Fic: But if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing changed at all?
Length: about 8000 words
Rating: R for language
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel
Spoilers: Through season 9
Synopsis: Dean's no longer a demon, but he still needs to be saved. Sequel to Where do we begin (the rubble or our sins)? You should read that one first. (You'll notice I accidentally gave Cas his wings back in that fic. Please pretend that didn't happen.) Once again, the title is from Pompeii by Bastille.
I know everyone else is watching 10.10 right now, but it wanted to post this before it's completely Kripke'd.
THEN
Dean wakes up on the floor of the office, stiff and cold and utterly alone. What the fuck? Why did Sam and Cas leave him? He slowly pulls himself to his feet and ventures out into the dim interior of the warehouse. "Sam?" he calls. "Cas?" There is no response, but he hears a voice in one dark corner. Dean heads for the voice, and turns around a corner of stacked boxes just in time to see Sam, standing in front of a chained demon, draw a knife across his palm and oh, Jesus, no, not this, this wasn't supposed to happen. "Sam!" he yells. "Stop! What are you doing?"
Sam looks across the empty space to Dean, his expression a combination of pity and remorse. "I'm sorry, Dean. You're never going to be cured. I've got to close Hell for your sake. This is the only way I can save you."
Dean's hands clench into fists, but there's no one he can punch. "You promised, dammit! You said we'd either both be alive or we'd both be dead!" But Sam ignores him. He claps his bleeding hand over the demon's mouth and mutters a phrase in Latin.
Suddenly Cas is next to Dean, watching impassively. "Cas?" Dean cries. "Can't you stop him?"
The angel doesn't look away from Sam as he shakes his head. "I can, but I won't. You're going to Hell if he doesn't do this. I promised I wouldn't stop him."
"I'm going to Hell?" Dean stammers. "You couldn't cure me?"
Now Cas turns to Dean and fixes him with a cold blue stare that makes him feel like a bug pinned to a board. "Yes, I cured you this time. But you know it's not permanent. One way or another, Dean, you will always choose the path that leads you to Hell. This is the only way Sam can save you."
"No, Cas, please. I won't. I promise." Dean grabs the collar of his coat, but suddenly it's empty, as empty as it was when he fished it out of the reservoir after the Leviathans. He turns back to Sam, who is still chanting in Latin. "No, Sam!" he shouts. "Stop! Please!"
Sam doesn't look away from his demon, but his chant changes. "Dean," he says. "Dean, it's okay." It's not okay, it's not okay at all. But Sam keeps repeating, "Dean, it's okay."
Dean wakes with a gasp and he's in his own room, in his own bed, with his own brother gently shaking him by the shoulder. "Dean," he says. "It's okay. You're dreaming."
Oh, Jesus. Please let this be true. Let everything be okay. Dean sits up and eyes Sam carefully. He looks a hell of a lot better than he did the last time he saw him. Of course, their lives are just fucked up enough that this means Dean's immediate thought is he must be dead. "Sammy?" he says, his voice hoarse. "Am I. Are you. Are we alive?"
Sam grins. "Yeah. We're alive."
Dean's alive and Sam's alive and that means it worked. He collapses back into his pillow. "You did it. You fucking did it."
Sam looks happier than Dean's seen him in... months? Years? "We did it. How do you feel?"
How does Dean feel? That's a good question. He closes his eyes and takes an inventory. He feels alive. A little stiff and sore. Thirsty. Hungry. Kind of smelly. And - he holds his right arm up for inspection - still Marked. The sight of the Mark makes his heart lurch a tiny bit, makes him stop and listen for that voice that's been whispering in his ear for months, but it's silent. "I'm good, man. I'm really good. What about you? You look a lot better." Now that his eyes are adjusting to the light, he can see that Sam still looks a little battered, with cuts and scrapes and a fading black eye (I did that, he thinks guiltily, I did all of that to you), but he still looks better than he did at the end of their eight hour ordeal. Sam stands up and stretches, and Dean suddenly realizes he's probably been sitting next to the bed for a very long time. "How long was I out?" he asks.
