The blood was warm on his lips—still pulsing with life, as it should be. Its bitter, sulfur tang filled the roof of his mouth, flooded his every sense, undercut with the full-bodied sweetness that slicked his throat. He could feel his veins, his mind, his soul hum in chord with the rhythm of the blood, urging him onward, hungrily demanding more. His body needed no prompt to swallow down the thick, beautiful blood, drowning him in its glorious ecstasy. The very heavens unfolded behind his eyes, his doubts and inhibitions shriveling away as the very strength of gods thrummed along his veins.

He was untouchable.

He wanted more.

A sudden jolt sent him lurching forward, eyes flinging open in a start. He sucked in a breath, brain madly scrambling to catch up to his surroundings. Hastily, he touched a thumb to his lips, but found only the clear dab of drool.

"Sorry," Dean muttered, glancing over his brother. "Pothole."

Sam blinked, heart still racing as he wiped his hands over his face. He squinted out the windows—more to avert his face from Dean than out of an expectation to comprehend the landscape, lest his brother read the dream in his eyes.

"Bad dream?"

It took Sam a moment to nod, unwilling to risk verbalizing what he didn't know was a truth or lie.

Luckily, Dean didn't pursue it. "We're almost there, anyway."

Sam raked his fingers through his hair, trying to steady his heartrate. It was just a dream—it didn't mean anything.

Still, he couldn't help the glance at his watch, then at his phone to verify his calculation. He gritted his teeth, rubbing his arms.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah—fine." Sam glanced again out the window, "You said we're almost there?"

"Fifteen, twenty minutes or so to the warehouse."

The vampire nest first, then—Sam probably should've expected it. Clearly, Dean had aligned his priorities. He probably wasn't even aware of how badly he needed to kill, of how on edge he'd been, lately. Then again—so had Sam, he supposed. Couped up underground, his every twitch scrutinized, the distrust smothering every glance.

They could both use the air.

Sam's nails itched over his skin subconsciously. The timing was bad. He knew Dean would hate it. Knew the distrust would probably only swell. But… ignoring it would be even more foolish than bringing it up.

He didn't want more—well… maybe he did, but he didn't. But this wasn't about wanting. This was about practicality, common sense, safety.

He tried to steady his voice when he spoke, "I should… probably take the next dose, before we go in."

Dean frowned, glancing at the time. He looked over Sam warily, "Thought you still had another two hours."

"An hour and a half," Sam corrected, his eyes flicking to his watch, as though anything more than a minute might have snuck by since he'd checked last. He exhaled quietly, explaining slowly, "It'd be smarter to go into the hunt fresh off a dose. Safer."

"You said you could hunt," Dean's tone was sharp.

"I can," Sam insisted, "But it doesn't make sense to go in right before a dose." When the withdrawals clawed furiously at his mind and flesh, when Sam was at his weakest.

"You set up the schedule, Sam. You set up the amended schedule. And you said not to let you change it again."

Frustration nipped at Sam's throat. "I'm not saying to throw the schedule out the window. I'm saying an hour's not gonna make a huge difference in getting clean, but it could make a difference in there." He gestured vaguely toward the direction of the warehouse.

Dean's expression was unchanging, "If you can't hunt, you stay in the car."

"I'm not staying in the car, Dean."

Dean's gaze snapped to Sam, eyes searching—probably to decide whether he could somehow force Sam's compliance, to gauge whether Sam would cave or refuse.

Sam watched Dean in return, trying to predict his response before he opened his mouth. His expression wavered indeterminately between explosion or defeat. At worst, Dean would turn the car around—but he wouldn't do that, because he couldn't. The Mark's demand was surely too strong to afford turning back. Aside from trying to physically restrain Sam to the car—which, Sam supposed, he shouldn't disregard as a possibility—his only other leverage was the blood. And he wouldn't use that… right?

Finally, he exhaled through his teeth, "We'll wait it out, then."

Sam paused, then nodded, trying to ignore the faint drop in his chest at the resolution. The compromise was fine—Dean wasn't going to try anything, probably, and the withdrawals would be mostly subsided. They still had a few hours until nightfall, so the delay shouldn't eliminate their advantage of daylight, either. It might not be ideal, but it was reasonable. It was fine.

