The echoing clatter of the cuffs striking the floor felt distant; at first, Sam couldn't help but wonder if he'd imagined it. He glanced down toward his wrists, torn raw—it felt like the metal still clamped tight around the skin, but… he ran his fingers over the inflamed mess, grimacing faintly at the sting. A soft smile curled his lips in disbelief. He was free.
He felt the strength of the blood stretch out, filling the cell with a chilling warmth; the sudden power felt euphoric. He closed his eyes, savoring the sensation—it felt like an eternity since it'd graced him last. It felt like he'd been dragged out of a grave, like his body and mind were alive again.
The shuffle of movement demanded his attention, and his eyes opened, sharpening on the figures standing before him, waiting—watching. As though wondering what he'd do, tensing in anticipation. He tilted his head, brow furrowing faintly at the stinging wariness.
"Showtime," Crowley reminded with a smirk, though he stood casually near the doorway, his shoulders drawn rigid. Sam traced the scarlet smoke dancing beneath the flesh—it buzzed, agitated, anxious. Uneasy. Despite the distance, Sam could feel the edges of the wretched soul; he could reach it, he thought, if he simply stretched out a hand. A part of his mind toyed with the idea, entertaining the feeling of squeezing the demon in an iron grasp, of squelching the infernal life from its bones with the simple curl of his fist.
He shoved the thought aside—it'd be a waste. He needed everything he had for any chance at surviving the next few minutes. No, he needed more.
Without offering Dean another second to slam the cell door, Sam snagged the Book of the Damned from the floor and pushed out of the cell and past his brother wordlessly.
"Sam," Dean tried to grasp his shoulder, his voice hardening in growing resolve, but Sam yanked away sharply. His eyes skimmed over the walls, tracing every shadow, breathing in the pungent aroma. He heard footsteps in pursuit, but he didn't slow to give them a chance to close the distance.
The stench of sulfur intensified, and Sam turned the corner, immediately slamming the unsuspecting demon that had been striding down the hallway against the wall—hard. He pinned it with a forearm against its chest, even as it gasped in surprise. With a grunt, he bit his lip to barely restrain the surge of hunger at the pulse beneath its skin, the urge to sink his teeth into its neck. Instead, he forced himself to rip apart its shirt, his eyes hunting madly for some sort of fatal wound or scar—something that'd give him permission.
"The vessel—is it dead?" he hissed in its face, but the demon's eyes still bulged wide with shock, struggling to process the ambush. It wouldn't answer quickly—even if it did, it could easily be a lie. He stepped back, releasing it, his lip curling in frustration.
Barely, he registered Dean at his side, whose gaze flicked between Sam and the demon, a wrinkle of confusion, followed by thin relief, crossing his face. Castiel halted beside him, taking in the demon still breathing, its blood untouched, and the Winchester seething before it. His expression relaxed slightly in similarly hesitant optimism.
"Come on, Sam," Dean beckoned softly, caution framing the edges of his voice, "Let's get you out of here."
Sam didn't offer him another glance, stalking down the hall, eyes scanning fervently for a whisp of smoke, his head buzzing in the cloud of sulfur, veins itching with the blood he'd denied them.
It took a mere seven seconds for his gaze to land on another demon, idly twirling an angel blade. It glanced up at his unblinking approach, raising the weapon and stumbling a step back clumsily, but it wasn't quick enough. Sam ripped the weapon from its hand, the Book still clutched tight in his other, and tackled it to the floor in avid haste. He barely even heard its startled curses, barely felt the flinching shudder of its body beneath him as he pinned it with his weight.
"Sammy, stop it!" Dean barked, his hands suddenly on Sam's shoulder to rip him from the body. A shadow of a thought whispered for him to swing the blade, to plant it in his brother's chest, and then the demon's neck. Instead, he dropped the blade and swung around, flinging a hand to shove his brother backward—only, Dean flew across the room, colliding with the wall. Sam stared at him, motionless, until he saw Dean's chest heave for breath, blinking, dazed.
The demon groaned beneath him, and his attention snapped back, his eyes tracing the subtle blue lines just beneath the skin. Snatching the fallen blade, Sam tore open the demon's shirt, his arms trembling as he searched its chest, its neck.
"Get offa me," the demon protested, trying to shove Sam off its chest, but he straddled its torso, jerking its arms downward roughly. Its chest was mottled black and purple with bruises; was it dead? It had to be, with damage like that. Didn't it? No, it was dead. It was dead.
"Sam," Dean breathed hoarsely, as though struggling to catch his breath, "Don't. You can fight it."
"I can't," he whispered, almost choking on the words, before he plunged the blade into the demon's neck. A quick yank sparked a gush of blood, and with a bare, shuddering breath, he dove for the wound.