"You were actually unconscious for the better part of a day," Sam says, rolling the kinks out of his neck. "Then you came around and started waking up for a few minutes at a time, but I imagine you don't remember any of those. You've been out for about a day and a half." He pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Cas had to leave once you were out of the woods. I told him I'd let him know when you were good and awake."
"Had to leave?" Dean knows he's got no right to expect to be at the top of Castiel's to-do list, but still, he would have liked it if he'd been here. On the other hand, this means Dean has some time before he has to apologize for whatever he's done. And when he starts to think about what he's done, it's like he's toeing the edge of an abyss. So no, he's in no hurry to do that - to think about the things he's done, let alone apologize for them. And maybe Cas is in no hurry to see him again. In fact, that makes a lot of sense.
"So, he's, uh. Kind of mad at me, I guess."
"Healing you took a lot out of him," Sam explains, without looking up from his phone. "He's only at about half power. And he recovers faster in Heaven, so he's spending as much time there as possible."
"Okay. That doesn't really answer my question."
Sam finishes his text and gives him a reassuring smile. "Cas isn't angry at you."
"I killed angels, Sam," Dean says. "His brothers and sisters." Dean doesn't deserve his forgiveness.
Sam shrugs. "Yes, and he almost killed your brother, and you forgave him. It's okay, Dean. He knows that wasn't really you."
Just like it wasn't really Sam killing Kevin. But Dean's not going to make that comparison. There are enough of his sins spread out here in front of him; no need to dig that one up. He sighs, staring up at the ceiling. "It's not just angels, you know. I killed hunters. I killed civilians." He killed people for bad reasons and for no reason at all, and he liked it.
"Hey," says Sam. "Look at me." Looking at Sam is a little too hard right now, so Dean keeps staring at the ceiling. The ceiling doesn't judge, doesn't have any expectations, can't be disappointed. He never tried to kill the fucking ceiling.
"Yes, the demon did some pretty bad things," Sam continues. "But that wasn't you, Dean. And nothing the demon did is ever going to cancel out the people you've saved, okay? Nothing."
"Sam," Dean says. "Please don't talk about the demon like it's a third person. It was me, okay? I was the fucking demon. No one riding me, no one wearing my meat suit, no one pulling my strings. Just me."
"Then what do you call that?" says Sam, holding up Dean's Marked arm. "A freckle? This changed you, Dean."
Dean frowns at the Mark. "Yeah, and it's gonna change me again if I don't get rid of it."
"And that's why we're getting rid of it," says Sam. Like it's easy as that. Dean turns his attention to the ceiling again, because that's all he can handle right now.
///
THEN
It's two days before Castiel has a chance to return to the bunker. Sam has warned him that Dean is wallowing in guilt, berating himself for his actions under the influence of the Mark. So he is surprised that the first words he hears from Dean are not an apology, or even gratitude for saving his life, but a question.
"Cas, what happened to the other demon Sam was curing?"
"Sam didn't tell you?"
"He told me he healed him and let him go. But he's lying"
Castiel pauses to consider this. It's not a lie, but it's a half-truth, and Sam surely had a reason for telling it. "Why do you think he's lying?" he says.
"Dammit, Cas. I know him. I know when he's lying. And I know you know the truth. So spill it."
Sam didn't ask him not to tell Dean. There must be some reason he chose not to, but Castiel can't think of what it would be.
"He's not lying to you," he says. "He did cure the demon, and send it on its way. But it didn't leave the bunker. While we were caring for you, it took his knife and cut its own throat."
Dean blanches. "He killed himself."
"Yes," Castiel confirms. "I do not know why."
"I do," says Dean quietly. "I know what that feels like."
///
THEN
Sam stands in the middle of the warehouse office, holding the lit match, his eyes bright with excitement. "I can fix it," he says. "I've figured out how to fix it."
