It had been four days since they'd returned. Three, since Castiel left in the hunt for more blood. One, since Sam had his last dose.
It'd been six hours since Dean had prodded open the door of Sam's room, to find his little brother seizing on the floor—this time, with no anti-demon charm in sight to claim responsibility. It'd been three since Sam had woken up, briefly, blinking blearily at this brother and mumbling he was fine, before he was talking back to empty space, speaking to ghosts Dean couldn't see and no EMF reader could hope to detect. It had been one, and two, and three, and four, and perhaps a dozen intermingled between, since Dean had contacted Castiel, demanding an update.
It had been five days since the angel had offered any good news. Five days since he'd seen a demon, to his report. Whose blood, limited by Dean's order, had been expended just over twenty-four hours ago. And even if a text appeared in the next few minutes, heralding Castiel's success, the angel had no wings to ferry his quarry back in the blink of an eye. He'd been forced to expand his search further, trying to target bars and casinos and clubs and other houses of sin and revelry, as he'd put it. But even if the angel dared to drive at Dean's pace, it would be another nine hours, minimum, before Castiel would reach them with the blood. Dean thought about driving Sam halfway… if he wasn't worried that Sam's errant psychic powers might just fling the car into traffic, just as easily as they had formerly tossed him across the room.
Still, if he received such a text, perhaps Dean wouldn't be considering the alternative that scratched at the back of his mind. Not his brother's death—no, that was no true alternative, and such an image frolicked at the forefront, requiring little imagination, given the sight of his unconscious brother lying before him, pale and burning up with fever, twitching in pain, face contorting in a deep nightmare.
Dean's gaze dropped to his phone, his fingers clenching it so tight the screen might crack beneath his grip like the shell of an egg. After another skim through his messages, he punched out yet another. Tell me you've found something. Anything. A whisper of a demon.
After a few, agonizing minutes. I'm sorry, Dean—
Dean squeezed the phone, barely restraining the urge to chuck it across the room. His eyes flicked to his brother, still lying as peacefully as could be expected. After a few seconds scarce of change, he wrenched his gaze away and stepped out of the room, softly closing the door—leaving it only cracked open, so he might hear a cry—before he stalked down the hall, his grip still like iron.
He couldn't think of another option—not one with a half decent chance of success. And yet, still he paused. He thought about trying to summon another crossroads demon. But as Castiel had already killed two of their number over the past couple weeks, none seemed particularly eager to land themselves in a devil's trap. He could try to double Castiel's efforts, to start searching on his own, but… he couldn't leave Sam alone. Even if he couldn't do more than watch as the withdrawals angrily assaulted his brother's body.
Dean gritted his teeth, then twisted the phone to scroll through his contacts, disallowing further hesitation as he hit the name and held the phone to his ear.
The tone of the connecting line droned once… twice… thrice… Dean's free hand squeezed tight, his fists going pale.
Finally, a click, and a familiar cocky tone, "Hello?"
"Crowley." Dean tried to measure his tone, because he knew the demon would catch any curl of emotion.
"Ah, Dean," Crowley's tone affected surprise, "Long time no chat. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me."
"I'm not that lucky," Dean rolled his eyes, allowing the sarcasm to drip from his words.
"You wound me," Crowley mocked offense, then prompted, "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or did you just miss hearing the sound of my voice every day? I can't say I blame you."
"Cut the crap, Crowley," Dean interrupted, "I… need a demon."
"Oh?" The demon's voice spiked with guarded interest, "Is that so? What, are you having a little trouble finding a date, now that you've lost those pretty black eyes?"
"It's for the Mark." Dean gritted out. He hated saying it, even though it might presently be only a ruse.
"Mmmh," Crowley issued a noncommittal noise, one that made Dean's skin crawl. Did he know something more? He couldn't know about Sam. They'd been careful. Sam said the demons watching them didn't seem to know. Cas said the demons he encountered didn't seem to know. The demon king couldn't know, then… right?
"And what's in it for me?" Crowley inquired; Dean could almost hear the curious smile curl his lips.
