The signal hadn't moved. In the seven hours that, legally, probably should've been eight, the signal hadn't budged an inch. Zophiel's messages were all the same—silence. Radio silence, not a peep of a prayer.
"Two streets down," Sam pointed, his gaze flicking from the phone to the windshield.
Dean gritted his teeth, not bothering to slow until he'd reached the street, when he screeched to a halt. He snatched the phone from Sam's hands and practically leapt from the car, even while it still bounced to diffuse the momentum.
Sam followed quickly behind, though Dean was barely aware of his presence as he scanned the dark alley. The faint glow of an eerie, cloud-ridden sunrise cast long shadows across the walls from the alley's entrance. Dean's gaze flicked up and down from his phone, and he cursed.
The signal overlayed their location—and yet, the alley was starkly, undeniably empty.
"It says right here," Dean shouted, swiveling about in verification. Registering the dumpsters lining the brick walls, he crossed the distance and prodded up the lid, nose wrinkling. Only when he stepped away from the stench of garbage did he catch the putrid tang in the air.
He spun around to Sam, who met his gaze, met the question lurking there, and nodded. He caught it too, then. But it was stale, though Sam shifted uncomfortably regardless. His eyes skated to a dark stain dried on the pavement, to its reddish hue.
A glint of metal caught the light, and Dean immediately started toward it, brushing aside a wrinkled, damp newspaper sheet to reveal a familiar cellphone, though its screen was cracked.
"Sam," he slid the phone unlocked, frowning at the notifications. The half dozen unread messages from Sam were no surprise. Yet, an unknown number topped the list, bearing nothing more than an address.
"Sam," he repeated, glancing at Sam, who was kneeling beside a dumpster, his back toward his brother. "Find something?"
Sam shook his head, rising, "No… nothing. You?"
"Yeah," Dean twisted the phone's screen toward his brother, shoving it toward his face, "Where's this?"
Sam's eyes skated over the message, then the timestamp, brow furrowing momentarily, "Uh… not far, I think."
"Let's go," Dean didn't spare another pause, stalking back to the Impala. Sam jogged after him, sliding into the car and fumbling to assemble directions. Dean tried not to think of the hours spent in a frenzied drive. Hours, since Castiel had prayed for aid. Hours, since the angel had called with the warning that he was dying. With Castiel's failing grace… how long…?
"This is some kind of trap," Sam noted, his tone low, gaze wary.
Dean's voice was terse, "And?"
Sam shook his head as though to dismiss the prompt of his warning, then clenched his jaw tight in frustration. Dean's gaze barely grazed over him, but it was apparently invitation enough for him to vocalize his thoughts, "This is on us, Dean."
"He said he was fine," Dean countered, voice thick with anger.
"We both knew he wasn't," Sam refuted readily, looking at his phone, "Five miles."
"If he couldn't handle it, he would've said so," Dean insisted.
"Would he?"
Dean gritted his teeth, his mind a cocoon of fire and smoke. "What do you want me to say?" he glanced at his brother, his words biting, "That it's your fault for needing demon blood? That it's mine for sending him out alone to get it?"
Sam winced, turning his head—a signal the retort had been enough to get him to back off.
What was Sam trying to prove? Of course it was their fault—of course Cas wouldn't have said anything, of course they had pushed him too far. He was struggling, suffering—it was plain as day. And Dean had ignored it, shoved it aside, dismissed it, because he needed his support, because he needed him to be okay.
It felt like they were all slipping like melting snow on a mountain. And if one of them lost their grip, willing or not, they'd all careen into a churning, unstoppable avalanche.
Right now… he couldn't tell if the thrumming in his ears was the mere anxious pulse of his heartbeat, or whether it was the thunder of snow prepared to upheave the land below.
He scowled as he finally took note of their surroundings, "How far?"
"It's just ahead," Sam looked up, tense.
"Check the address again," he ordered. Houses lined in a row, mostly two-story, mirrors in all but mundane details.
