't solely to blame for that wicked sense of euphoria that coarse through his body. The part of him that was terrified of this tiny little tidbit shrank until he barely remembered that he used to be terrified once. Fear was now a distant memory, a long distance away from his current predicament.

The growing mountain of bodies left in his wake was invigorating and it motivated him to move faster, slice harder. The grin that was plastered on his face showed too many teeth and that red glint in his eye had nothing to do with the red that splattered across his features as he cut down another enemy. This could go on forever and he still wouldn't tire of slicing and dicing.

With all that death surrounding him, the Mark was gaining ground on Dean. His consciousness was fading quickly and the Mark had almost taken full control. Dean was a puppet and the Mark was his master, forcing him to dance to its song. It was both exhilarating and horrifying at the same time, to the point where Dean could no longer distinguish between the Mark's and his own feelings.

Dean saw blood and death and carnage and—

"Dean." Sam's voice was like the first sip of cool water after spending years lost in the desert. Dean blinked slowly, his senses coming back to him one by one.

He was on his knees. His whole body felt like it was on fire, and his heart was beating in his chest like a jackhammer. But Sam, the brother he loved so much it hurt sometimes, was kneeling whole and unhurt in front of him. He was holding Dean's face gingerly, supporting his head when it felt too heavy to support on his own. Dean breathed for the first time in however long the Mark had had control over him.

"Sam?" he croaked. His vocal cords screamed in protest at being used. He absentmindedly threw it on the pile with the other aches and pains.

Sam breathed a laugh in relief, blinking something away that suspiciously looked like tears. He watched for any chance Dean wasn't himself anymore, looking for any sign of wrongness. Right now, Dean wasn't so sure which side of him had won. Only his stint in Hell compared to this sensation except those forty years were squashed in a couple of hours at most.

"Sammy, are you okay?" Dean sounded like he hadn't spoken in over a century. When he rubbed his face with his left hand, it came back bloody. He glanced down and finally took stock of himself. The knife was still clutched in a vice grip in his right hand, with no patch of clean skin or clothing to be seen anywhere he looked. He was completely covered in sticky red.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay," Sam reassured him in a gentle voice. Dean hated that Sam needed to do that for him. "But, Dean, can you let go of the knife for me?"

No, he couldn't. He raised his right arm ever so slightly. It took the last of his strength and Sam, bless him, got the hint loud and clear. He grabbed Dean's hand and pried his fingers away with the patience of a nun until the heavy burden of the blade was gone from his grasp. Without the weight that lifted from his shoulders, Dean thought he would float away the moment Sam let go of him.

Dean regarded Sam with wariness, exhausted as if he had run a marathon. Or three. If he had, he couldn't remember. The boat definitely was large enough for it, though. If he didn't have a million issues about everything, he would have asked Sam to carry him out of here.

Dean's brain finished rebooting and he looked around him, finally able to support his own head again. He was in the middle of a large room, the mess hall maybe, and they were surrounded by an absolute massacre. Countless bodies were lying unmoving on the ground. The Mark, safely back in its normal spot in the back of Dean's mind, purred in satisfaction. Dean recoiled at the glee that radiated from his curse.

"What happened?" Dean shuddered at the thought it was taking him longer than before to wake from the Mark's trance. Whether that was because of his post-Knight of Hell situation or his system was getting too used to the Mark of Cain scarring his arm, he couldn't tell. He wasn't sure if he wanted to know. He was afraid — another feeling that was also gradually returning — of what it had cost him, both time-wise and physically.

"You tell me." Sam looked around as if seeing the slaughter for the first time. "My best guess is that they saw a challenge they thought they could win. They were wrong."

Dean wanted to make a joke but came up empty. Oh, how he longed for some normalcy right now. Instead, random bits and pieces flashed before his eyes. He mentally added it to the ever-growing list of footage for his recurring nightmares.

Sam eyed him with a raised eyebrow when Dean blinked into focus again.

He frowned. He didn't have the energy to read his expression. "What?"