He glanced at his phone to distract himself, checking the GPS and punching in the address. His lead was another three hours northeast, maybe four if they hit traffic. Long enough that Dean would probably balk if it turned out to be another dead end. It seemed like Dean wasn't willing to rest his hopes in any cure anymore—lest they be dashed again. Sam doubted that Dean was even searching for one anymore.

Maybe his skepticism was well-founded. It might be a thin lead—a few hunters had shared rumors about an ancient, powerful book of spells that could supposedly break any curse. If it existed, it was certainly worth checking out. They directed him to a Gideon Ward, an old, retired hunter who had apparently been out of the life for a long time. He found an address and phone number online, but the man hadn't answered any of Sam's calls—he didn't seem to have any family to speak of, either. Sam hoped they wouldn't find him dead in his house, but he wouldn't necessarily be surprised, either.

Sam's phone began to buzz, and he glanced at the caller ID before accepting.

"Cas," he held the phone between himself and his brother, "You're on speaker."

"Hello," Castiel's gravelly voice crackled through the phone, "Did you find the vampires?"

"Not yet. We're still fifteen minutes out," Dean replied curtly, "What is it, Cas?"

"I've located a demon."

"Already?" Sam frowned—he hadn't left the Bunker before Sam and Dean had departed. He couldn't be far yet. But Cas had said he'd cleared all the demons nearby.

Dean's gaze flicked to Sam, his expression wary—perhaps sharing the confusion.

"Its presence surprised me as well," Castiel noted, "I was lucky; I only saw its face by chance."

"I thought you said you could sense them," Dean cocked an eyebrow.

"To an extent, yes, I am capable of attuning to the writhing of their tortured souls when nearby, but this one was warded."

Sam shared a glance with Dean, "Warded how?"

"It carried a hex bag to shield itself from detection." Castiel paused, "I don't think its proximity to the Bunker was mere coincidence."

"Did you get anything out of it?" Dean demanded, his expression dark.

Another pause, "…I thought you didn't want me to discuss the blood in front of Sam."

Dean rolled his eyes, ignoring Sam's glance, "I mean information. Did you get any information out of it?"

"Nothing useful. It gave no indication of knowing about Sam's… condition, though." Castiel coughed, "It attempted to flee several times. Once I retrieved… what you asked… I killed the demon."

Dean nodded, his grip on the steering wheel still tight.

"Thanks, Cas." Though he shared Dean's concerns, Sam tried to lighten his tone, "Maybe take it easy for a few days, rest up. You've earned it."

Castiel was silent for a moment—Sam thought he might have heard another muffled cough. "I'll… do my best."

"We'll be back tomorrow or the next day," Dean added, "Keep your phone on—and charged, Cas. And let me know if you spot any more demons around the Bunker."

"I will. Good luck on your hunt."

The call terminated, and Sam slid his phone back into his pocket, glancing at Dean, though the older Winchester spoke before he could.

"A demon with a hex bag? Around the Bunker?"

"Cas is right—that can't be a coincidence." Sam's leg bounced absently as his mind churned, "You think it's Crowley, trying to keep an eye on us—on you? He knows where the Bunker is."

"I dunno, maybe," Dean worked his jaw, "Or another Abaddon sympathizer. Or maybe there's another player we don't know about. Maybe Cas hasn't been as careful as he thought—if word's getting out that we're harvesting demon blood…"

"He said the demon didn't know anything about that," Sam interjected, "If Cas says he's been careful, he's probably right."

Dean shook his head—Sam wasn't even sure Dean had heard what he said. "You shouldn't be out here. It's not worth the risk of word about your… condition getting out." Dean used the same word as Castiel, but from his lips it was tainted with something not far from mockery and disgust.

"Dean…"

"Sammy, I'm serious," Dean spared a few glances in his direction, "There are plenty of things out there that'd be thrilled to use that against us."

"I know—"

"There are still some hunters out there that are just waiting for an excuse, Sam."