I don't want to.
He wasn't sure Dean even believed the words he spoke. Not that Sam could truly blame his doubt—evidently, it was well-placed. Maybe Dean was right about more than the blood—maybe he was right about Cain, too. If Sam wasn't strong enough to resist the blood's allure, how could he possibly be strong enough to face Cain?
He shoved aside the treacherous doubt, at least as long as the blood filled his mouth. It tasted sweet—consoling, like a steadfast friend when all others had vanished. He drank its promises, he sucked down its strength, he welcomed its benediction. Though it might be damnation incarnate, it tasted like pure salvation.
"Sammy, stop," Dean's words were distant, muttered as though on a cycle as he struggled to stand, "Stop. Just stop, please." Sam closed his eyes, trying to ignore the pleas as the power sank deeper, as it lit fire to his veins and set his body humming in delight, every heartbeat sealing its hold.
"Sam," the gravelly timbre of Castiel's voice made Sam pause and raise his head, his eyes thinned, his body tense. The angel stood a few feet away, his posture similarly taut, as he stared at Sam. Horror laced the lines of his face, his gaze not quite focusing on Sam, almost as though he stared through the skin to glimpse the infection festering beneath. Sam watched him cautiously, knowing his face was smeared in glistening blood, but he didn't release the Book or the body to wipe it away—or try to, anyway. Castiel glanced back toward Dean, and with only another hasty look toward Sam, he knelt beside the older Winchester, scanning him for injuries.
"Moose!" Crowley scuffed his feet against the tile as he sauntered into the doorway with a disapproving sigh, "It's rather rude to keep your date waiting, you know."
Sam glanced back toward the demon in his arms, its limbs twitching faintly in dying reflex. He closed his lips around the wound once more, trying to savor the taste as he drew a few more ounces from its collapsing veins. He wondered, faintly, if it'd be the last blood he drank. Unfortunate, then, that he didn't have the time to savor it.
"I can't hold Cain forever, Sam," Crowley interjected again, his impatience shading the air, his tone frayed in a rare flush of genuine urgency.
Sam released the demon, allowing the body slump to the ground before he snatched up its discarded angel blade and straightened, turning to Crowley. The demon's eyes slid over him cautiously, concern hinting his features as he took in Sam's face, though he nonetheless inclined his head in beckon, "He's out front."
Sam grunted acknowledgement, rolling his shoulders. He felt buzzed. Brimming with power. Invincible, untouchable. He could kill a demon with a blink. Maybe he stood a chance.
His gaze slid to Dean, who stared at him rigidly, even as Castiel tried to help him to his feet. Dean shrugged the angel away, not even sparing him a glance, "Sam," he forced out, face twisted in frustration, as though he could read the thoughts rolling through his mind, "Listen to me. You can't take him."
Something inside his chest felt heavy; something else sparked in irritation. But Sam only set his jaw and pushed past Crowley, navigating toward the entrance—both hoping he'd run into another demon, and praying he wouldn't.
He paused at the double doors, his head low, his body trembling faintly. He couldn't be sure if it was due to the sudden intake of blood or from mere adrenaline-fueled fear. Despite the beauty of the power igniting his veins… he couldn't shake the look on Dean's face from his mind. The judgement, the distance, the pleading… the loss. It resurrected the doubts he wanted nothing more than to burn away, the shame he wanted to drown and abandon deep in the ocean. He had to do this… didn't he? Cain was murdering innocents; just like any homicidal monster, he had to be put down. The blood… his powers… whatever it took; it didn't matter. Backing down was selfish. Dean just… couldn't see it. Maybe he just didn't want to.
A crackle of thunder outside scolded his hesitation, and he gritted his teeth, his hand curling over the handle and, with a quick inhale, he pulled open the door.
The night sky hung dark and heavy, coated in thick clouds that smothered the stars, as if shielding the heavens from the infernal monstrosities below. A cold wind tore through the yard, pulling at loose strands of his hair, its bite chilling and hostile, as though trying to sweep him from the earth itself. Thunder groaned distantly in a rolling growl, as if threatening to smite the horrors gathering beneath the clouds. It felt like nature itself waged war in utter rejection and horror. In the center of the yard, still several feet from the door, a solitary figure stood in wait—perhaps the one whom creation itself reviled.
His gaze landed immediately on Sam, and something crossed his face—surprise, followed briefly by confusion, disbelief, then intrigue. Slowly, a smile stretched across his face.
"Sam Winchester," Cain greeted, voice laced with faint amusement, "Aren't you a surprise."