"Oh yeah?" says the demon. He steps closer to Sam, unaware of the devil's trap above him, and Dean grins, because Sam's a smart son of a bitch, and his plan worked. Except. There is no devil's trap. This time, there's only Sam and the demon, and Dean helplessly watching. He tries to shout a warning to Sam, but he can't speak; there's pressure against his chest and he can't speak or breathe or move, all he can do is stand there and watch as the demon smiles and says "can't fix what ain't broken, Sammy," swiping with an ancient blade. Sam gasps and goes down in a heap, clutching at his bleeding throat, mouth forming silent words, eyes growing dim as the pool of blood around him gets larger and larger.
Dean jerks awake, his heart pumping with adrenaline and fear and something, something else, something that isn't fear or horror, something closer to... excitement.
///
THEN
"I found something," says Dean, tossing a newspaper on the table that barely misses Sam's oatmeal.
"In a newspaper?" Sam squints at the paper in confusion.
"Of course, in a newspaper. The same place we find most of our hunts?"
Oh. A hunt. Sam sighs. "I thought we were going to concentrate on the Mark."
Dean flips a chair around and straddles it backwards, his fingertips nervously drumming on his thighs. "I know, I know, but dammit. I've got to do something. I can't just sit around like this. I need to get back to normal, Sam. I need to hunt. I need to - "
Dean stops, but Sam can hear the unspoken words hanging in the air. I need to kill something. And yeah, that's the whole problem. Dean's restless and twitchy with need, and killing something will be like scratching a mosquito bite - it will only make it itch worse.
"I need to do something good," Dean says. "Everything I've done since I got the Mark has been bad. I've gotta change that."
Crap. Sam understands guilt as well as anyone, and he knows how heavily Dean's Mark-fueled acts are weighing on him. But he also knows what will happen when Dean kills again. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says tentatively. "Let's just work on the Mark, like we planned, okay?"
Dean stands up, hands clenching into fists, and for a second Sam's sure he's going to pick a fight, and he tries to determine whether it would be helpful or not to serve as his punching bag, and really, how they hell did they get here? Why is should I let my brother punch me to vent some aggression, or is that only going to make him worse a choice he has to make?
Then Dean's fists relax and he frowns, visibly deflated. "Fine. I'm going down to the shooting range. Don't want to get rusty."
Sam watches him leave and desperately hopes paper targets don't count as a kill.
///
THEN
Dean wanders through cold storerooms, his fingertips lightly trailing along the edges of ancient trunks and dusty boxes. He's not looking as much as he is feeling his way, listening to a voice just on the edge of his consciousness. It's here, it says. The Blade is here. You can feel it, can't you? And he can. It's a subtle but unmistakeable sensation, like knowing someone else is in a dark room. The Blade is here, somewhere in the Bunker, and he's being drawn to it.
There, the voice whispers. That wooden box, on the bottom shelf. It's not as dusty as the others. Dean hears a click as he lifts the box off the shelf, and he knows Sam has set some kind of trap, some kind of alarm, but it doesn't matter. He picks the lock easily and opens the box to reveal the Blade, his Blade, and he lifts it reverently.
"Don't, Dean." Sam is behind him. "Put it back."
Dean closes his eyes and feels the heft of the Blade, the warm familiar shape of its handle. The Mark tingles with anticipation. All he has to do it swing it. Pivot and swing, holding the Blade at arm's length. He pictures the look of shock on Sam's face as it tangles in his shirt, or his hair, or whatever is standing between the Blade and his flesh. He imagines pushing, thrusting, slicing, gouging. The warm coppery smell of blood. All he has to do is swing it.
When he wakes, he can almost hear its echo. All you have to do is swing it. It takes him a few minutes to remember why he wouldn't want to.
By the time it whispers during his waking hours, it feels normal again. Normal and powerful and encouraging and right, so right.
Ask him, it says.
