The heavy click of the door behind him made Sam wince. He closed his eyes and released a measured exhale before he started along the familiar halls, his gaze subconsciously glued to the concrete floor as he walked.
Dean was back. Alive. Human.
Despite himself, it wrought a genuine, quiet smile—yet one he couldn't sustain for more than a few seconds, although Dean's return was the only thing he wanted to think about. He didn't… he wasn't ready to think about… He shook his head before he could finish the thought and kept walking.
Dean's screams still echoed in his mind. The howls of agony. The demon's lies that the cure would kill his brother. The pleading for Sam to make it stop.
He wished he could say he never doubted their success, but… It didn't matter now. Dean was back. That was a win.
The Mark of Cain hadn't been cured along with Dean's demonhood, but he still had time… didn't he? He'd already found a few spells that sounded promising, and with Dean back, he could finally test them. Even if they didn't work, they would find a cure for the Mark, before… He wrung his head again to sever the thought.
Sam pushed open a door, stepping into his bedroom and breathing a heavy sigh. A thin layer of dust covered almost everything. The bed had been left unmade, the sheets wrinkled, probably reeking of weeks' old sweat. Washing the linens hadn't seemed so important in light of his demonic brother gallivanting across the countryside with the King of Hell. Especially when he rarely reached the bed at night anyway.
In a conscious effort, he grabbed the edge of the sheets and tugged them over the mattress, but he found he couldn't even smooth it out, glancing down at his trembling hands. He bit his lip, pushing his fingers through his hair to give them something to do as he paced a few steps away. He released a slow, shaky breath, trying to relax the tension in his muscles. He just… he needed to focus on Dean. He was back; his brother was back—he just had to cure him one more time.
The voice laughed in taunt. You're so busy trying to fix me, you can't even see you're far more screwed up than I am.
They weren't his brother's words, even though they bounced around his skull in Dean's voice. It was just a demon's goading. It meant nothing. Nothing. But it felt like taking a knife to the chest.
Still, he couldn't help the furtive glance downward, towards the faint smear of crimson across his sleeve—probably garnered from when he'd tried to shove Dean off. His gaze slid over his shirt, to his collar still damp with his brother's blood. Almost immediately, he began unbuttoning it, his fingers rapidly growing clumsy in his haste. They wouldn't coordinate right; he needed it off, he needed the blood away from his face, his mouth, his throat, he needed it gone—now. After a few seconds of futile struggle, he abandoned the buttons and ripped the flannel open, chucking it into the corner of the room. His hands instantly began assessing the collar of his undershirt, but before they could even reach a verdict, he was yanking it over his head, hurling it to the floor, heaving a breath as he retreated a step.
From where I'm sitting… there ain't much difference from what I turned into, to what you already are.
Sam gritted his teeth. Words. They were just words. A demon's words. Words that meant nothing. He was exhausted—that was it.
His fingers felt around his collarbone—had the blood penetrated so far? His nails scratched at his skin, but this wasn't a layer he could tear off and throw away. He glanced at his hands, at the flecks of dried blood beneath his nails, and his fingers curled tight into fists. His gaze flicked to the sink against the wall, and he crossed the distance to its edge, distantly aware of his quick, shallow breaths.
See, you… you don't need a Mark. The evil's inside you—it's a part of you. It's just who you are.
Demons lied. Except when they knew the truth would cut deeper.
He twisted the handle and plunged his hands under the faucet, snatching up a spare cloth to scrub at the stain on his arm. The dried blood broke apart deftly, carried down the drain as easy as water, though his skin flushed red in the blood's absence beneath the intensity of his scraping. Even as he scrubbed his flesh violently, he could feel it beneath the surface. Even when his skin burned with the friction, even when he dug into the tissue and freed the corrupted blood beneath, it was still there.
It was always there.
No matter how much holy water or salt he had chugged to try to purge the infection. No matter how many times he died and was resurrected. No matter the years he'd been clean—though, he knew, he never really was.
It was always there. The evil, lurking just out of sight, taken root so deep he couldn't evict it no matter how hard he'd tried. He felt it since he was able to walk. And he knew Dean saw it too.
And all a little black-eyed blood does is help wake it right on up. Or maybe it just gives you an excuse.
His jaw clenched, and he splashed water onto his throat, rubbing raw the skin around his collarbone. His efforts were disorganized, assuredly inefficient, as he tried to rid his arms, his chest, his body of the stain.
Dean hadn't meant it. He never would have said that. Said that, something in him distinguished, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
When he forced them open, he found the mirror before him and had to tear his gaze away. He couldn't look at himself and not glimpse what Dean and Castiel must have seen. The dried blood framing his mouth, the wild look in his eyes, the disheveled hair.
It'd been five years since he'd touched the stuff, and in an instant, their faces were the same as the very first moment they'd found out.
Were they wrong? Dean's voice—the demon's voice—mocked him, Can you honestly say you didn't enjoy it? That feeling when it hits your bloodstream. The ecstasy. Can you really tell yourself that you don't want more right now?
"Shut up," Sam whispered. He didn't—he didn't want more; he wanted it gone. He would've rather died than drink the blood again. Though… frankly, maybe it didn't really matter, now.
He shoved the washcloth beneath the water, wrung it sloppily, then set about scrubbing his face clean, not bothering to be any gentler than before. It was strangely difficult to glance back up into the glass, to meet his own gaze. He squeezed the cloth tight when he realized exactly what sparked the unease—fear of catching his eyes flooding black. His hand quivered as he pressed his knuckles against the edge of the sink.