"Dean, I know," Sam repeated, sharper this time, "I know plenty of hunters would love to kill me because of what I am. I know that if I—" He caught himself, cutting off his words abruptly before he could conclude the darker thought. That if I wasn't your brother, you'd want to kill me too, right? He closed his eyes briefly—Dean was just worried. And Sam knew the blood and the encroaching withdrawals put him on edge too—he couldn't put that on Dean.

Dean was silent for a long moment, visibly bristling. When he spoke, his voice was taut, "I just meant we've gotta be careful."

"I know," this time the words were softer, quieter. "But we're not going to a hunter convention—and I don't think we're planning on leaving any of the vampires alive to share that I was… what, looking a little under the weather? It'll be fine, Dean."

Dean didn't respond, but he didn't stop the car, either—Sam supposed that was resolution enough.

Sam allowed a few minutes to pass before he spoke again, "Speaking of… we need to talk about Cas."

Dean's voice remained terse, almost a grunt, "What about him?"

"He's getting worse."

"He's fine." Dean dismissed immediately.

"He's not," Sam controlled his tone to quiet patience—he knew Dean didn't want to think about Cas's decline, as though that would prevent it from becoming reality. But if they ignored it, they were practically ensuring it would. "Sooner or later, his grace is going to run out."

"We'll figure something out."

"Dean—"

"Sam, can we just focus on one thing at a time?" Dean demanded, casting Sam a bitter glare. When Sam didn't reply, he turned his gaze back to the road, "He's gonna be fine." Under his breath, he added, "You both are."

Neither of them spoke for the remainder of the drive, until the car pulled up to an old, decrepit warehouse. Another hunter had tipped him off about the nest—a few too many vampires for a hunter to take out solo. He'd wanted to help clear it, but Sam had insisted they could handle it on their own—padding the hunter's ego as much as he could until the old man relented.

"This it?"

Sam glanced around, "Looks like."

Dean wound the steering wheel with the heel of his hand, sending the car rolling down the street until they were several dozen yards away from the building, where he parked along the side of the road. He cranked the windows down a few inches, then turned off the engine and leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms.

Sam pulled out his phone and began flicking through articles he'd saved about Cain's curse. His eyes glossed over the text, his thumb scrolling every few seconds over paragraphs he hadn't read. It was difficult to focus on the dull words that echoed things he'd read a hundred times already.

The blood was probably in the inner pocket of Dean's jacket. It'd be more comfortable than sitting on the flask for the past three hours. And it was undoubtedly on Dean's person—he wouldn't risk the chance that Sam could find it without his knowledge. Probably in the left pocket—further away from Sam. Only two feet away, then, at most, the proximity a taunt. He could almost—

He turned his head toward the window, away from Dean, resting his wrists against his legs so his hands wouldn't shake. He could use a coffee—something warm on his tongue—to clear his head, occupy his hands, satiate the drying of his throat, to offer even an illusory boost. Not that he needed to be even more jittery than he already was.

Already, he tried to restrain every twitch, every dizzy sway, every time his vision blurred in a fog, every anxious flick of his eyes, every burning itch of his veins. The ache in his bones, the occasional, unexplained, shooting pain that tormented his body, the thought-dulling drone in his skull. He couldn't mask everything—not the sweat and shivers, not the pallor of his skin and circles around his eyes—but Dean didn't trust him as it was, so he'd minimize what he could.

Not for the first time, he couldn't help but think he had been overly ambitious in his detoxification schedule—reducing the dosage too quickly, too frequently. But he'd been desperate to get clean as soon as possible. Not to mention the plan needed to be aggressive to convince Dean to agree to it. Still—even if it was miserable, he didn't think it was necessarily supposed to be comfortable either.

He checked his watch, then tried to do more than merely pretend to skim a few articles. The internet wasn't devoid of mention of the Mark; on the contrary, it was flooded with commentary and theories about the ancient curse. But not a single one mentioned—or likely even considered the need for—how to remove it.

He wished he could say he was surprised when Dean finally began to stir, wished he could say he hadn't tracked the tick of every minute. The older Winchester started the car, pulling it around toward the back of the building, in a dilapidated parking lot with only an old, beaten van as an occupant.