"Hey, Sammy," he says lightly. "Where's the Blade?"
"What?"
"The Blade. Where is it? What did you do with it?"
Sam hesitates just a second too long. "Why?"
"Just curious." Dean shrugs, cool and casual. "It's a dangerous thing. Needs to be secure."
"Cas. Cas has it. I asked him to put it somewhere safe."
"Did you."
"Yeah, I did. Is that a problem?"
"Nope. No problem at all." Dean smiles.
He's lying.
But that's okay. So is Dean.
///
THEN
Sam sits at the library table, surrounded by books and notes. He's on the phone, but he glances up when Dean walks in and gives him a quick shake of his head. No good news here.
"No, I'm okay. Just, you know. Another dead end. It's frustrating. But we'll get there. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Sam ends his call with a sigh and plants his elbows on the library table, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. Dean knows he hadn't had a lot of hope in this particular lead, but it was the only one they had, and it turned out to be useless. Dean's starting to think the whole thing is useless. Sam isn't there yet; Sam still has hope, and every failure breaks him a little bit more.
"No luck on Cas's end, I take it," says Dean.
"Nope." Sam's silent for a minute. "But we'll find something. I promise." He looks over at Dean, trying to check him over without looking like he's checking him over, something Sam's never realized that Dean will always catch. He takes in the jittery foot tapping, the weight loss, the darkening circles under his eyes. The things he can see. The biggest tell, of course, is invisible to Sam's eyes - the Mark's voice, calm and prodding and insistent.
Sam stands up and starts pacing - his own tell, indicating that he's thinking hard about something, and anxious about bringing it up. "Dean," he finally says. "What if." He takes a deep breath. "What if you gave it to me?"
Dean stares in disbelief. "What?"
"No, look, hear me out. I know what you're going to say, I know you think I can't handle it. But it took a few weeks for the Mark to really affect you. So if you give it to me, we'll both be okay for a while. While we look for a way to fix it."
Of course he wants it. He's wanted it all along. He took the Blade from you, and now he needs the Mark to go with it. It's been his plan the whole time. He wants to take it all away from you.
Dean plants his hands against Sam's chest and shoves him into the wall. "What are you saying, Sam?" he growls. Sam tries to push away, but Dean's Mark-fueled rage holds him firm. "You want it for yourself?"
"No, no, I don't want it. I'm just trying to give you a break, buy us some time," Sam stammers, all shock and trepidation and panicky "let me help you" expression and dammit, Dean does not need his help. Does not want his help. Does not trust the offer.
As if he didn't know. As if he thought he could get away with it.
"Dean?" Sam says tentatively. "What about you? Do you want it for yourself?"
Yes. No. Yes. More than anything. No, no, no. No.
Yes.
Dean holds him there while he waits for his vision to clear, for his heartbeat to even out. "It won't work," he finally says. "I can't just give it up like that. Don't ask again. I'm sorry, Sam." He drops his arms and releases Sam, stalking out of the room before his brother can say a word.
///
THEN
Dean's phone chirps a text message alert, and as he checks the screen, his lips compress into a thin line. "Shit," he mutters. "Holy motherfucking shit."
"What?"
Dean holds his phone for Sam to see. The message is short - a set of numbers that Sam immediately recognizes as coordinates, and the signature Cain. "Cain?" says Sam, puzzled. "The Cain? Why is he sending you coordinates?"
"Shit," says Dean, putting his hand over his face. "I knew this was coming." He looks at the table, at the wall, at anything except Sam. "When I got... when he gave me... when he transferred the Mark to me. He made me promise to, ah, to put him out of his misery, when he requested it. I guess this is him requesting."
"But why you?"
"The Blade. It has to be done with the Blade." He suddenly turns to face Sam, and dammit if he doesn't look excited for a second, before he seems to tamp it down. "It means you're going to have to give me the Blade, Sam. I have to use it."