Dean shifted the phone to speak directly into the speaker, "You owe me." His tone was rigid, or so he hoped, sparing not an inch for negotiation. After the demon had manipulated him into pursuing the Mark. Knowing it'd turn him into a demon, sooner or later, though he elected not to share such a warning in advance. Escorting the demonized Dean around the countryside in meaningless games while Sam worked himself to the edge of collapse trying to track them down. The demon was lucky the Winchesters had bigger fish to fry, right now—and he'd be smart to make himself useful.
"Alright," Crowley conceded without warning, somewhat startling Dean. "I'll send one over. Any preferences? You like brunettes, don't you?"
"Just make it fast, Crowley." Dean's voice was terse, bleeding irritation, "I need it now."
"Patience, darling," Crowley pacified patronizingly, "Leave the door unlocked; it'll be there in a few hours."
"Make it one," Dean ordered, terminating the call with hasty click, before tossing his phone onto the table. Better that than sending it soaring across the room.
The silence of the Bunker weighed heavily around him, broken only by his own breaths and the quiet hum of electricity. He raked a hand through his hair, his muscles tense. He needed something to distract himself, something to pass the hour, before Crowley's demon arrived. Something other than staring at his unconscious, twitching brother, wondering if his restrictions on the demon blood had killed Sam.
With a heavy sigh, he started toward the kitchen, pausing briefly as he passed before the door to the storage room. The Mark burned faintly, its whispers clawing to the back of his mind. He scratched it subconsciously, wringing his head. It was sealed in excessive warding, barred by several locks. Castiel had assured him he couldn't sense it from the hall—which meant Sam probably couldn't either. Probably. He shoved the thought down and forced himself onward.
His gaze skirted over the kitchen, hosting a few strewn bottles, a small, yet growing stack of unwashed plates in the sink, a few bits of plastic scraps scattered around the countertops. Dean knew most of them were probably his own doing, and it wasn't like it was a wreck—at least to his eyes—but… it still felt… odd, somehow. Wrong. His chest felt inexplicably heavy, though he swallowed down the emotion and snagged the almost-full trash can, dragging it about the room to sweep the garbage inside. His gaze flicked to the can's contents with his last addition, his lip curling at the sight of a few dozen tissues now buried beneath the bottles—many splattered with blood. He tilted the can, shifting the trash just to be sure, then he set it harshly back at the end of the counter. He couldn't be sure whose it was. Sam hadn't mentioned that he was coughing up blood, but that didn't really mean anything. Though he wanted to ignore it, Dean had heard Castiel's ugly hacking a few times… but that didn't mean he was coughing up so much blood, Dean thought feebly. He didn't want to believe it could be this bad already—that he'd sent the angel out on a demon hunt in such a state.
He yanked open the fridge door, ducking to glance over the slim contents. He reached toward one of the three beers, withdrawing it with a darkening scowl. Their alcohol supply was dwindling—far faster than he'd prefer. The bottle of whiskey they'd just broken into a few days ago had mysteriously vanished, to Dean's irritation. They'd need more—well, Dean needed more—not that it was a great time to make a run.
Popping off the cap of his beer, he ambled back toward the library, taking the long route to pass by Sam's room and lean his head through the doorway, verifying Sam was still breathing. The kid was alive—but there was precious little more they could say of him.
Dean collected a few more tools, for when the demon arrived, before he settled into a chair at the table in the library and slouched back as he nursed his beer. Absently, he flicked through the pages of an open tome, his eyes not focusing on a single word as his brain burned with worry. Eventually, he surrendered the ruse and folded the book, shoving it away from him. It was a waste of time anyway—the cure for the Mark wouldn't be inside its pages. If such a thing was in their library… they'd know, by now.
Time seemed to crawl by, each slow tick of the clock a taunt. Dean checked his phone religiously, but no new messages from Castiel appeared beneath his impatience, and Crowley didn't call.
After almost an hour had passed, a shuffling from the hallway drew Dean's attention. He scowled immediately, sitting up, only to find Sam, stumbling into the room. His hair was disheveled, his clothes wrinkled, his eyes red-rimmed and unfocused.