"This is it," Sam replied tightly, feebly, nodding to a cyan house. Bright, cheery, inviting. Pristine, innocuous. A row of blooming violets lining the garden. A clean white trim framing every window and door.
They didn't have time to get jerked around in some demon's game. But then again… what choice did they have?
He stepped out of the car, glancing over his brother. "Sam…"
"Dean," he replied tightly, eyes thinned in wary defiance. He wasn't going to stay behind, though there were almost certainly a slew of demons inside. Sam was right—it was a trap… but a trap for what? Were they Abaddon sympathizers? Seeking vengeance for the death of their would-be queen, exacting the price in her killer's blood? Would this be one more notch of guilt on Dean's long ledger?
He held his brother's gaze cautiously, even as he moved toward the trunk, "You going to be okay in there?" The unexpected, sudden departure had rendered Sam once again a few unfortunate hours behind on his schedule. Maybe they'd secure the last of his doses with the blood of the demons inside—though it might only really matter if Castiel was still alive.
Sam forced a nod—his silence wasn't exactly comforting. Still, Dean couldn't afford to waste time trying to convince him to stay behind or struggling to restrain Sam or knock him out cold. Frankly… he also needed the backup. He just hoped he wouldn't regret it.
Snatching flasks of holy water and an angel blade from the trunk, and stuffing his handgun into his waistband, he turned his full attention toward the cherry red front door and stalked toward it, his brother just behind, the demon-killing knife gripped tight in his hands. With a steady inhale, he tried the handle, unsure what he expected when it gave way and swung open, unlocked. He shared a glance with Sam then stepped inside, his steps wary. The foyer was empty—the house was quiet. His brow furrowed deeper, his confusion and apprehension mounting. Maybe this was the wrong address. Maybe whoever had texted Castiel's phone was long gone. Maybe they were just trying to lure the Winchesters away. Dean gritted his teeth and pressed further into the house, clearing the kitchen hastily. He almost resigned to leave—not that he had much of a plan regarding where else to search for a dying angel—but a final look toward Sam made him pause, the decision dying on his tongue.
Dean followed his paling gaze toward the stairs, then murmured, "Stay behind me." Gingerly, he began treading upward, trying to keep every pace light, though the creak of the wooden steps betrayed him.
A dim light filtered through the crack in the doorway at the end of the hall, accompanied by the soft scrape of footsteps. His grip on the angel blade tightened, and he flit carefully toward the side of the door, peering through the thin crack along the hinges. Within, a man craned his neck to attempt a better view of the doorway, tossing an angel blade absently in his hand. A few others stood about the room, though Dean's view was limited.
Swiveling over his shoulder, he held up four fingers, beginning to fold them one at a time in a silent countdown.
"I wouldn't," a female voice from behind caused Dean to spin around, weapon flaring through the air, poised to strike.
A woman stood just out of reach, her movements near-silent, gaze piercing and calculating as she called, "Liam, your guests have arrived."
The door swung open fully, revealing a man garbed in slim attire, speckled with something dark that Dean could only presume to be blood.
A smile split the man's face, even as his eyes flashed black, "About time. I was beginning to think you weren't going to show. That I overestimated your care for your angel pet."
"Where is he?" Dean gritted out, the Mark burning on his arm as he barely restrained it from sinking the blade into the demon's neck.
"Woah, easy there, cowboy," Liam raised his hands, stepping aside, "Go ahead, take a look."
Dean pushed into the room, his feet stalling at the sight before him. Castiel lay on the bed, dark blood staining his shirt and trench coat in a vast blotch, its claim spreading to the sheets. His eyes didn't part, though his chest rose faintly, laboriously. His skin was gaunt and drenched in sweat, his body limp.
"I'd say we didn't lay a finger on him, but…" the demon trailed off, shrugging, "I really thought we were gonna lose him for a while, but he's been hanging in there."