Fuck. Sam knows what will happen when Dean gets his hands on the Blade, when he actually kills Cain with it, how it will accelerate the loss of control and willpower.
On the other hand... who better to give advice on getting rid of the Mark?
"Okay. So we'll go see Cain."
"We?" Dean shakes his head. "This doesn't involve you."
"Like fuck it doesn't." Everything about this involves Sam. "Dean, I can't turn you loose with the Blade. You know that. And even I you could, I'm not going to let you deal with it alone."
"What do you think you can do, Sam?" Dean says angrily.
"I don't know!" Sam throws up his hands. Maybe if he'd been there the first time Dean met Cain, he would have stopped him from getting the Mark in the first place. All he knows is, Dean isn't going on this trip without him. "I'm going with," he says. "Deal with it."
Dean closes his eyes and Sam watches him tamping down again. Get angry, he thinks. Get as fucking angry as you want. I don't care.
"Fine," Dean says. "Be ready to leave in ten. But we're gonna need the Blade. We'll need to get it back from Cas, won't we?" He's wearing a peculiar angry smirk.
Sam ignores the look and reaches for Dean's phone. "I'll text him the coordinates. He can meet us there."
///
THEN
"Please, Dean," Sam begs. "Drop the Blade." He tries to lock eyes with Dean, but instead Dean finds himself drawn to the cut on his brother's face, blood sliding down his throat, staining his collar, and something about it makes his heart beat faster, makes him feel flushed and electric and alive.
Do it. Feel his blood running through your fingertips.
"Dean!" Sam struggles against the chain. But Dean can barely hear him over the siren song of the Mark. Can't hear him, doesn't want to hear him, doesn't care what he's saying.
Sam shudders as Dean pushes the Blade into his chest, bisecting the tattoo that ultimately offered no protection at all against the one thing he really needed to be afraid of. He blinks at Dean with a mixture of pain and betrayal and surprise, because deep down, he really thought it would never come to this, he thought Dean would come through and save him in the end just as he always does, and he was wrong, so wrong, and it makes Dean smile, because he likes showing people they've underestimated him.
Dean wakes with a start and he's not in Magnus's magic castle, and Sam's not chained to a pillar, slumped over, covered in blood, the Blade buried in his chest, and Dean's not holding it there, but he's still breathing heavily, still feels the adrenaline surge, still needs a minute to come down from the rush, to realize he's in a craptastic motel in the middle of fucking nowhere and Sam's in the bed next to his and he really needs to look over there and make sure it was just a dream, and he will in just a second, as soon as he catches his breath.
Okay.
He slides his eyes to the right and jumps again because yes, Sam's there, clearly visible in the pale blue of the parking lot light leaking from the thin ratty curtains. He's propped up on one elbow, watching Dean. They stare at each other in silence for a heartbeat.
"Dean?" he says softly. "What were you dreaming about?"
About killing him. And you liked it.
Dean pulls the sheet up to cover his right arm. "Why do you do ask?"
"You were making..." Sam hesitates, searching for a word. "Happy noises."
Good, that's good, he can roll with that. Dean waggles his eyebrows. "What do you think I was dreaming about?"
But it doesn't work, because Sam keeps staring at him, looking anxious and sad and resigned and all of those things Sam always is now. "Not that kind of happy," he says.
Dean sighs, turning to face the wall. "Go back to sleep, Sam."
Yes, you did like it. You'll like it even more when it's not a dream. When you have the Blade back, where it belongs.
Dean doesn't go back to sleep, and he thinks Sam probably doesn't either.
///
THEN
The road ends in a washed-out ruin of rocks and mud a mile before they get to Cain's location. Dean stomps out of the car - a lot angrier than he should be, Sam thinks nervously - and surveys the area. "No way we're driving through this," he says.
Sam peers to the left and right. "Looks like it normally fords here. Must have been a heavy rain, washed it out. I guess we're hoofing it." He reaches into the back seat for his bag. When he looks back up, Dean is already picking his way across the washed out road.