Dean pushed himself to his feet, crossing the distance slowly, "Sam—woah, hey, what are you thinking, man?" His words carried a tinge of anger, belayed in concern.
Sam shrugged, as though indifferent to the question. Dean's gaze flicked to the half-empty bottle in Sam's hands, and his chest tightened.
"You were seizing again," Dean added carefully, tersely, "You should be lying down."
Sam cocked an eyebrow, taking a swig of the whiskey before asking, "Why? Not like that's gonna fix anything."
Dean gritted his teeth, eyes tracking the bottle. He wasn't exactly a saint himself, but he cautioned nonetheless, his voice low, "Maybe you should ease up a bit, Sammy."
Sam snorted, a humorless sound, as he leaned heavily against the wall for support, "Better drunk than high, right?" he slurred, his glance sharp beneath the haze of alcohol.
Dean clenched his jaw, his retort dying in his throat. He couldn't argue with that, not really. Not when his restrictions had landed Sam in such misery. When his little brother was already struggling to cope with so much on his shoulders, so much tearing at his soul. He didn't like it, but he didn't blame him for wanting to hide within the warm balm of liquor. It was a compromise he was willing to make if it kept Sam from darker spirals. Even if it had been two days since Dean had last seen Sam sober. His veins were probably pumping mostly alcohol and demon blood at this point.
It'd be only a few more days—a week. Then Sam would be free of the demon blood. And then Dean could ease him off the alcohol too, if he didn't course-correct on his own. One problem at a time.
At Dean's silence, Sam managed a wobbly path toward the table, dropping into a chair ungracefully. He drew another long draught of whiskey, wincing at the burn, but not releasing the bottle, his water-filled eyes skating over the room dismally. Almost like he was trying to take everything in.
Almost as if he was saying goodbye.
"Sam." When the word didn't garner his attention, Dean leaned on the table beside his brother, kicking his chair lightly and successfully earning a tired glance. "You're gonna be fine."
Sam's gaze dropped away almost immediately, his jaw working, head drooping.
"Hey." Dean's voice sharpened, and he prodded the chair again, "Cut this out."
Sam's brow furrowed, fingers curling tighter around the bottle, "Cut what out?"
"This," Dean gestured to Sam's face, receiving another frown. "This look like you're giving up." Dean's voice was curt, probably harsher than it should've been. "You're not gonna die. You'll get through this, Sam."
"I didn't say anything," Sam refuted, blinking as though he couldn't quite see Dean right, though his brother was a mere two feet in front of him.
Dean searched his brother's face, trying to wrangle his frustration. He wasn't going to reason with Sam—not in his current state. "Listen…" he started slowly, monitoring Sam's reaction. He didn't want to use it as a heralding of salvation, but… if it'd help coax Sam back from the despair. "There's blood on the way. Should be here soon."
Sam's gaze flicked to Dean instantly at the mention of the blood, a glint of life, of sudden intensity—of hunger—igniting in his otherwise dull eyes. Yet, within a few seconds, he seemed to wrest control and squelch it, his tone low and dismissive, rough and hollow, "Doesn't matter."
Dean's scowl deepened, "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean…" Sam released an exhale, seeming to deflate entirely with the single breath, "Maybe this is inevitable, Dean."
Even as Dean parted his lips to reply in a cutting refusal, a metal creak made them both turn. He shared a single glance with Sam before stalking toward the war room, muscles coiled. Sam, sluggish from drink, was slower to rise.
At the head of the stairs, a young man shuffled in, a large box grasped in his arms. He met Dean's gaze, and a blink sent his eyes black. Another cleared the dark void, and he started down the stairs, raising the box slightly in gesture, "Delivery from Crowley."
Dean didn't reply, his eyes fixed on the demon as it ambled to the ground floor, watching Dean somewhat uneasily, its shoulders raised in its discomfort. Still, it placed the box on the war table, glancing toward the Winchester. "He said you'd be expecting it."
Keeping the demon within his field of view, Dean approached the table, carefully raising the lid to frown at the empty space inside. No—not quite empty. At the bottom, in Crowley's cursive, a single note read: Enjoy.