The ancient demon stood unmoving, his posture casual, brimming with undeniable confidence. His hand curled loosely around a machete thick with gore, his eyes dark and unholy. Power thickened the air around him, radiating off his skin. Death clung to him like a shadow. Though he might look like any other man, there was no mistaking the oceans of blood on his hands, even without the machete. Sam could practically hear the souls of his victims still screaming against the injustice of their deaths. Perhaps that's what drove the very earth to respond to his defiling presence.
Cain tilted his head, gaze raking over Sam's face, "I see you've been drinking blood—demon blood, I assume." He shook his head in something not far from amused amazement, "You know, I've been alive a long time, but you're the first person I've seen drink the stuff." His eyes traced the air, "It takes to you surprising well. Azazel knew what he was doing, it seems."
Sam stepped down the concrete stairs, his fingers curling tight around the Book of the Damned and the angel blade as he watched the demon that didn't shift a single step. He frowned, gaze narrowing as he scanned Cain. He couldn't see a thing binding him, but… he felt something rooting Cain in place, like cords wrapped tight around him, anchoring him to the ground where he stood. The power wasn't unlike that woven into the warded cuffs that had restrained Sam for days, but this… it strained to contain Cain, like a net stretched to the verge of snapping. It wouldn't hold. In fact, the strands were so taught that even brushing against them seemed to risk their sudden shatter.
Even as Sam scanned him, Cain's gaze drifted over Sam in careful study, "I've felt the demons' stirring over the past few weeks. Felt an infernal power amassing that I thought must be a prince making a power play for hell's throne." He smiled mirthlessly, "Didn't realize it was you. Lucifer's chosen. Slipping down that slope again."
Sam shifted, his jaw clenching. He wasn't… he was only here to kill the demon, before he killed anyone else. The blood, the power… the enjoyment of it all… it was irrelevant. He hadn't lost his mind; he just… he couldn't leave Cain to murder with reckless disregard, and he had to be strong enough to stop him.
Cain shrugged halfheartedly, as though indifferent to Sam's unspoken defense. "When I heard you threw yourself in the Cage with Lucifer in tow, I thought maybe you'd done what my brother and I couldn't. Thought maybe you'd managed to break free of this curse." His head dropped, and he released a sigh, "But I was wrong. You're here, making deals with devils. Just like my brother. Just like yours. Just like me."
"I'd never kill my own brother," Sam bit back, allowing disgust and irritation to color his tone in despise of the demon's equivocation.
"Not even to save him?" Cain countered, then shook his head almost sorrowfully, adjusting his grip on the machete as he glanced back up in growing resolve, "Don't worry, Sam. You won't have to. And neither will Dean."
The loud creak of the door drew Sam's attention over his shoulder, where Dean and Castiel filled the doorway, their gazes immediately landing on Cain.
"Ah," Cain huffed a low chuckle, "You know, I didn't come here for either of you. But I suppose it saves me the trouble of hunting you down later."
"Look, Sam's got nothing to do with this," Dean pushed forward until he stood a mere foot away from Sam, casting a lingering, concerned glance in his direction before fixing his gaze on Cain, his eyes steeled. "You want to fight someone? Fight me."
"Dean, stay out of this," Sam's voice was strained in a low warning, but Dean's stance remained unyielding. Dean might have the Mark, sure, but Cain had borne it for millennia. Dean simply didn't have an edge in the fight—not without the First Blade or something to leverage over the demon. He couldn't take Cain, and he knew it, too. Sam gritted his teeth, catching the stubborn determination in Dean's eyes that disregarded logic. It was reckless, throwing himself in the middle. Maybe the Mark wouldn't let him die, but Sam wasn't ready for his brother to disappear in another demonic sabbatical, losing himself to the haze of the Mark.
"I appreciate your bravado, Dean, and your desire to protect your brother," Cain's voice was tinged in almost patronizing pity, "And I know you can't see it now. But I'm doing you both a favor."
"Cain," Castiel called from Dean's side, his face guarded to mask the depths of his concern. "You've resisted the Mark for centuries. You don't have to do this."
A faint grin curled Cain's lips, something dark glinting in his eyes. "Who's to say I don't want to?"
With a sudden, decisive sweep, Cain plunged a fist toward the ground. Thin cracks raced across the dirt as though fleeing the strike, quick enough to send Sam and Dean retreating a few steps, alarmed. But the earth didn't give way. Sam glanced up to find Cain advancing—quickly—the intangible restraints shattered to oblivion.
Sam swallowed hard, stretching out a hand and closing his eyes as he tried to bury his doubts—only, something suddenly shoved him off balance. He tumbled to the floor, raising the blade defensively as he expected to find Cain barreling down on him with an apparent sudden, blinding speed. Only, he found Dean turning away, shoulders squared and bristling as he tightened his grip on his own weapon and started toward Cain.