Dean rolled up the windows and removed the key, seeming to avoid even a single glance in Sam's direction. He snagged the folded black case from the backseat, passing it to Sam to prepare a syringe as he reached into his left inner pocket and removed the familiar flask. Sam placed the syringe in his open hand, realizing that he was staring unblinking at the flask only after Dean's reluctant glance.

It would be difficult for Dean to move any slower. The older Winchester checked his phone—probably for the dosage, which Sam could have told him readily—and unscrewed the cap, dipping the needle into the liquid and carefully drawing out the plunger until the syringe was filled. He passed it to Sam without another glance, promptly fitting the flask away in his jacket pocket.

Sam aligned the needle to his vein—it wasn't difficult to find—and he forced himself to pause for a heartbeat. Proof, perhaps, that he was in control. That he could resist.

The needle pierced his skin, and his thumb began funneling the blood into his veins.

Maybe he was fooling himself.

The blood's cold entrance was jarring, sending an involuntary shiver through his spine. It spread quickly, and warmth followed, the exhilarating fire bounding along the paths of his veins. He could feel something deep within himself sigh in relief, like he'd been dying of dehydration and was finally granted a sip of water. For a moment, it felt like heaven—though perhaps such a comparison was blasphemy—but it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to fully quell the tired ache of his bones, to completely rid the fog of his mind. Still, it helped.

Faintly, he heard the click of the car door beside him, and dazedly glanced over to find Dean outside, starting toward the back of the Impala. Shame prickled across his skin. Maybe it was for the best, though—Sam didn't need the audience.

When he'd drained the syringe completely, he closed his eyes, needle still in arm. His heart pulsed loudly in his ears—not just from the vigor of the demon blood. He felt nauseated. He couldn't blame Dean for his reaction. Rationally, it was repulsive. And Dean couldn't even see the worst part—just how badly Sam craved more. It was disgusting, it was abhorrent. What kind of a freak was he to yearn so fervently for the filthy blood of demons? What kind of an abomination to need such wretched, unholy evil to merely stay alive?

He gritted his teeth and yanked the needle from his arm, a bead of blood welling in its wake. Without thinking, he flicked his thumb over it and brought it to his lips. Even the small drop carried the rich, sulfuric tang. He knew instantly it was a mistake, for he glanced back down to check if any more had leaked. He retrieved the bandana from his pocket—stored for this very purpose—and wrapped the crook of his elbow, hating himself for his dismay at the waste. He cursed himself for the impulsive reaction, cursed himself for savoring the taste, for rolling it on his tongue.

He'd wanted the shift to an injection because he thought it might help. That it might render the process more clinical—a treatment for an illness. That it might strip the act of its visceral, primal satisfaction. That it might make him feel less like a monster.

But it was just another lie to himself. A veneer of control over a relentless addiction that owned his every cell. It didn't change anything.

He stepped out of the car and started toward Dean at the trunk of the Impala. His brother's eyes raked over him for a few seconds—probably righteously in disgust—before he resumed his task, digging out a couple of machetes. He shoved the hilt of one into Sam's chest, then dropped the lid of the Impala's trunk, stalking immediately toward the old warehouse. They hadn't stopped for dead man's blood on the way—maybe Dean didn't want to complicate things or risk another stop—but they'd probably be fine without it, especially if they took the vampires by surprise.

Sam followed after Dean, testing the weight of the machete in his hand—then paused. He frowned, glancing over his shoulder, around the space. But the streets were empty, the last car to pass having vanished almost half an hour ago.

Dean looked back, realizing Sam had halted. His voice was terse, "You good?"

Sam nodded absently, "Yeah… sorry." It was just another trick of his mind. He caught up to Dean, weathering another scrutinizing glance. Luckily, Dean didn't declare him unfit to hunt on the spot. Maybe he just knew Sam wouldn't listen this time.

The old warehouse had clearly suffered from years of neglect, its rough façade a testament to its disuse. Many of the windows were boarded up haphazardly with rotting planks, while others gaped open, the glass shattered and strewn about recklessly. Weeds and wild grass had reclaimed the perimeter, a few vines threading the caverns of the architecture. The rusted, metal side door hung ajar, the frame warped, and the ground beneath scraped in an arc.

Dean led the way inside, slinking around the parted door, his machete raised and footsteps light.