Dean dropped the lid, looking back toward the demon, and reaching slyly for the warded handcuffs he'd stuffed in his back pocket.
"All good?" the demon asked, feigning nonchalance as its eyes darted to Dean's hand.
"Yeah, yeah," Dean nodded with a forced smile, raising a hand as though to clap it on the demon's shoulder friendlily, "Just one more thing."
The demon mirrored Dean's nod nervously, but didn't move, apparently trusting either Dean's or Crowley's assurances. Yanking the demon around by the shoulder, Dean hastily slapped the handcuff around the demon's wrist, snatching his other arm to secure the other cuff, trapping the demon's hands behind its back—and more importantly, the demon within its vessel.
"That's what he said to deliver, I swear," the demon pled, even as Dean roughly guided it toward a chair, shoving it into the seat. "I promise—I didn't open it or take anything."
Dean could see why Crowley had offered this one up for sacrifice. "Shut up," he ordered, glancing over the table. He needed a new flask—he'd sent Castiel off with the only one without a bullet hole. As he skimmed the room for something to store the blood, even if just temporarily, he glimpsed Sam appear at the archway, where the room adjoined with the library. The sight caused Dean to immediately forget his task, his concern honing rapidly, blood draining from his face.
Sam still looked awful, to be sure, his hair partially shading his face, sweat coating his skin, the stench of alcohol clinging to him like a parasite, his body hanging heavy with pain and exhaustion. But while a few minutes ago, he'd looked… lost. Adrift. Hazy, dazed, distant. Now, he looked utterly focused—unsettlingly so. His eyes, dark and intense, didn't drift a millimeter. It was like there was nothing else in the room. Only him and the demon—bound, helpless. Vulnerable. Easy.
"Sammy," Dean's voice carried a warning, his apprehension climbing exponentially as his mind raced.
Sam's head tilted a degree—perhaps in acknowledgement of Dean's word, or perhaps a mere twitch amidst the unyielding focus. Without sacrificing so much as a blink, Sam started down the few steps, his pace still clumsy, but direct, determined. Faster than Dean could've expected, given how drunk Sam was.
Dean intercepted Sam as he approached—not a difficult task, given Sam didn't even seem to register him. He grabbed Sam's shirt, positioning himself firmly between his brother and the demon, "Sam, stop it."
"What's wrong with him?" the demon's voice climbed an octave as it tried to shove itself further away, the chair sliding in its efforts. Dean couldn't afford a single glance in its direction, forced to monitor Sam with the same intensity as he did the demon.
Even with Dean's hands restraining him, Sam seemed hardly aware of his brother's presence. His feet still carried him forward, his body listing onward, forcing Dean to brace himself to counter his brother's weight. He could hear Sam's breaths hitch shallow and rapid; he could feel the faint hammer of his heartbeat through his chest.
"Sam, back off," Dean commanded again, his tone sharper, shoving Sam away.
Sam grunted as he stumbled back a few steps, his eyes dark and hungry, his face contorting in desperation and frustration at his denial, his body trembling violently. Still, he barely even paused. He started again toward the demon, this time trying to clumsily circumvent Dean as though he was a stagnant obstacle to be avoided.
Again, Dean grabbed him by the shirt, forcing him to stumble back a few steps as he dug his feet and shoved into Sam's chest, though this time not releasing his grip.
"I…" Sam's voice was a rasp, a plea laced with agony, strained and raw, "Please, I just… I need it…"
"Not like this," Dean refused, his tone stern, despite the pain tearing at his chest from the inside.
"Dean, let me go," Sam's voice cracked on the beg, his words shattering in the visceral need, his eyes searching Dean's, flicking between frustration and pitiful yearning.
A deep part of his mind, perhaps the very same that had been squelched with a holy rite and purified blood, recognized that he'd asked Sam the very same thing, those months ago. And now… he wished he could forget for as much as a heartbeat that he was the one who'd done this to his little brother.