Cain released a brief laugh with a shake of his head, as though a parent witnessing a schoolyard scuffle, before he lunged forward, his machete arcing toward Dean's chest with terrifying speed. With a sweep of his angel blade, Dean barely deflected the otherwise fatal strike to a mere nick of his shoulder; the metallic clang reverberated as he slipped past Cain's reach, maneuvering to the other side of the yard.
The demon didn't fully swivel to follow Dean's repositioning, refusing to turn his back on the angel in quick pursuit. Castiel swung for Cain, but the demon moved with a fluid, deadly grace, snatching the angel's arm mid-swing. "You should leave, Castiel. You're not on my list." With an effortless shove, he sent the angel sprawling to the ground.
Dean surged forward again, his blade ringing out as it crashed into the machete. Dean moved with preternatural haste, and yet, Cain was quicker. He moved like he'd choreographed their skirmish, like he'd practiced it a thousand times over.
Sam's heart stumbled as Dean lost his footing, and the demon's blade poised to strike his neck. Without thinking, Sam immediately yanked against the demon's soul in a panicked reflex. Cain staggered backward beneath the invisible hook, head snapping around to face Sam in surprise—then a silent smile curled his face.
In the momentary distraction, Dean and Castiel closed in, but Cain twisted and tilted his head, sending Castiel flying over the rusted chain-link fence without even a touch, his body tumbling across the cracked asphalt as he landed roughly. Dean's gut twisted, but he couldn't dare glance back—couldn't check to make sure Castiel didn't land on his own angel blade, couldn't verify he was still breathing. He drove to stab Cain in the chest, but the demon yet again evaded the attempt with ease, slamming Dean to the ground with his momentum.
"Where's my blade, Dean?" he asked, his voice calm, almost casual as he cocked his head, waiting for Dean to rise to his feet.
Dean gritted his teeth, the Mark boiling his flesh as it urged him further on. Cain was toying with him. Given the grin on his face and glint in his eyes, he was savoring every move. And with the dark thrill coiling every muscle… Dean found himself inclined to share in the enjoyment. Only, he couldn't afford to lose himself to the simplicity of the dance—not with Sam recklessly throwing himself into Cain's path under some suicidal impulse. Not with Castiel at half power, relying on borrowed grace to even draw breath. Not with Sam threatening to surrender to the blood, visibly itching to succumb to its call, to employ those accursed demonic powers Yellow Eyes gave him.
He stretched out a hand, and Dean lunged for Cain, grunting, "Sam, don't."
It was enough to make Sam falter, for his face to twist, and his eyes to leap to his brother. In the same moment, Cain pivoted, sidestepping Dean's strike and shifting his focus to Sam. The younger Winchester tried to raise his own blade in a rushed defense, but Cain snatched it by the edge, ignoring the blood welling along his palm as he tossed it aside. With brutal efficiency, he swung his fist, pummeling it clean across Sam's face. Sam reeled backward, staggering as pain exploded in his head, vision splintering.
"Don't worry, Sam; I'll get to you." Cain assured, turning back—only to grunt as an angel blade plunged into his side. Dean jammed it further in, twisting it upward in angle towards the demon's heart. The hilt caught against Cain's ribs, and hope sparked in Dean's chest, even as the Mark burned in delight at the scratch of metal against bone, at the sensation of shredding flesh and gushing blood.
But Cain's mocking laugh doused it all, just as quickly as it had come. Dean glanced upward, finding Cain smirking nearly sympathetically, "You really should've brought the First Blade, Dean." With a swift crack, Cain twisted Dean's arm violently, forcing his hand to release the blade as pain screamed through his mind. Instinctively, Dean recoiled to cradle the limb hanging uselessly—with sickening nausea, he glimpsed bone poking through the skin in a gush of blood.
Cain didn't hesitate. He ripped the angel blade from his side and drove it straight into Dean's gut. Dean gasped, a cold rush suddenly flooding his veins as his knees buckled unbidden, disbelief and pain waging war in his skull.
"If you had, this could've all been over," Cain finished, his tone almost gentle as he held Dean's gaze solemnly.
"Dean!" Sam's cry sounded distant—the pain and desperation in the single word almost hurt Dean more than the blade piercing his organs.
Cain guided Dean gingerly to the ground, his murmur low in Dean's ear, "Do you know what it's like to live with your brother's blood on your hands?" Dean's vision blurred as the tang of copper filled his mouth, but he fought to hold Cain's gaze. "I'm saving you from that fate. I'll take care of him, before you wake up."
Dean tried to speak, tried to threaten Cain in a demand to stay away from his brother, but all that came out was an incoherent, bloody mumble.
"And when I find wherever you've stashed the Blade, you can join him." Cain promised, releasing Dean with a sad, almost paternal smile.