Dust danced in the slivers of light that infiltrated the dark space, drifting lazily among the shadows. The air was stale and heavy with the stench of mold and decay—Sam wrinkled his nose. It was a promising sign, though. The ground floor was largely barren, save for the few scattered pallets and crates strewn about. And about a dozen empty blood bags. The brothers shared a glance.

An old ladder, laden with rust, pointed toward the loft. The wooden stairs that had surely once led the way up were in shambles, a gaping hole in the center, with only the first and last few steps suspended in the air.

Dean reversed his grip on the machete, starting up the ladder gingerly. It creaked quietly under his weight, every sound prompting him to grimace and pause. Not soon enough, he reached the loft, pausing at the top of the ladder to survey the dimly lit area. He glanced back to Sam and nodded—a signal that the tip was good, that they'd found their quarry. He disappeared over the edge of the floor, and Sam cautiously began following up the ladder.

At the top, several tarps and canvases had been strung up on various supports, dividing the space into makeshift rooms. Sam could glimpse a pair of bodies curled together through the gaps of one, but the crude walls shielded anyone else from their gaze. He pointed at the two, holding up his fingers, and Dean nodded in understanding. The older Winchester gestured to one side of the space, then tapped his chest, and pointed Sam toward the opposite side. They'd try to kill them quietly, one-by-one.

Before he could take more than a step toward his first target, the swish of plastic made him spin around hastily, finding a pale man with a buzz cut rubbing his eyes as he stepped out of one of the rooms.

"Did someone bring breakfast?" He asked groggily, a hopeful smile on his lips as he squinted in the faint light.

They were the last words he spoke. Dean crossed the distance and decapitated the vampire in a clean strike, its head tumbling to the floor a moment before its body followed.

The noise was apparently startle enough—the sound of shuffling feet and grunting resounded from the rooms only seconds before the tarps rustled and revealed half a dozen vampires, some pausing in confusion, some rushing forward.

Instinct kicked in as readily as adrenaline. Sam cleaved the nearest vampire's neck, shoving its body backward before it could collapse atop him. Another hissed, baring its fangs, readying to pounce. As soon as its feet left the ground, Sam dropped, rolling to the side and allowing it to half-soar half-tumble over the edge of the loft, landing loudly with a thump below.

In the momentary respite, Sam glanced at Dean, surrounded by three vampires. He didn't pause in the slightest, sinking his machete into flesh, spraying blood in the air like confetti. His movements were quick, brutal, and precise. He didn't even seem to notice as a vampire sank its teeth into his shoulder—not until he plunged the tip of his blade into its skull and yanked it off. He drove through his opponents like a tornado of death, ruthless and unrelenting, but his face was stoic, a mask of utter calm. When he'd cleared those three, he advanced on the rest without hesitation, even as they surged toward him.

Sam caught a vampire by the shoulder, swinging his blade through its neck as its teeth snapped madly for his throat. Sudden pain in his calf made him try to lurch back, to yank away, but one of the vampires had clamped onto his leg. Yet, before he even raise his arm to cut its throat, it released him, curling over itself as it retched.

Sam frowned, arm poised to swing, but he waited as the vampire stared up at him after spitting out a glob of crimson spit.

"Your blood," the vampire breathed in horror, searching Sam's face for explanation, "What are you?"

Sam gritted his teeth, gut clenching. His only answer was the fall of his blade.

He glimpsed the shadow of another advancing on him rapidly, and he reeled back barely in time to avoid a—machete?

"Dean!" He shouted in alarm, staggering backward, "Dean, stop!"

Dean's swipes had been quick, his eyes dark, staring directly at Sam, and yet glazed as though they didn't see him at all. At Sam's allocation of distance, he immediately stopped swinging, though his every muscle was coiled as he advanced, his weapon poised at his side.

Sam's back hit the wall, near the edge of the loft. He could drop if Dean kept coming, but it'd likely leave him exposed. In his state, Dean probably wouldn't care about the risk of a broken bone in pursuing him.

Dean didn't halt, his pace unhurried and confident.