Sam pointed to his own cheek. "You got a little something — right there, yeah." He nodded to his brother's face as Dean reached up. His skin felt hot and the drying blood on his fingertips immediately stuck to the drying blood on his cheek. Dean thanked whoever listened that Sam was so in tune with his needs and attempted to lighten the mood with some silly joke.

"Bitch," he said, but his voice packed no heat and the tiniest of smiles played around his lips. "Nothing a baby wipe won't fix."

Sam snorted. "You could soak in the Pacific for a year and still find blood in those wrinkles of yours. Jerk," he added belatedly.

Dean's smile grew into a semi-good-natured grin. The already-dried blood cracked on his face. Yeah, he was starting to feel like himself again. He motioned for Sam to help him up, who obliged. Together they stood there for a minute, with Sam holding him up, as Dean gathered his wits. It was a weird thing, knowing he had caused so much death and destruction but having next to no memory of it. He wouldn't wish it upon his worst enemy. Okay, maybe he did. There were plenty of things he wished upon their worst enemies and each and every one of them deserved their fate.

When he was done rebuilding his brain, he checked himself for any wounds and found none. Beneath all the blood, Dean's skin was unmarred. He frowned, knowing — remembering — he received knicks and cuts and other injuries and yet, he could find no sign of it. The Mark was at work even when he wasn't paying attention. It was nothing short of unsettling.

Labored breathing caused Dean to look around for its source. He found it in the form of a red-robed figure half-leaning against a wall, trying to get up. Sam followed his gaze and cursed softly.

Saint Nicholas, their monster of the week, was still alive. He had several cuts on his face, his clothes were shredded in multiple places and by the looks of it, one of his legs was no longer able to support his weight. He had lost his pope-y hat in the scuffle and his long white hair and beard were utterly disheveled. He was holding on to a golden staff with a curled top for dear life. In his other hand, he was holding a large red book. Somehow he had been able to hold onto both. Dean eyed the book intently. He knew exactly what they needed to do with that if they wanted this nightmare to end. Had he been on Nicky's side, he absolutely would have advised to lock away everything that could kill him and throw away the key. As enemies, however, it was a good thing that he hadn't.

Sam, still holding up Dean, proved again that he was a proper Winchester, aka a self-sacrificing son of a bitch. He stepped in front of his brother, facing a monster they knew so little about and protecting Dean in the process.

Without his support pillar, Dean swayed. To avoid gracelessly falling and maybe knocking himself out, he sank to the floor, his knees resting in pools of gore that he had created. His muscles screamed in protest when he tried to stand, so he remained where he was, eyes glued to Sam's back. He couldn't see fake Santa because Sam was in the way, but he could hear him respond to Sam.

Sam had grabbed his machete while Dean was occupied with himself. "Any last words?"

"You can't stop me, Winchester brothers," came the response. Nicholas had a light accent, presumably something European, and was soft-spoken. He almost sounded kind, a juxtaposition to the bloodshed surrounding them.

Dean wasn't going to ask why he didn't sound evil or, more importantly, how he knew their last name. Supernatural beings never had a satisfying explanation as to why they knew certain things.

Sam was of the same mind. "I'd like for you to see me try," he huffed.

Nicholas didn't move. Something off to the side, however, did. Two seconds later, Dean noticed movement on the opposite side, too. He had to squint his eyes to see humanoid figures appearing in the shadows.

Because they were mostly obscured, Dean couldn't see if these were new servants or if Nicky was capable of zombifying zombies. If the latter was the case, they were truly screwed.

Sam threw a furtive glance over his shoulder, first where he expected Dean to be then his gaze lowered to where Dean actually was. His eyes were back on the prizefighter when he spoke. "Dean, can you move?"

The implied question was whether Dean could fight, and the answer to both of those was a big fat no. His muscles refused to respond when he tried to move. "I can't, Sam," he grimaced.

Sam accepted the apology silently. He squared his shoulders and readied himself. Dean found it both comforting and agonizing. It ended up being not a moment too soon as the new arrivals charged at him.

Sam instinctively kept his back toward Dean, who scooted back as far as he could to give Sam a little more room to move around. He only managed a few inches when he bumped into a corpse. Dean looked down and saw a young face framed by a rainbow of colors with an emphasis on ruby red. Empty eyes watched the events in front of them unfold. All of this was his fault.