Even as emotion and hurt clawed at his throat, Dean could only tighten his grip on Sam, and force him another few steps back. And yet, his brother still strained against him, the blindness of his thirst proving the only salvation. With no small amount of effort, Dean managed to shove him into a chair, forced to press roughly against his shoulder almost immediately to prevent him from standing.
"Sam, stop it!" He shouted, his heart fracturing as he took in the full degradation before him. At what Sam had been reduced to. He released a shaky breath, his voice weaker, thinner as he repeated, "Stop it. Please."
Sam's eyes had filled, and he seemed to slow, somewhat, his fixation breaking if only briefly to glance toward Dean.
"I'll get you the blood," Dean promised, his hand still planted on Sam's shoulder, not trusting the momentary lapse. "Okay? Just… not like this."
Sam's eyes flicked immediately to Dean at that—as though such a thing hadn't even occurred to him. He blinked, and Dean finally saw the resolve falter. His head dropped, and he bit his lip, nodding feebly. His body still shook in starkly visible tremors, his eyes still furtive and wary.
Cautiously, Dean raised his hand, testing Sam's response. Relief swept over him like a cool breeze when Sam didn't immediately attempt to rise. He wasn't trying to stand, but he wasn't motionless, either, face twisting away, flushed with pain and guilt. As though he was just realizing what he'd done, or was trying to do. Realizing that Dean had seen it all, beneath the crushing weight of shame. His nails raked over his skin, raising angry red lines in their wake, as though he was absently trying to gouge at his veins while his eyes fought to restrain tears.
Dean hated the sight, because he knew it was merely a glimpse of the internal flaying Sam was subjecting himself to, his shame and revulsion eating him alive. It was a cycle he wanted to interrupt immediately, but… he couldn't afford to. It kept Sam temporarily stable amidst his instability, kept him bound in an invisible restraint. Dean was wary of the fact that Sam's blind drive to reach the demon could resume at any moment, and he didn't trust even Sam's self-loathing to deny the hunger for long. He didn't want to risk upsetting Sam's likely razor-thin control by trying to shake him free.
Still monitoring Sam carefully, Dean spared a glance toward the demon, who'd toppled his chair, fumbling to push itself away from the Winchesters, its face stolen in alarm. Dean scoffed and hastily crossed the distance, hoisting the demon back into the chair, shoving him firmly downward and ordering, "Don't move."
Sam's eyes had found the demon again, glazed in an almost predatory clarity, but he didn't shift, instead falling unnaturally still. The look wasn't lost on the demon, and it glanced between the brothers, looking to Dean for aid, as though he realized the older Winchester was his best safeguard from the crazed freak before him.
"What do you want?" the demon begged, "Do you want information? I'll—I'll tell you anything you want to know."
Dean snagged a short glass from where it should've been housed with the bottle of whiskey, approaching the demon as he exposed the blade of his knife.
The demon's brow furrowed as it noticed Dean's weapon—notably, not an angel blade, nor the demon-killing knife. Its panic didn't abate, but the confusion was clear on its face, though its pleading resumed, "Look, I can help you—I'm useful. just tell me what you want."
Dean ignored its pleas—it didn't know anything, else Crowley wouldn't have sent it. He pulled on the demon's shirt collar, frowning momentarily and pulling the shirt further to reveal the inch-wide holes in the demon's chest.
"That was just a misunderstanding," the demon assured, misreading Dean's observation as care. It meant the poor guy he was possessing was dead meat, but it didn't really matter. They couldn't afford to exorcise the demon anyway—let it crawl back to Crowley and spill how the Winchesters had drained its blood, how the taller one had gone utterly mad.
He jerked the demon's head to the side, bracing it against his shoulder, before slitting a thin line along the side of his neck and pressing the glass beneath the slow stream.
A sharp inhale from behind made him glance back, finding Sam's fists white knuckling the chair, head turned away, leg bouncing impatiently.
The denial was probably torture—the pace was pressing Dean's luck. He pressed the glass tighter to the demon's skin, the palm of his other hand pressed against the demon's cheek to both restrain and gag it. He grimaced at the spurt of blood filling the glass, the dark viscous liquid racing down the sides. Once he'd poured about a finger of it—he knew he should probably measure Sam's dose, but he didn't think Sam would abide such a delay—he released the demon and started carefully toward Sam.