Dean tried to push himself upward, every nerve screaming in protest and his limbs heavy as lead, as Cain turned his attention toward Sam. The younger Winchester had managed to reach his feet, though his head still reeled in a haze of disjointed pain. Desperate, he reached for the demon's soul again, trying to tighten his grip, but Cain was too close.
He snapped a palm into Sam's shoulder with a pop that resounded through Sam's bones, causing him to grunt in pain and withdraw several steps, gripping his arm as the Book of the Damned fell from his fingers, spilling open on the dirt.
"Do you think you can do it?" Cain's voice was soft, curious, as he tilted his head and stepped closer, unhurried. He tapped the tip of his machete to the exposed Mark on his arm, and his gaze darkened, "Think you've got what it takes to overcome this?"
Sam's jaw tightened, the power coiling tight in his chest; hastily, he flung out a hand, and Cain slid backward several feet, but he didn't lose his footing. Sam cursed silently, even as frustration, panic, and doubt climbed higher in his chest. The demon's essence was slippery, malevolent, writhing in an unfettered, oppressive darkness that felt like the poison pulsing in his own veins. Like that which spilled out from the parted Book lying on the ground a mere few feet away. He could almost hear its whispered promises of strength. Vowing that Sam could take him, that he could bring the demon to his knees. But its strength tasted like the very darkness that raged before him.
Indecision tore at him violently. Suddenly, giving into the blissful call felt… reckless. Like treading a narrow line at the edge of the abyss. But… frankly, he wasn't sure he had another choice. He cursed his selfish hesitation that might just be the end of them all.
A grin reassumed Cain's face—perhaps reading the second war waging in Sam's skull. "You're strong. I'm sure Lucifer's proud."
Sam bit his lip as the name twisted through him like a live wire; he tried to ignore the distant flash of lightning that waned all too hauntingly familiar.
Cain's eyes traced over the tremor that wracked Sam's body before he met Sam's gaze, his tone steady, as though imparting confidences to a friend, "He talked about you a lot, Sam. Since the very beginning." He shook his head lightly, "Took me a long time to realize it, but this, the Mark, me killing Abel… it was all his plan." He gazed through Sam as though studying a painting, "For you."
"The hell are you talking about?" Sam demanded, trying to mask his prickling unease in anger. His eyes flicked to Dean—still breathing. Cas—hastening to his side, his lips racing in a near-silent murmur.
Cain's expression was almost soft, contemplative, hinted with surprise at Sam's ignorance—a strange contrast to the malice roiling beneath his skin. "After I killed Abel, I went after Lucifer. Of course, even with the Blade, I couldn't kill him. But… there weren't many options for company—especially after what I'd done. And since Lucifer made sure the Mark wouldn't let me die… well, we had plenty of time to chat." He traced the discomfort shifting Sam's stance, "He told me a lot about his perfect vessel. Said it'd take a while, but that, eventually, you'd come and fix the hell humanity made of creation. That you'd put everything back to how it should be." His lips curled, "Of course—I don't think he was exactly envisioning a peaceful revolution."
Sam twisted his head, trying to purge Cain's words from his head, only to find them echoing in his skull. This… this wasn't part of Lucifer's plan. He was here to kill Cain. To kill a demon.
"You might think you're doing good—hunting, killing monsters—but you're no better than me. You and I…" he gestured between them with the machete, "We're exactly what Lucifer wanted us to be."
"Shut up," Sam ground out, his fists clenching tighter, his nails digging into his palms as his gaze slid to the Book of the Damned still waiting, staring at Sam patiently from the dirt. Fury burned in his bones, though perhaps merely to hide the emotions beneath. Lucifer wasn't here—he was trapped in the Cage. Cain was merely a demon; his words meant nothing. He was toying with him, trying to push him over the edge. Hell if it wasn't working.
"I look at you, and I see that same bloodlust I find every time I look in the mirror," Cain started toward him slowly, cautiously… or was he waiting for something? His eyes raked over Sam curiously, "You know, you might even be more of a demon than me."
Sam's arm flung upward as he tried to squeeze the demon's soul, but it was like trying to capture a cloud. Even as his grip stretched to the outer edges of the demon's presence, Cain lunged forward. Instinctively, Sam jerked his body to the side, but Cain sank the blade downward, planting it firmly in Sam's thigh. His teeth shined in delight at the immediate well of crimson, or perhaps at the gritted scream he'd torn from Sam's throat.
"Cain!" A female voice from behind gave Cain pause, and he abandoned his machete in Sam's muscle, leaving the Winchester to crumple to the dirt, wincing as the blade slid in the wound from the jolt of the collapse. Though his vision was blurred with tears of pain, his eyes landed on the Book a mere few feet away. With one arm limp, shooting agony through his shoulder every time it caught, Sam dragged himself toward it, his nails thick with blood and dirt.