The sight was so jarring that Dean barely even noticed the others in the room. The woman standing against the window, another man at the bedside, a wad of scarlet-blotched, once-white towels wadded at his feet. The child that perched at the edge of the bed beside Castiel, who couldn't be older than ten, his boyishly shaggy blonde hair a stark contrast to the cruel smirk contorting his face. He gripped a large kitchen knife in his tiny hand, resting the pommel against his thigh, his gaze on the Winchesters, almost taunting.
"Cas?" Dean's voice was both thinned in worry and unease and thick with rage.
The angel didn't reply, not that Dean should have probably expected him to. It was about as bad as Dean had ever seen him. A soldier of heaven, empowered with the very strength of the divine, lifeless as blood drained from his body in an agonizing drool—helpless as the humans he'd fallen from grace to protect.
"He's alive," the demon dismissed, "Though it's been a little touch and go."
"What do you want?" Sam demanded through gritted teeth, his grip flexing on the demon-killing knife as he stood at Dean's side, warily positioning himself to better their defensible posture.
"We wanted to see you for ourselves," the woman at the window replied, her gaze fixed on Sam, "We wanted to see if it was true."
Sam's expression fell from anger-spiked worry to rising dread and visible discomfort. Still, he tried to mask his voice in mere irritation, "See what?"
"That you're back on our team," the demon grinned, piercing Sam's weak attempted ignorance with ease, clearly relishing the way he shifted anxiously.
Dean ground his jaw. Had Crowley talked? Had Cas? It didn't matter, he supposed. The demons knew.
He hated the way their eyes raked over his brother. The delight, the interest, the reverence. The threads of hope. Of claim.
"He's not," Dean asserted, stepping closer to the demon, grip tightening.
"Oh really?" the one at Castiel's side cocked its head, waving its blade, before sliding the edge along his wrist—deep. Blood immediately welled in the wound, seeping across his arm and dripping to the ground as the demon extended it toward Sam in clear invitation.
In the single glance toward his brother, at the flicker he saw cross his face, something in Dean snapped. Before he was even aware that he'd moved, he was shoving the kid aside and lunging for the demon nearest Cas. In another world, he could hear Sam shouting his name—a demand for him to stop, probably—but the angel blade was already sinking into the demon's chest. A grim satisfaction swarmed his gut at the brief spark of shock and terror in the fractions of seconds before its face lit in a brilliant orange.
Glimpsing movement in his peripheral, he whipped around, blade raised and ready, to find the possessed kid approaching, his kitchen knife almost a mirror to Dean's angel blade.
The Mark sang for him to slay the demon—the precise strike played out in his mind, practically drawing itself in the air. But he bit down its sear. The demon was a coward. He'd chosen his vessel intentionally, Dean thought. It'd be weaker, clumsier, but it had bought the demon what he wanted—hesitation. As the demon danced another step closer, Dean took one back, positioning himself in front of Castiel. A quick scan revealed the other demons had assumed wary, curious stances—none close enough, yet. Sam had raised the demon-killing knife, forcing some distance, while he reached into his jacket—for holy water, Dean presumed. Smart; they could certainly use it.
His mind whirring beneath the angry fog of the Mark, Dean inhaled a steady breath and locked eyes with the kid demon, enunciating as quickly as he could, "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—"
Adjoined with a scoff and a shake of his head, the kid brought the kitchen knife to his throat, a cruel smile on his lips, "Not so fast, Dean."
The exorcism almost immediately gave way to a low curse, and Dean prayed holy water would be enough to make the demon jump meatsuits. Demon hosts were just a casualty of possession, he knew—and they didn't have a choice but to kill the demon inside. But… this was a life he wasn't sure he was prepared to take. Still… he gritted his teeth and shifted his feet. Maybe he could restrain the kid before the demon could kill it, force an exorcism while Sam watched his six. And if he couldn't… it was better the blood was on his hands, instead of Sam's.