To his credit, Sam still didn't stand—perhaps apprehensive that such a motion would only encourage Dean to delay further. He watched Dean's approach keenly, gaze fixed on the glass and the blood gently rocking inside.
With the caution of proffering food to a wild animal, Dean slowly lowered the glass toward his brother, his skin prickling with unease.
Sam's hand was shaky when he grasped the glass, to the extent that Dean thought he might spill it incidentally. But Sam guided it carefully to his mouth, not slow, but yet ginger in his pace—almost cradling it like something precious to be preserved. When it reached his lips, he didn't hesitate, draining it with the reverence and gratitude of a man offered water after days spent dying of thirst. He allowed the last few drops to fully drip into his mouth before he dared lower the glass, his hand trembling as he set it on the table.
His eyes met Dean's in a turmoil of emotion, not the least of which carried a plea. As though to beg Dean for more.
"Well, well, if this isn't an unexpected turn of events."
Dean snapped around to find a familiar man looming at the top of the stairs, his hands resting on the rails casually.
"Hello, boys," Crowley greeted with a smile, "You left your door unlocked."
"Sam," Dean's voice was low, but terse, "Get out of here."
A hazarded glance backward revealed Sam hadn't moved. His eyes were still clouded in hunger, dark blood staining the creases of his teeth. His eyes were tracing the blood leaking from the demon's neck. Dean wasn't sure Sam could move if he wanted to, a helpless captive to the allure.
"You're not looking so good, Samantha," Crowley remarked, descending the stairs unhurriedly. When he approached, his eyes flicked over Sam's mouth, then the glass on the table, and the cut along the demon's throat. He offered a noise of genuine surprise, turning back to Sam in disbelief; Dean's blood went cold at the clear realization on his face. "You're drinking demon blood again."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean positioned himself between the demon and his brother, shoulders stiff and tense.
Crowley cocked an eyebrow, as though disappointed in the feeble denial. "Is that so?" He made a show of glancing over Sam again—the Winchester's gaze a war between shame and a residual, desperate craving.
"He is," the demon restrained in the chair affirmed, fidgeting as he looked toward Crowley, "The freak drank my blood."
"Shut up," both Dean and Crowley chorused, albeit in differing tones.
Crowley tossed a flirtatious smile toward Dean, "Jinx."
"What do you want, Crowley?" Dean demanded, his little remaining patience wearing thin.
"Can't a king stop by to check on his favorite Winchester?" The demon looked toward Sam in apology, "Sorry Moose: I don't mess with Lucifer's toys. You know how he can get… territorial."
Sam's lip curled, his hands still shaky, eyes now sliding between the two demons.
"Start talking or I'm starting an exorcism," Dean warned, frustration fogging his brain. Why would Crowley just show up?
"Calm down," the demon waved a hand, "I told you—I wanted to check on you." When Dean scoffed, Crowley pointed toward his arm, "I wanted to see where we stood after our… summer vacation. Figured you couldn't be too upset, if you were asking for my help," he gestured toward the bound demon.
Dean's eyes narrowed, but he couldn't smell a lie. Crowley was worried Dean might blame him for either the Mark or for his becoming a demon, then? Worried he'd have a Mark of Cain powered Winchester gunning for him. Dean snorted softly. Luckily for the demon, they didn't have time to go pick fights, at the moment.
Crowley rested a hand on his demon's shoulder, his thumb brushing over the wound along its neck, then surveying the blood on his finger. Dean cursed beneath his breath, grateful that Sam was still merely watching—though his body was coiled as though to pounce at any moment. Crowley's taunts were tempting Sam's resistance—surely the demon didn't understand the extent of Sam's desperation. He might gouge easily at Sam's pride and dignity, but if he wasn't careful, Sam might try to gouge at his veins.
"I suppose you boys are also partially responsible for my recent… staffing problems, then?" he asked, the question clearly directed at Dean, though he continued to toy with the blood, rubbing it between his fingers as though to test the texture. Sam twitched.