As Cain turned and straightened to face his new arrivals, he found a half dozen men and women assembling in a practiced formation in the middle of the yard. It wrought a low scoff of amusement from his throat.
The woman at the fore glared at the demon in a steady hold, her eyes radiating a brilliant blue as an angel blade slipped into her hand, "You've gone too far, Cain. Your bloodshed shall not go unanswered any longer."
"I'm surprised Crowley found so many, so eager to rush to his defense," he remarked mockingly with a glance back toward the asylum, then his eyes narrowed as they roved over the small squadron, as though searching for the rest of their number. "I have no quarrel with you, angels. You should leave while you can."
"Zophiel," Castiel stressed her name in warning from where he knelt at Dean's side, even as the Winchester still attempted to rise while his hand braced the hilt protruding from his gut, muttering something to Cas.
Zophiel spared him only a glance, raising her chin as she readied her stance, "My brethren and I are sworn to protect humankind. And we cannot stand idle while you commit senseless genocide."
A smirk curled Cain's face in a flicker of dark amusement, "Well, you'll hardly be the first angels I've killed."
Seemingly with no directive, as one, the angels advanced, their blades glistening as thin droplets of rain began to crash to the earth like shards of glass. Cain met their assault eagerly, not even pausing to snatch a bloodied blade from the dirt. In seconds, the flash of divine light announced the final breath of an angel, even as Cain's blood splattered to the ground quicker than the rain.
Castiel cursed, tracing the skirmish that raced faster than human eye could follow while trying to stabilize the gaping wound piercing clean through Dean's gut. His brethren couldn't kill Cain—not with angel blades. But then… the flash of metal in Zophiel's grip—it wasn't a blade, but a pair of heavy, warded cuffs.
"Hold him," she grunted in Enochian, and a pair of angels swarmed each arm, forcing Cain's taut frame downward. He struggled, and despite their combined force, he cast aside an angel with a brutal punch that crushed his nose. But a second angel clung to his arm, and together, they managed to wrestle Cain to the ground roughly, their eyes alight with the strain of grace.
The demon's laugh resounded through the air like a knell of death, "You know you can't kill me."
Zophiel leaped onto his back, wrangling a wrist into the warded cuffs. Even as the metal clamped shut, Cain twisted his body in a burst of infernal strength, tossing the angels aside. Scooping an angel blade from the ground, he threw himself toward the angel who'd foolishly tried to bind him in holy warding.
"Zophiel!" Castiel shouted, surging forward with every ounce of strength from the grace in his veins.
But the blade fell easily into her neck, her thin grace splintering into blinding fragments, the light fleeing from her eyes with the tortured cry from her lips.
Castiel snatched Cain's arm, trying to yank it away from his sister's body, even as tears threatened to blur his vision. He pulled with the grace that should've endowed her limbs, that might've given her the strength or speed to resist Cain's execution. Silently, he prayed for greater strength than he possessed as he and his brethren again twisted Cain's arms together—as he seized the dangling cuff and reached for Cain's free wrist.
The click was lost in another blinding scream as Cain shoved a blade through another angel's skull, then reversed his grip and sank it into another's chest. The shadows of the demon's power sank into his skin, unable to bounce beyond his body's form, but even bound, he was far from helpless. Castiel yanked sharply against Cain's arm as he lunged toward another angel, unbalancing him enough that the blade sank into the dirt instead of the angel's heaving chest.
Immediately, Cain spun around, flinging Castiel to the ground and looming over him, his blade dripping angelic blood to the earth. "I gave you a chance to leave," Cain admonished as though scolding a rebellious teen, his voice dripping with disappointment. The demon adjusted his grip on the blade, the Mark flushing crimson on his arm as he poised to strike. Castiel closed his eyes, sending one final prayer to the heavens in a last plea for forgiveness.
Only… the blow never landed.
Castiel reopened his eyes, flinching aghast at the sight before him. Cain still loomed, but the angel blade had fallen from his hand, clattered to the floor. Beside him stood Dean, his face ghastly pale, half curled over his own body, yet the hilt of the blade had vanished from his own gut. And found itself embedded in Cain's right eye instead.
"Dean," Castiel breathed, his gaze raking over the blood cascading from his stomach like a river undammed.
Cain turned to face the Winchester, his cuffed hands rising to gingerly draw the blade from his eye socket, blood and gore leaking down his face. He was an ocean of fury, a fire of malice, a hurricane of death.
And as he turned to face Dean, who struggled to even stand amidst the rapid blood loss, something in Sam snapped.
With his dislocated arm tenuously gripping the Book despite the pain shooting through his nerves, he stretched out a hand, feeling his power leap through the air and curl around the demon's writhing soul. He could do this. He'd done it a hundred times before. He'd killed Alastair. Lilith. He'd banished Samhain. Cain might be the First Murderer, Captain of the Knights of Hell, but underneath… he was nothing more than a filthy demon.