Sam wasn't a ruthless killer like Dean, but despite his ginormous size, he was quick and, more importantly, efficient. Dean saw so much of himself — sans the Mark — in Sam that it was sometimes scary to look at. Sam's only fault was that he was lamentably and wholly human, and he was tiring fast.

Dean checked his surroundings to see what he could do to help his brother out. That was when he spotted Sam's duffle bag lying abandoned a couple of feet away. Sam must have dropped it to take care of him. After making sure no one was paying attention to him, Sam was the absolute center of attention, Dean crossed the floor as inconspicuously as possible, crawling on his hands and knees. His entire body screamed at the exertion, but he pushed through. He had to or Sam would die and all that effort with the Mark had been for nothing.

More servants appeared and Sam was getting overwhelmed. Dean ground his teeth so hard he thought they would crack. An eternity later, he reached the bag. He leaned back and gave himself two seconds to catch his breath and regain some strength. Dean didn't dare look at the fight in case Sam was already losing too hard for Dean to make a difference anymore.

He rummaged through the contents, barely seeing the shotguns and ammo, until he found what he was looking for. Only then did Dean spare a glance in Sam's direction. He was sporting a nasty cut on his cheek and one of his sleeves was soaked in blood.

Dean took a deep breath. "Sammy, hold on."

Two servants looked up at the sound of his voice and Dean cursed himself for making such a huge mistake. They stopped fighting Sam and instead converged on Dean.

Sam slashed another servant across the stomach and turned around. "Dean!" he shouted in warning, though a bit uselessly. There was no way Dean could ignore the two bastards ganging up on him.

"Working on it!" Dean returned, even though he very much was working on something else. Sam must have determined what Dean was up to because he went after the two servants that were getting a little too close to Dean for comfort. They died before they could reach him, but Dean was already focusing on his own little project.

Less than a minute, many curses, and an annoying broken fingernail later, Dean finished building his Molotov cocktail. In the chaos, he had lost track of Chief Monster.

He found Saint Nicholas leaning against the wall across the battlefield, far removed from the turmoil he had caused. This far away, Dean couldn't see his face very well. The facial hair absolutely didn't help, either. Unlike the others, who had reverted to ignoring Dean because Sam kept them occupied, Nicky was watching him. Their eyes met and Dean winked before breaking eye contact. He was feeling more confident about their chances than five minutes ago.

Dean tested his throwing arm and while he was at maybe ten percent strength, it had to be enough to perform a Hail Mary. Hail Marys were their thing, so this had to work.

Just as that thought occurred to him, things got really quiet. A little too quiet. Dean's head snapped to Sam, who stood, similar to how Dean must have looked, surrounded by a crapton of bodies. His machete created a small puddle by dripping freshly spilled blood on the floor. He was breathing so heavily that Dean thought for a second he was suffocating. The monster army had finally run out of soldiers for them to kill.

There wasn't any time to relax, not yet, so Dean climbed to his feet as fast as he could. That ended up being not very fast at all, though Sam patiently waited for him while keeping an eye on their prize.

"You okay?" Dean circumvented every obstacle just so he wouldn't have to lift his feet more than necessary.

Sam's answer was immediate. "Yeah, you?" His breathing was evening out, which made Dean breathe easier too.

Dean reached Sam before he answered. "Peachy." If someone offered him a bed right here and now, without a doubt, he would be asleep in seconds. It didn't even have to be a good bed. Sam probably shared the sentiment.

Sam made a soft noise that sounded an awful lot like a snort.

Together, they faced Nicholas for a second time. Sam was holding his machete, drenched in the blood of his enemies, and Dean was holding a Molotov cocktail in one hand and a lighter in the other. They were the ones who had the upper hand, not this grandpa.

'This grandpa', however, seemed wholly unconcerned at being cornered. "You fought well, boys, but you're too late."

Dean's best guess was that midnight was nearing and Nicky would Houdini himself out of here before they could kill him. They couldn't let this cycle of abduction and abuse continue.