Yet, before he could lunge forward, the kid's face snapped upward and his lips parted in a scream as black smoke poured from his mouth, eyes rolling back. As the kid collapsed on the floor, the smoke sank beside him before vanishing in a crackle of brimstone.
Dean was slow to turn, his body beginning to shake with the roiling emotion at what he knew he'd see.
Sam's arm was raised, tracing the descent of the demon, his face taut in concentration. A bead of blood wet on his lips, a flask in his other hand—though not the one of holy water Dean had perhaps hoped to see.
It was like he'd been ripped back a half dozen years. Back to when Sam snuck around in the dark, consorting with a demon, lying through his teeth. When he ignored Dean's warnings—and all good sense—and toyed with the gifts their parents' killer had bestowed him. Watching the flicker of light cross his brother's eyes that just might have been a flash of yellow. Dean thought he might have glimpsed a faint trace of delight, as though he was relishing the strength, the power.
The Mark burned in his arm, his lip curled, but he held his tongue, stayed his hand.
When Sam's eyes skated inevitably to his brother, he could only guess what was swarming behind Dean's eyes. Disgust seemed to conquer horror, hatred and disdain clawing in to stake their claim. It wasn't necessarily a foreign or novel look—and it wasn't the first time it had been turned upon him. And yet, it dredged up a tide of shame and guilt as sharp and swift as ever. Couldn't Dean see they didn't have another choice? It wasn't that he wanted this. It wasn't about the taste of raw power. It wasn't about the control. The shudder in his veins. Knowing he could bring the demons to their knees, knowing he could drag them back to hell while they futilely struggled to resist with tooth and nail. Hearing the screams of their tortured souls as he tightened his grip. Knowing he was untouchable. That he didn't have to feel helpless anymore.
It wasn't about that—any of it. It was about the kid whose life he would save. The kid whose blood would be on their hands if a demon's wasn't on Sam's lips.
He tried to quell the revel of fire in his veins, refocusing on the demons surrounding them—the demons that hadn't moved more than a few inches, their grips still tight on their weapons, but their faces not mirroring the sharp lethality of their blades.
"Dean," Sam cleared his throat, voice low, "Get Cas." His words carried a thread of desperation, an uncertain hope Dean might just listen.
Dean's face was curled tight in a scowl, eyes flicking between the angels and the demons—torn. His body was poised to dart forward, his fingers clenched white around his angel blade.
"I'm right behind you," Sam added, raising the demon-killing knife as he monitored the demon's now slow, almost taunting approach.
Whether prompted by the promise or by an intense awareness of Castiel's ever-declining treacherous state, Dean grunted in frustration and hastily swung around, looping his arm beneath Castiel's back and beginning to quickly drag him from the room. The demon who had been looming in the doorway stepped aside, smirking as Dean glanced back to ensure Sam followed—and he did, though forcibly slower, his focus turned largely toward the room of converging demons.
Their silence was uneasy. Their gazes, a blend of taunt and lust and delight. Like they were starving and beholding a feast set out for them… or maybe such a thought was a mere projection.
"We've waited for you for a long time," a demon began, her words touched in something not far from irritation. Impatience, perhaps.
They were too close, now. He couldn't slip out the door, not freely, not without one of them reaching him first. Not that he was sure what they'd even do when they did. They might kill him, once they realize he wouldn't give them whatever it was that they wanted, but… before that, they might funnel their blood down his throat until his eyes went black.
"It's time to step up," another adjoined, eyes sliding over Sam, as though piercing through the flesh to gauge what wretched excuse for a soul lied beneath unseen. "Like Azazel promised you would."
Hell, they were too close, now—why did the heavy cloud of sulfur have to be so bitterly sweet? He couldn't breathe, not fully, not without the tang of their blood tantalizing his mouth in a wretched, vision-blurring fantasy. It was still fresh on his tongue—as fresh as blood congealing in an open flask in an alley could be. How much sweeter it would taste sprung raw from the source.