Sam tightened his grip, gritting his teeth against Cain's resistance so powerful it threatened to shatter Sam's mind even from a few yards away. Cain grunted, twisting his head to face Sam, his expression darkening in a cruel smile. He managed a step forward, the effort evident in the strain on his face, but still he chuckled, meeting Sam's gaze.
"You're holding back." Cain observed, his voice thick with tension and… something else. "I can see it on your face, Sam. You're terrified."
Sam's face contorted with the effort, his fist clenched tight as he fought to contain the demon who yet again managed another step.
"You're scared of what's running through your veins, of what you are." Cain pressed, his breath heavy as he swept his arms outward, "Wake up, Sam. Take a good look in the mirror."
Sam shook his head, feeling blood leak down his lip, his head screaming with a blinding agony he hadn't felt since he'd sent Samhain back to hell. He needed more blood; it wasn't enough.
"If you don't kill me," Cain forced another step closer, eyes thinned in spite, "I'll kill Castiel, first. And then Dean—though that one won't stick until I track down the First Blade. And then… then I'll kill you. And I'll leave your body where your brother can find it when he wakes up as a demon again. Of course," he scoffed with a forced grin, "I don't think he'll be so inclined to come save you from Lucifer's Cage this time."
Sam's vision blurred, his pulse thrumming in his skull impossibly fast. His gaze skated hazily over Dean, who didn't even seem to notice Cain as he stared at his brother, face streaked with blood, eyes searching—pleading.
He was dying. The cuffs wouldn't hold Cain for long—Sam couldn't restrain Cain for much longer. He'd kill Dean. It'd all be for nothing. All the lives, all the suffering…
Sam's chest tightened at the familiar tug from somewhere deep beyond his soul, the whisper of strength, the threads of a promise. The dark, urging him deeper, averring victory if only he allowed it to take the lead.
He met Dean's gaze, his own eyes thick with tears—perhaps begging Dean to understand. Perhaps begging him for forgiveness. Even as Dean shook his head softly, begging Sam not to.
It felt like a dagger in his chest.
And yet, with a thready breath, Sam closed his eyes, abandoning every shred of resistance and allowing himself to tumble backward into an ocean of shadow and blood.
It felt like his body was on fire. Like an unholy blaze swept over every cell in profane absolution, searing away every hesitation, doubt, and regret in steadfast strength. Like he'd torn open his chest and found Hell burning inside, the screams of its raw torment the only light in the shadow. The air tasted like sulfur and brimstone and death and power.
When he reopened his eyes, Cain seemed smaller, almost, a coil of a wretched soul bound in human flesh. Sam's lip curled, and his fist tightened.
There wasn't a line anymore—none that mattered, anyway. Human, demon, monster. Survival, damnation, satisfaction. There was merely a demon before him, waiting to be brought to its knees.
He yanked his fist back, and Cain fell forward, but the grip didn't lighten. Barely, Cain managed to raise his head, a laugh in his throat, "There you are. I knew you had it in you."
Sam's response was a thin smile and a serpentine constriction of the shadows twisting around the demon like a vice. And yet, even as his grip tightened firmly around Cain, so much the demon nearly asphyxiated as the power held him to the dirt… Sam couldn't snap the demon's soul as he had Alastair's or Lilith's. He wasn't strong enough… not yet, anyway.
Cain drew a sharp inhale as Sam's grip slackened somewhat, the demon's brow furrowing as he stared at the Winchester, his chest heaving. Sam inhaled a soft breath of his own before twisting his hand, redirecting his strength with an unshaking resolve.
His eyes nearly rolled back into his skull as he touched the familiar plane of hellfire and shrieking torment. The contact, however narrow, felt nauseating.
Typically, he would pull a demon from its vessel first, tearing it from the flesh before casting the wretched soul back to the depths of the abyss. But… Cain wasn't possessing a body; his skin and bones were as much his own as the blackened soul writing within.
Cain seemed to notice the shift, and his soul began roiling beneath Sam's clutches, resisting in the crimson of rage and the shadow of desperation. Sam pressed further, savoring the faintest flickers of fear hinting the demon's soul. As much as Cain struggled, he couldn't tear free. The realization wrought a dark smile to his face, a glow of burning thrill in his chest, a charge of delight sparking across his fingertips. His will was inexorable. He didn't have to feel helpless anymore.
The ground smoldered beneath the demon, the dirt succumbing to cracks of scarlet-orange flames and the darkest of the abyss as Hell stretched up beneath his command to drag one of its children back into its unforgiving depths.