"Dean?" Sam calls. "You need anything from the car?"
Dean doesn't turn around. "Nope. Only thing I need is the Blade," he calls over his shoulder. "And that's not in the car. Is it, Sam?"
Sam stops. He knows. Dean knows the Blade is in his bag. No, he can't know. There's no way. Unless he... feels the damn thing somehow?
Several yards ahead, Dean turns and smiles at Sam, a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Coming?"
Fuck. Sam throws the bag over his shoulder, checks his compass, and starts after his brother.
After half an hour of silent hiking, the brothers stop a few yards from a dilapidated cabin, sitting small and dark on a gentle slope.
"You think that's it?" Sam says quietly. "It looks abandoned."
"Yeah, that's it," Dean replies. "I see a beehive. Dude likes bees."
"Okay, that's not weird at all," Sam laughs. Dean doesn't laugh. Dean is angry and twitchy and drawn tight as a bowstring, and Sam's pretty sure something is going to go terribly wrong here. "So, ah, what are you planning to do?" he asks tentatively. "Just walk in?"
"Pretty much," says Dean. "You got another plan?"
"Yeah, I do," says Sam. "I was thinking, he's ready to die, right? And you need to get rid of the Mark. What if you tell him you'll kill him if he takes the Mark first? He's going to be dead anyway, right? So what's it to him whether he has the Mark or not?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Sam, how am I gonna give him the Mark and then kill him? I can only kill him with the Blade and the Mark. That's how it works."
"I know you can't," Sam says quickly. "But Cas could. Cas could kill him with an angel blade while he's got the Mark."
Dean pauses, staring at the cabin. "Yeah," he finally answers. "Could work. When Cas shows up here with the Blade, he could finish him off. He looks at Sam, eyebrow raised. " Cause Cas is gonna show up here with the Blade, right?"
Fuck.
"Or, you know, we don't even have to wait for him," stammers Sam. "We could take Cain with us and meet up with him."
Dean gives him that cold smile again. "Yeah, we could do that. Let's go talk to the man."
///
NOW
Sam stands back as Dean raps on the weathered grey door. "Cain!" he calls. "You wanted me. I'm here."
The cabin is silent at first, but soon Sam hears the heavy thump of boots heading toward them. The door creaks open to reveal a bearded man holding an oil lamp. He's wild and disheveled looking, with piercing blue eyes that flick over Dean and turn to focus on Sam.
"So," he says. "You're the brother." He stands aside and Dean walks confidently into the cabin. Sam stays outside, held motionless by Cain's stare.
"I killed my brother to save him," he says quietly, and though Sam towers over him, he feels like a child cowering under his gaze. "What are you prepared to do for your brother?"
Sam swallows thickly. "Anything," he whispers.
As if he's passed some kind of test, Cain tilts his head to motion him into the cabin. Once they're inside, Cain's attention is focused on Dean. "You brought the Blade?" he asks.
"We have a proposition," Sam says. "If you'll take the Mark back from Dean, we know an angel who will -"
Cain ignores him. "You brought the Blade?" he asks Dean again.
"Please, hear me out," says Sam. "You can take the Mark back from Dean, if you're ready to die, and then it won't hurt anyone any more."
"Hush, boy!" Cain turns his withering stare to Sam. "What makes you think I'm ready to die?"
He turns back to Dean. "You brought the Blade?"
Sam's mind whirls. If Cain's not ready to die, they are completely fucked.
"Yes, I brought the Blade," Dean says calmly. "I thought you wanted me to use it on you."
"A little arrogant on your part." Cain makes an impatient gesture. "Show it to me."
"Show him the blade," Dean says, flicking his eyes to Sam.
Jesus, Dean's going to give it all away without getting Cain to take the Mark back. Sam feels everything slipping away from them. "No, Dean, not without the deal," he says.
"Dammit, Sam!" yells Dean. "There is no deal! Get the Blade out of your goddamn bag!"