Nicholas watched him light the makeshift bomb and smiled. "If you kill me, you'll die too."

Well, that was a no-brainer. "We can live with that." Sam smiled back.

"How do you even know that will kill me?" The lack of antagonism surprised Dean. If he ignored all the death around them — which, admittedly, was a bit difficult — Nicky really could have been one of the good guys.

Despite the fire burning, Dean didn't feel the heat on his feverish skin. "Let us worry about that." What he didn't mention was that he had added a secret ingredient to the cocktail that he prayed would help.

Nicky nodded solemnly. "All right." The bloodstain on his robes had grown significantly. A normal man would have bled out ages ago and yet he was still standing.

The brothers shifted. That wasn't what they expected. Nothing these past few days had been expected, least of all this guy. "'All right'? That's it?" Dean blinked once. Twice. When Nicky didn't respond, he continued. "I was expecting, I don't know, some villain monologue on why you're doing this. Or killing us outright. You wouldn't be the first to try." Dean conveniently didn't add some of them had succeeded, albeit temporarily.

"Do you want a story? I can indulge in reminiscing before I die, I suppose." Nicky's expression grew wistful.

Dean averted his eyes. They fell on his hand instead, where the flame was so close to his hand it should be hurting like a bitch. He didn't feel a thing. Before Sam would notice, Dean put the lighter in a pocket and switched the Molotov cocktail to his other hand. He was about to say that they weren't interested in Nicky's holy but tragic backstory when he had a lightbulb moment. He was stalling . He tried to check his watch for the time and found it caked in dried blood. He permitted himself a tiny eye roll in exasperation. Even in their book, two minutes to midnight might be too optimistic this time. They had to end this here and now.

"Sam, what's the time?" Dean threw a pointed glare in Nicholas' direction, letting him know he had caught on.

Sam checked his watch, which was much less blood-spattered than his brother's. He cursed and at the same time, Nicky pushed away from the wall.

Later, he wouldn't remember if he did it out of reflex or something else, but Dean hurled the Molotov cocktail through the air. It didn't hit Nicholas with quite the same oomph as Dean's normal pitch, though it thankfully did the trick. The glass bottle broke easily against the saint's chest and his clothes immediately caught fire.

For a few seconds, Saint Nicholas turned into the Human Torch. Then, he burned away like so many other beings they had killed over the years. Just like that, as if the road leading up to this moment hadn't been paved in murder and blood, the man, the myth, the saint was gone. When even his ashes had burned away, it was easy to forget he ever existed at all.

In the end, there wasn't any time for last words or speeches. No matter how nice of a villain he had seemed, he was still a monster and Dean refused to feel bad about his reflexes. They had saved their lives more times than he could count and he was glad to have them.

Dean's theory that the holy fire would work against Nicholas had proven to be true. Despite the lack of test subjects, it was very likely there was a connection between the angels and saints Dean attributed it to their affiliation with Heaven. He was going to make sure Sam took this up in his file on this guy. They would do well to remember this in case they encountered anything like Nicky again. Though, whether it was the book they had to destroy or it was something else they did, they would never know for sure.

They stood there silently, not sure what to say now that the hardest part was over. They received a rude awakening from that daydream when something big crashed behind walls of steel. They shared a look. The quiet, normal creaks turned into deep groans that promised nothing good.

"Dean, can you walk?" Sam repeated his question from earlier. He himself looked like he could fall over any minute. Dean imagined he looked worse.

"No," he admitted, "but no way in hell am I dying in here."

Sam's lips twitched. "Let's go then."

They supported each other as they limped away. Sam led them to the shortcut he had taken to reach the galley, and therefore Dean. The man in question pushed himself to the limit to keep up, and when they stepped on the deck, he allowed himself one deep breath of cold air before they hurried on. Neither of them had plans to go down with this boat.

Thank you for sticking with me and thank you so much for reading! Like I mentioned before, only one more chapter to go, which is wild. Roughly five months of hard work and suddenly it's almost over?!

Anyway, huge shout-outs to Nikki, because she's read the entire thing (well, sans what I call the epilogue) to point out any possible inconsistencies and huge typos. If you see a typo: no you didn't :)