"Dean, stop it, it's me!" Sam's voice was drenched in desperation as he inched closer to the edge, his words echoing in the empty warehouse. If Sam died here, Dean would never forgive himself. He wouldn't have the will to search for a cure, either—he'd succumb to the Mark sooner or later; he'd be in this alone. Sam couldn't do that to him, not now, not yet. "Dean!"

A pause.

"Dean," Sam continued breathlessly, heart hammering in his skull as he held up his hands pacifyingly, "It's me. Put it down."

Dean blinked, faltering, his grip on the machete loosening. He wrung his head, stepping back. His gaze slid to the Mark, and he exhaled shakily.

Sam released a sigh of relief, chest heaving as he eased himself from the wall. He was fine—Dean was okay. He'd be fine.

But before either of them could speak, a sniffled cry sounded from behind one of the tarps.

Immediately, both Winchesters tensed, instinctively tightening their grips on their machetes as they exchanged a wary glance. With light, cautious steps, Dean started toward the noise, then yanked the tarp away.

A young woman curled in the corner, her arms clutched to her chest, her body compressed tightly so as to consume as little space as possible. Her eyes were wet with tears as she glanced up at them. Sam almost stowed his machete and assured her she'd be safe now, when she suddenly bared her fangs and hissed.

Dean raised his machete for a swing, but even as he did, her fangs retracted, and she gripped at her head, shriveling back to the corner. Dean hesitated, casting a careful glance toward Sam.

"I'm sorry," she wept, rocking herself in rhythm with her sobs, "I'm sorry—I didn't mean to do that."

Sam swallowed hard, tilting his head to signal for Dean to ease up on the machete. "What's your name?"

"Aggie," she answered thinly, gaze darting between them, "I didn't want to hurt anyone—I swear. Lucas, he… he gave me this drink, and ever since, I…" her face contorted in her misery, her throat seizing in her sob, "I didn't want to hurt anyone."

"Did you drink human blood?" Dean asked quietly, his voice firm, but not harsh.

Her gaze flicked to him, tears streaming from her eyes, her voice strained with desperation, "I didn't mean to. I just, I couldn't—I couldn't help it. I was so hungry; it hurt so bad, I—I couldn't stop…" her eyes glistened in a plea for their understanding, "I didn't mean to hurt anyone."

Dean stepped back, shaking his head before meeting Sam's gaze.

"I'm sorry," she repeated—pleaded. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," Sam met her eyes, his own throat tight. It wasn't her fault—what she'd become. He couldn't blame her for the things she'd done, not really, because he believed her—she truly couldn't help it. She seemed to catch the empathy in his face, nodding with a sad, broken smile on hers.

"Can you help me?" her eyes glistened in fear and hope, searching him for a lifeline that might deliver her salvation.

Biting the inside of his lip, after a moment, Sam shook his head, hopelessly wishing that he could've made a lie true.

The breath seemed to flee from her lungs, and she sunk visibly. A few seconds passed before she, shakily, managed to look up again, collecting herself enough to speak. "Then please," she begged voice managing to strengthen a degree in resolve, her face flushed pink from the intensity of her sobs, "Please—I don't want to hurt anyone else."

Sam looked toward Dean, who was grinding his jaw, his helpless frustration evident on his face. He hated this as much as Sam.

"I can't control it." She inched forward, raising her chin shakily in offering, her whole body trembling violently. "Please… please."

Dean gave Sam a slight nod, and Sam twisted his head away, squeezing his eyes closed at the decision. Still, when Dean had aligned himself for a clean strike, Sam forced himself to watch.

The woman nodded, blinking through the tears, her voice a hoarse whisper, "Thank you."

The blade fell, and Sam winced as blood splattered the wall. He paced a few steps away, pressing his fist to his mouth as he wrung his head.

He hated this. It wasn't fair. That a monster could ruin a young woman's life, could force her to beg for her own death to keep from becoming the very thing she'd despised. It'd have been more merciful for the monster to have killed her outright.

He hissed an exhale, raking his fingers through his hair.

His gaze flicked around the corpses that littered the ground, and disgust bubbled in his chest. He stood over their bodies as their executioner, and yet, he was no better than them. Both slaves to the blood. Maybe the only difference between them was that he pretended he was the one in control.