Cain's figure distorted in the shimmering heat, his resistance fervent and futile. Beneath the strength of Sam's will, the chasm yawned wide enough to swallow Cain hungrily into the dirt, before the ground sealed shut, leaving only the heavy pang of smoke and sulfur.
Sam allowed his hand to fall, his gaze flicking over the ground as his mind drifted in almost disbelieving thrill. He released a thin exhale, glancing over his arms, tracing the undeniable power that he could almost see dancing across his skin.
He'd done it. Maybe he couldn't kill him, but he'd cast him deep into hell, where his only victims would be demons. And maybe… maybe if Sam had a little more blood, he could finish the job.
After a few seconds of utter silence, stillness, as though even the earth was shocked at the atrocities committed on it soil, Sam finally released the worn strength to settle back into his core. Only, almost immediately, he found himself stumbling backward, his legs suddenly flimsy and his head swaying borderline deliriously. He felt startlingly empty, hollow, incomplete, his vision hazed and thoughts colored in abrupt strings of emotion he couldn't begin to decipher.
His eyes fell upon his brother, perhaps seeking an anchor from which to steady himself, but what he found contorted his heart and sent shame prickling up his spine until he couldn't hold Dean's gaze any longer. He'd seen it before. He'd hated it then as much as he did now. The look of undisguised horror. It was isolating, chilling—a condemnation without words. Dean had seen everything. And now, he stared at Sam like his eyes were black as coal. And maybe… maybe they were. The thought made Sam want to vomit.
Dean… he had to understand. Cain would've killed them all. How many humans would Cain have to kill before it was worth it? Before it was unforgiveable to not stop him if they could? They wouldn't have found a better chance.
"Sam," he breathed, his voice rough, wet, barely a whisper, as he staggered a step forward, only to grimace and curl over his gut. Castiel tore his gaze from the younger Winchester, hastening to Dean's side and attempting to ease Dean to the floor so he might evaluate the damage.
"I had to," Sam replied in a similar soft, distant murmur, his limbs trembling in the wake of the adrenaline that fled his body. He searched Dean's face desperately, "He would've killed you."
And yet, understanding was the furthest thing from Dean's face, which remained rooted in terror and sorrow. Maybe Sam should've expected it. And yet, the sight drove far deeper than the machete in his thigh.
Movement stirred Sam's gaze; he frowned as one of the remaining angels recovered his blade from the grass and turned toward him, raising his weapon warily. His eyes were narrowed and guarded, as though he was still staring at Cain himself. Another angel followed his lead, shifting to his side defensively as though preparing for an assault.
Sam's expression twisted, and he faltered backward, struggling to stay upright. He wasn't a threat—couldn't they see that? He'd neutralized Cain where they couldn't. And yet… they still stared at him like he was merely the next demon to slay. The next monster to be put down.
"Siasch." Castiel's voice was hoarse, strained, as he donned the holy tongue. The angels hazarded a glance toward their brother, if only briefly. "We've lost enough today. Don't."
The angels hesitated, monitoring Sam cautiously, but while they didn't advance, neither lowered their blades.
Cas glanced at Dean, and in resolution at whatever he'd found there, he called, "Sam." His voice was an attempt at gentleness, and yet it was laden both with apprehension and desperation, "We can figure this out. This… this isn't you."
Sam's gaze skated to Dean, who managed only to remain upright beneath Castiel's support. Though his almost glazed, horror-filled stare remained fixed on Sam, his expression remained unchanging, his lips unmoving. The only sign of life was the ragged heave of his breath and the subtle flick of his eyes as they searched Sam's face—desperate for an answer, or perhaps a shred of proof that his brother was still inside the body so familiar and suddenly so foreign. Or maybe he was searching for the opposite—maybe he needed to prove it wasn't his brother standing before him at all.
His silence felt like a sentence.
Sam's fingers curled instinctively tighter around the Book of the Damned, despite the pain burning through his arm, and he stumbled further backward, his eyes flicking over the yard until they landed on a gap in the chain link fence. Every step sent a thrum of pain through his thigh, through his skull, but it felt distant… unimportant. He pushed through the chain link, careful to ensure the hilt of the machete buried in his muscle didn't catch on the metal.
"Sam!" Castiel shouted weakly after him, but the angel wouldn't depart from Dean's side—not until he was stabilized. Thankfully, the other angels didn't initiate pursuit, though they monitored his retreat in wary scrutiny. And Dean… Dean would be fine under Castiel's care.
He wasn't completely sure what he was doing. He didn't have a plan; he didn't have a destination. It had been years since he'd done it last, and yet, his body fell into the rhythm readily, dulling the chaos of his skull until his thoughts felt like a distant whisper.
His breath heavy, his pulse loud in his ears, his body numb, Sam turned his head, and he ran.