Dean scowled—partially? "What do you mean?"
"Let's just say you've picked the perfect time to start targeting demons." Crowley's tone was drenched in sarcasm. "Cain's been rather busy too. Seems he blames me for pulling him out of retirement."
"Not our problem." Dean remarked with an indifferent shrug.
"You see—I think it is," Crowley patted the demon's head, "You didn't call me because you needed a kill for the Mark—you called me because you're desperate. You're having trouble finding demons, which, I presume is why your boy toy isn't here, and why Samantha looks strung out three ways to Sunday."
"You have eyes on Cain?" Both Crowley and Dean glanced back in subtle surprise at Sam. His voice was low, rough, as though blood still coated his throat, his eyes narrowed.
The demon king titled his head, "Not quite—the little demon genocide is making that… difficult."
"There are thousands upon thousands of demons," Sam retorted, "There's no way Cain's made a dent in your numbers—not without making international headlines."
"If you think herding demons is so easy, why don't you do it?" Crowley meandered about the room, sneering, "Of course, you might need a little more blood for that—which, I suppose, doesn't seem to be a problem for you anymore." Sam dropped his head, expression dark, apparently a prompt enough, "You'd sure make your dear old patron Azazel proud. Wonder what all those hunter friends of yours would think if they knew about your little… activities, though."
Sam's fists clenched and eyes flicked upward sharply.
Instantly, orange light flashed from the bound demon's eyes, and though its mouth parted wide, its scream was silent, stolen in the crackle of infernal energy. The body lurched, then slouched deep in the chair, unmoving.
Crowley's expression flickered as he watched the demon collapse, a rare hint of uncertainty crossing his face. His gaze shifted immediately to Sam, who met it with a look sharper than a blade, something dark in his eyes offering a challenge, or perhaps a threat or a promise.
Dean turned to Sam, his scowl darkening at his expression, but Sam didn't spare a single glance toward his brother, utterly ignoring the blatantly roiling irritation. Dean barely bit back a sharp rebuke when he realized Crowley was still privy to every word.
"Well, that was dramatic," Crowley noted as he straightened his coat, his tone level, but hinted with a modicum of wariness. "Here I was worried about your anger issues, Dean." He smirked, "Watching your family drama unfold is always so… entertaining. Someone should make a TV show."
"What do you want, Crowley?" Dean repeated, not bothering to restrain his anger toward him. Though at this point, he didn't really care so much for the answer; he just wanted the demon gone.
"Well, I'd be curious to know how Moose fell off the wagon, but I'll settle for a deal."
"We're not interested," Dean dismissed immediately, scoffing.
"You should be," Crowley replied smoothly, his confidence slick in the air, "You need demon blood. I can make getting that very easy, or very hard." He held Dean's gaze easily, inviting challenge, "Of course—you're welcome to keep searching on your own. I can see how well that's gone for you."
"And what do you get out of it?" Sam's gaze was skeptical, his eyes low, his voice still rough, but carrying a faint tremor—as did his hands, Dean noticed. He wasn't sure if Crowley caught either, but he didn't move to offer him a better view.
"You'll owe me one," Crowley returned slowly, a trace of delight at the notion tracing his words.
Dean glanced back toward Sam, jaw clenching.
"Relax," Crowley assured, "It'll be nothing you haven't done before."
Somehow, Dean didn't find it highly encouraging.
"Why don't you think on it?" Crowley shrugged indifferently, "But don't take too long—desperation doesn't suit you, Moose."
With that, he vanished in a blink. Dean cursed and released a heavy exhale, turning to Sam with a scowl fixed upon his face. Sam slumped in the demon's absence, the tremor of his body resuming visibly as his muscles relaxed.
"What were you thinking, Sam?" Dean flung a hand toward the body of the demon, still handcuffed, hanging limply in the chair. "Why?"
"Because I didn't have enough to kill Crowley," Sam muttered, his voice feeble, struggling to meet Dean's gaze when he'd held the demon king's with an unsettling intensity not one minute ago.