He didn't choose this. He didn't want it. He wasn't a demon.
That line that we thought was so clear between us and the things that we hunted, ain't so clear, is it? Dean's words challenged, derision riding every silent syllable. Wow. You might actually be worse than me!
Sam pounded a fist against the sink, releasing the cloth as he stepped back, but Dean's voice followed him.
I mean, just look at what you did to poor old Lester. And you weren't even hopped up on demon blood then. It was all you. How many more 'Lesters' are out there, Sammy?
"That was an accident," he countered beneath his breath, not even sure he believed the words as they left his tongue but needing to rebut the demon's.
An accident? His head felt thick with fog. He wasn't sure whose voice it was anymore—Dean's, or his own. An accident is when you spill coffee on your shirt, not when you manipulate someone into selling their soul. You knew what you were doing. You might wish that you'd managed to stop him before he sealed the deal, but it was a price you were willing to pay. A pause. And you know he wasn't the only one.
"Shut up!" He shouted, heaving for air. It must have worked, for the echoes stilled, but the silence felt like an even greater taunt. He raked his hands through his hair, pacing several steps, before wrapping his arms tight around himself. He felt exposed, here, all alone in his empty room. Vulnerable. Trapped. His gaze flicked to the door, the one that might soon be locked from the outside, sealing his tomb. A shiver racked his body, and he felt like he might be sick.
You think it was worth it, dragging me back here, making me human again? That you were doing some kind of a good thing? The voice crept back slowly; every word dripped with disdain, resounding off the walls. Do you think I'm better off now, shackled with guilt—with you? Sam winced under the sting, his nails digging into his shoulders, his arms, but the words didn't stop. I mean, did you notice that I tried to get as far away from you as possible? Away from your whining, your complaining. Sam, I chose the King of Hell over you!
He stumbled backward, clutching at his head, pressing himself into the corner in some dormant instinct. The room felt smaller, somehow, the shadows inching closer, suffocating him with the heavy air of truths he couldn't combat.
I didn't want to come back—I was better off without you. I'm only in this mess because of you. He could almost feel Dean breathing down his neck, jabbing a finger in his face. My mother would still be alive if it wasn't for you. Your very existence sucked the life out of my life.
The words punched the air from his lungs, stole tears from his eyes. He wished Dean had carved into his chest instead, or that he hadn't missed that swing of his hammer. Dean—or the demon, he supposed, if it mattered—was right.
Maybe… maybe this was for the best.
His jaw trembled; his body shook. He needed air. He needed to get out of here before Dean collected himself and deemed it time. He wanted to see the sky, at least one more time, before…
The next thing he knew, Sam was hunched over his desk, yanking out drawers until he snatched a loose sheet of paper from within. He clicked a pen, and its tip hovered over the page for a moment before he finally scrawled out a quick note. He didn't want Dean to worry. Dean probably would, if he noticed Sam's absence. But he shouldn't. Sam would be back in two minutes. He just… he needed some air. Why did he even bother writing a note?
He seized a flannel from his dresser, pocketing the knife tucked beneath it, and began tugging on his sleeves as he broke out of the room. He couldn't hear his footsteps over the pounding of his pulse in his head, but he tried to keep his steps light. He wasn't trying to evade Dean or Cas, not really—he'd be back in a few minutes. They probably needed some time themselves, too.
Sam carefully crossed the war room, gaze skirting over the library, but mercifully it was empty. Ducking his head beneath the invisible eyes boring into him, he quickly ascended the stairs and gingerly creaked open the heavy door. With both hands, he eased it closed behind him and soon enough, heaved an exhale into a brisk breeze.
The fresh air was jarring, almost like slapping one's face in cold water. Garbed in only a flannel damp from the water that clung to his skin, he wasn't exactly dressed for the weather. But his head already felt clearer with every step into the biting wind. Almost without realizing it, he built into a jog, timing his steps with the pulse in his head. His throat and lungs rapidly began to protest the dry, frigid air, but he dismissed it—a sore throat and dehydration would be the least of his problems.
It was quiet, but for the pound of his feet on the dirt alongside the road. It was too cold for the bugs and birds to chirp their songs—any creature with sense was huddled close to its family, conserving its energy in the advent of winter. Jogging in the silence, without the faintest hum of a car or city, it was hard to feel more alone.
A heavy blanket of grey coated the sky, concealing the sun somewhere amidst the depths. He couldn't remember the last time he'd appreciated the sun's warmth. After the Cage, he'd promised to never take it, the stars, the sky—life for granted ever again. Somewhere over the past few years, he seemed to have neglected his vow. As he glanced upward, he wished the sun would peek out from behind the thick cover, but the clouds were vast and greedy. His gaze fell and he focused on the road before him.
His brother was back. Dean was human again. And Castiel seemed to be doing better—he'd probably stick around, after… he probably wouldn't leave Dean alone, anyway.
Together, they'd have a chance. After all, they'd saved the world how many times? They could cure a curse. They would find a cure for the Mark—Dean would be alright. It'd take a while, but he'd done it before, he'd find a way to do it again.
Sam breathed a slow sigh through his teeth, a sad smile weakly curling his lips. Dean was going to be okay. He just wished he could be there to see it.