A rustle of motion on the first floor suddenly demanded his attention—he crossed to the edge of the platform in time to glimpse a vampire limping out the door, its arm raised to shield its eyes from the sun.

A quick glance at Dean—still standing over the slumped body, blood dripping lazily from his machete—sealed Sam's decision. He slid down the ladder, shoving his way outside and squinting in the fading sunlight.

The vampire, predictably, hadn't made it far, half-dragging its leg in the gravel behind it, stumbling blindly in the light. Sam jogged to reach it, the bite on his leg pulsing with every step, though he ignored it. In the span of seconds, he liberated the monster's head even as it dazedly turned to face him.

Sam heaved an exhale, eyes immediately scanning his surroundings to ensure he didn't have a witness who'd just watched him decapitate a fleeing man with a machete.

No one was in sight, but… he tilted his head, scowling. After a moment, he started toward the Impala warily, raising the trunk to trade in his still bloodied machete.

A new weapon in hand, he glanced again around the space, calling, "You can come out, now! I know you're there."

For a moment, silence was the only reply.

Then, Sam closed his eyes before turning to find a man approaching from the other side of the building. When the man stopped before Sam, his eyes glassed black.

"What gave us away?" the demon asked casually. Sam glanced over his shoulders to find another two—a woman and a young man—approaching from behind.

Sam didn't reply, his blood humming at their advance. He wasn't prepared to vocalize the answer to himself, much less to a demon.

"Well," the demon shrugged, removing a small black leather bag from his belt and tossing it in his hand, "Guess these aren't all they're cracked up to be."

"What are you doing here?" Sam demanded, flexing his grip on the dagger in his hand, "Are you following us?"

The demon raised his shoulders and hands as though he'd been caught, "Guilty."

"Why?" Sam monitored the two behind him, trying to reposition himself to keep all three in his line of sight.

"Well, when the king says jump, the smart thing to do is jump," the demon returned the hex bag to his belt, continuing to close the distance, "But to be honest, I thought watching the Winchesters would be way more exciting. You hear all kinds of stories about you too, but you've been a real bore this past week. Keeping Dean-o on lockdown, huh? Sending your angelic dog out to run your errands?"

Again, Sam was silent. The familiar power coiled tantalizingly along his veins, dancing along his fingertips, ready, eager to bring the demons to their knees.

"But if you're out here on a hunt, that must mean Dean's not a demon anymore, right?" The demon's grin revealed the question rhetorical. "Crowley was beginning to think your little cure must not work on a Knight reborn from the Mark. We were wondering if you'd killed him—accidentally, of course."

Sam forced himself to release a slow, measured breath, then asked, more to fill the air than to verify what he already knew, "Crowley's got you watching us?" The tang of sulfur stung the air, only intensifying as they approached.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" the demon tossed Sam a judgmental look as though he was dumb, then he cocked an eyebrow as his grin expanded, "You're not looking so good, Sammy. Having a demon for a brother not agree with you?"

Sam watched the artery in the demon's throat pulse and bounce as he spoke. He was a mere three steps away—a distance Sam could negate in under a second. His hand twitched.

The demon glanced down at the knife in Sam's grip, then raised his hands, "Look, you know Crowley doesn't want either of you dead. He's just trying to keep an eye on you and your big bro." He held a hand up to his face as though imparting a secret, "The two of them got pretty close, y'know."

Sam gritted his teeth, struggling to force his gaze upward, to look anywhere but the blue lines of the demon's veins, to smell anything but the pungent stench of coppery sulfur.

"They were practically inseparable. But don't worry; Crowley took good care of him. I don't think I've ever seen your brother so happy," the demon continued in taunt, stepping ever closer. "Honestly—you both should really be thanking Crowley."

The demon was so, so close, now. Sam wouldn't even need to take a step. Relief waited behind only a single slit of his dagger. It would be so easy. They couldn't stop him—their numbers were meaningless.

"Get away from me," Sam ground out, his hands shaking, his eyes flicking up to meet the demon's.

"What?" The demon scowled in confusion, leaning closer to catch what he apparently hadn't heard.

A mistake—his last.

The knife plunged deep into the demon's neck and quickly flicked out, and the blood gushed free like a river.