Dean recoiled slightly at the unexpected reply, but his aggravation didn't abate. "You can't use your powers. And you're not killing Crowley."
Sam didn't respond, instead attempting to push himself from the chair—except, he stumbled as soon as his weight shifted to his feet, and he grasped at the table for support.
Dean scowled; Sam hadn't been looking good, but he'd been able to walk. To stand. And he'd just had a dose of demon blood. That was supposed to ease his symptoms, not escalate them. "You okay?" he asked tautly, warily, brow still furrowed.
"I didn't mean to kill it," Sam admitted as he shakily raised his head, gaze sliding toward the inert body. "I just…" he shook his head, his breath catching, "It took more out of me than I thought."
Realization swept over Dean, his eyes flicking over the crimson stain on the glass. Sam's powers didn't come free. He'd spent his juice on killing the demon. Dean cursed. His schedule, feeble as it was, was shot to the abyss.
He wiped a hand over his face, his words not quite a question. "So you need more blood."
"I'm sorry, Dean," Sam's voice was thin like a wire and fragile as glass. His eyes, pink and watered, read sincerity and pain.
Dean gritted his teeth, then released an exhale, "Can you make it to your room?" He didn't want Sam in the room with a bleeding demon, even a dead one, for longer than he needed. Clearly, his impulse control wasn't operating at a high capacity at the moment. It seemed unnecessarily risky to tempt it. Him.
Sam nodded hesitantly, though his confidence wasn't overwhelming. He stumbled a few steps in test—clumsy, but with his pale grip on the table, he didn't fall.
Dean hated seeing him so weak, but he couldn't help but grimly think it was better than seeing him desperately trying to claw his way toward a demon to drain its blood. He cleared his throat, garnering a glance, though Sam notably fought to avoid another look toward the body. "Should I bring a syringe?" He tried to keep the question level, despite the seething emotions toward the thought of giving Sam more blood. Because, after the past week and a half… he hated it, but it had gotten easier. He still couldn't stand watching Sam take the stuff, but… he couldn't help but think he'd grown more numb to the thought.
"Doesn't really matter," Sam dismissed with a low, self-deprecating scoff.
Dean paused to look over him, then nodded acknowledgement, eyes skimming over the room in a resumed search for something better to hold the blood. "I'll bring it to you. Try to get some rest."
Sam inclined his head, stumbling onward a few steps before he noted, "You, uh… you might want to take whatever you can from… it. Crowley's not gonna let another demon near us, if he can help it."
Dean's jaw worked, but he said nothing. They'd deal with Crowley another day. If they were lucky, Castiel might find one before Crowley put all the demons underground.
Apparently reading Dean's expression as affirmation, Sam began to turn back toward the hall, yet still lingered, his voice tentative, quiet, "Dean… the vessel. Did I…?"
"No," Dean shook his head, tone equally low, "Dead on arrival."
Sam nodded, and Dean thought he might have caught a flicker of relief upon his face, though it might have been chased by skepticism. Still, after only a brief pause, he gripped the wall and stumbled onward, looking like he might collapse at any step.
Dean didn't move until he was out of sight, though a part of him thought he should guide Sam's every step to his room. He wasn't sure if Sam would take it as an insult. He wasn't sure if it really mattered.
When Sam's footfalls faded, Dean turned back toward the lifeless body and grimaced, snagging the empty glass whiskey bottle and kneeling at the demon's side. It was a mere necessity, he reminded himself as he deepened the cut along the demon's neck, aligning the bottle's mouth with its stream. They couldn't afford to waste it.
The process was mechanical—Dean felt distant, like an observer to his rough efficiency, even as he drew another incision and jostled the body to encourage it hasten the flow, despite its non-beating heart. He couldn't purge from his mind the desperate look in Sam's eyes, the hitched plea in his tone, the thoughtless abandon in which he attempted to reach the vile substance. How helpless he'd become. The thing the blood reduced him to.
And yet, after a dozen minutes, Dean straightened, his movements methodical, and started down the hall to offer Sam another taste of the thing that controlled him.