"You don't have to live a lie anymore, Winchester," the closest demon's smile was as wide as it was unsettling, "We know what you are. You know what you are." He tilted his head, voice soft in sympathy and hard in resolve, "It's time to stop pretending you're something else."
His gaze flicked up, and all he saw was the blackness of the abyss in the eyes staring back. The demon's eyes slid downward, and he traced their descent to the tip of its angel blade, scraping lightly against the demon's forearm—a motion slow and inviting, reminiscent of those Ruby had once ensnared him with.
The blood that welled was shy, slow, furtive—bashfully collecting in small drops along the demon's skin, its scent a tortuous melody in the air. The first bead fell to the floor, its plunge catching Sam's breath, but garnering not a twitch more. Sam's eyes climbed back to the demon's face, where he found a taunt, perhaps, or a question—a challenge?—as though asking if he'd allow more to drip to waste. Though he didn't turn his gaze to glimpse it, he knew the moment the second drop parted from the demon's flesh and sank into the plush carpet.
It wrought a tremor through his body. The dredges of the flask—whatever Castiel had evidently managed to collect—hadn't been enough. He wasn't sure if he could exorcise all five demons at once—not without a little more.
Just a little more...
His hands were moving before he could stop them, snagging the demon's wrist before he might revoke his offer. He felt the demon's smile without looking up, for his gaze couldn't truly depart that perfect, crimson bead. His hand shook as he slowly raised the demon's arm, the blood ever-closer.
Something inside him screamed for him to stop, to shove the demon aside and flee. But he could hardly hear the muted cry, for something else inside screamed louder.
He wasn't sure if he'd done it, or if some impure spirit had possessed him, but suddenly, he had brought the demon's wrist to his lips.
Yet, he hesitated, the stench of the coppery sulfur filling his senses with every trembling breath. As though whatever rash impulse that had lurched his limbs into action refused to seal his fall—as though it aimed to ensure his demise would rest firmly on his conscious. As though forcing him to make the decision himself.
He closed his eyes, and he drank.
It was warm—it was alive, like it should be. Not cold, congealing, sometimes tainted with the rusty tang of old, leftover whiskey. He could still feel the pulse in the blood, the hellish life in the veins. He could distantly hear the demon's almost sneering laugh of victory, though he tightened his grip on its arm to control its corresponding quiver.
Somewhere deep within, that quiet voice had contorted to a despairing lament. A well of hatred and dismay and remorse and shame. He curled his lip, trying to shove down the tedious emotions, even as irritation swept in in their place.
The blood was too slow—the cut hardly deep enough. He needed more.
Faintly, he felt the demon loosely attempt to pull away, like one might from a hug that overstayed its invitation, and after a moment, Sam obliged, releasing his grip, gaze snapping upward.
"Well," the demon smirked, rubbing its arm where Sam's hand had clenched it like an iron manacle, "How was that f—?"
The demon's words were cut off in a gurgling spray of blood as a fountain erupted from its throat. Sam didn't wait to survey the reactions of the demons beside him—didn't wait for more blood to spill to the floor. He lunged for the demon, wrapping an arm around its shoulder and head to brace the body as life rapidly fled from its veins. Without pause, he closed his lips around the gaping wound, beginning to suck down pint after pint.
Everything about it was the opposite of pure. And yet, there was something pure in its depravity.
He wasn't sure anything in his life had ever felt so right as this. Except, maybe, the moment he'd said yes to Lucifer. It was like his body had been primed for this very purpose. With the euphoria of the blood crashing through every synapse, he couldn't quite remember why he'd resisted it.
Even as he felt the body's last breath quake from its ruptured throat, he'd never felt so alive.
His eyes slid open, and his brow furrowed as he realized he was no longer surrounded—at least, not so tightly. He felt the blood slick on his face, sticky halfway down his shirt, staining his hands, his arms. Some of it had probably found its way into his hair.
He turned slowly, finding the demons at the borders of the room, a few near the door, the others near the window. Most of their expressions were wary—uncertain. As he tilted his head, he suddenly felt one attempt to lurch from its meatsuit.
His hand snapped upward, clenching tight into a fist, and his will stretched further, spearing the demon's writhing soul and forcing it down the gullet of the man it tried to flee. Even as he secured his hold on the coward, he expanded his grip to the others, immobilizing them in place. He knew they sensed it immediately, for they wriggled against his binding. And yet, not one stole an inch.
He fixed his attention on the coward, crossing the distance with a growing grin as he realized they were truly helpless, paralyzed beneath his will. That their blood was free for the taking, and nothing could bar it from him.
The demon's fear was almost a tangible cloud in the air. Sam wondered if it'd flavor its blood.
With another swift jab of the knife, he freed the demon's blood from its veins, sealing his lips around the fount before more of its precious blood could escape.
Every swallow seemed to squelch the nagging sense of shame further and further away, seemed to solidify his control. The demons couldn't even part their mouths to spout a taunt, waiting at his mercy until their blood would be put to better use.
He wasn't sure how long he drank—nor how much. Maybe he was nearing a gallon. And yet, he wasn't ready to stop—not anytime soon. Not that it mattered. There were plenty of demons to drain. He could take his time. Enjoy it. After all, why rush? They couldn't blink if he didn't want them to; they weren't going anywhere.
He let the rapture steal him away, finally allowing himself to get lost in its scarlet depths, as though there were nothing else but him and the blood.
And then, without warning, something yanked him around by the shoulder—harsh and surprising enough to dislodge his grip on the demon's savaged neck. In the unseeing blur as his head snapped around, he felt his power coil internally, as though readying to toss aside the nuisance.
Only… it was Dean staring back. Glaring, perhaps, might be more accurate.
Sam's scowl dismantled from his face almost immediately, the irritation met with sudden fracturing shame and shock. A part of him entertained roiling annoyance at the interruption, urging him to follow through and cast aside his brother to resume indulging in what he'd resisted for so long. In what he deserved. In what he needed. The other struggled to comprehend what he'd done, what he was doing, of what Dean must think of the wretched monster he'd returned to find in the place of his brother.
Dean's scowl wasn't so quick to disappear. While Sam froze, torn in helpless indecision, Dean didn't seem to share the immobility.
His fist snapped fast and heavy into Sam's face, his other hand gripping Sam's shirt to prevent him from cascading to the floor with the force of the blow.
The punch—though perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise—caught Sam off guard, his vision a blur of black and red, his thoughts impossibly more scrambled than before.
He had no chance to form a reply—not in words, not in apologies, not in a mirrored response—before another punch rang his skull violently. The grip on his shirt vanished, and Sam collapsed to the floor, blearily struggling to regain any awareness as his sight offered little but a dark ocean of swirling, hazy shapes. It was a struggle to maintain a thought—he wasn't sure he could. He certainly couldn't coordinate one to action.
Perhaps it was excusable given his dizzy blindness or tangled thoughts, but the next blow somehow still carried another added weight of surprise. His skull skipped across the ground; there was certainly no salvaging this carpet, given the blood soaked deep and wide. Maybe they should just drench the entire thing in blood, then—at least it'd match. Of course, Sam might have killed the owners… frankly, he couldn't be sure.
So much for saving people.
To his credit, the following punch wrought no shock, but he thought he could hear the blaring ring of the stars as his head rattled against the ground. He could practically taste the guilt on his tongue. He wondered how many punches it'd take to make right what he'd done. He'd probably have to wait until the Cage's eternity for that.
As the next strike landed, it occurred to him that eternity might be even closer than he thought. And that, given everything… maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. That maybe it was for the best.
With another, the world blinked out, and everything went quiet.