And Sam finally gets it. "So, you were never even willing to try to deal with him. You lied to me."
Dean huffs a small derisive laugh. "Yeah, I lied. And you lied about having the Blade. We all lied, Sam. Now get. The fucking Blade. Out of your bag." His eyes light up as Sam reluctantly withdraws it from his bag, and he sees it for the first time since he was cured. He rubs the Mark absently. "Now let me have it so I can put this demon out of his misery."
"Oh no," laughs Cain. "I didn't call you here to kill me. I called you here to take the Mark back."
Oh, God, thank God. Sam can breathe again, because Cain wants his Mark back and it's all going to work out after all, thank God.
But Dean's hackles are raised. "The fuck," he says angrily. "What do you mean, take it back?"
"You aren't worthy," sneers Cain. "Did you think I wouldn't know? Did you think I wouldn't find out about you?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" yells Dean, stepping closer to Cain.
"You're a coward and a fool," Cain responds calmly. "You said you needed the Mark to kill the last Knight of Hell, and instead you tried to take her place. You're incapable of saving the world. You couldn't even save one person. I killed my own brother to keep him from Lucifer's grasp, and you offered yours to him like a lamb to the slaughter. You are not worthy of the Mark. I will have it back."
"The fuck you will!" shouts Dean, swinging a fist. But Cain is still a demon, still inhumanly strong. He grabs Dean's arm, holding it motionless, then clutches his right hand in his own and mutters a few syllables in a strange tongue. It's a language Sam hasn't heard in years, a language not spoken by caged archangels but by other residents of Hell, and he'll never forget it - a guttural, broken thing that sounds like fractured bones grinding together, like blood bubbling up in the throat, and he knows Dean recognizes the demon tongue as well, understands that Cain is saying come to me.
And the Mark obeys. It lights Dean's arm with a lurid red glow as it creeps toward his hand, toward Cain, and Sam slumps against the wall in relief. It's over; Cain is taking the Mark back and it's over, thank God.
But as the Mark reaches Cain's hand, Dean roars in anger and suddenly Sam's hand is burning. He drops the Blade with a yelp of surprise and pain and it flies into Dean's outstretched left hand. As Sam uselessly screams "stop," Dean buries the Blade in Cain's chest and the demon crumples to the floor. Dean maintains his grasp as the Mark flees Cain's dead flesh, retreating completely up his arm, its glow dying out.
"Oh God," says Sam, staggering back up to his feet. "Oh God. What the fuck, Dean? Why? Why did you stop him?"
Dean drops the lifeless arm and turns to him with a victorious look. "I'm keeping the Mark. It's mine."
///
Sam, of all people, should understand. He knows what it's like to want it, to want it so bad, to need it. He knows what it feels like for that power to become part of you, not overriding you, but spinning through you, not other than, but in addition to you, making you better, making you something strong and fiery and fearless and so, so much better than you ever were. Not ridden with guilt, but filled with righteous anger.
"I want to keep it," Dean says.
"Please," Sam repeats. "Let me save you."
There is nothing to be saved.
Dean turns on his heel and leaves the cabin, with Sam close behind. "Dean, look," Sam sputters. "You don't want to do this. We can still get rid of it. We'll figure something out."
Of course Sam doesn't get it. There's nothing to figure out. Dean's heartbeat pounds in his ears, and the Mark pulses along with its rhythm. Or maybe it's the other way around. It doesn't matter any more. He and the Mark are one again.
"Dean, please. You can do this." Sam grabs his arm, and Dean feels a hot wave of rage rolling through him. He puts his right hand against Sam's chest and shoves him backward until he stumbles into the cabin wall. He holds him there, pinning him to the wall with the Blade against his throat.
"I told you," he growls, "I'm going to keep it." Sam stands motionless, palms against the wall, his eyes full of concern but not terror, and Dean needs it, needs to see the look on Sam's face when he realizes his brother is going to kill him. He needs to see his hands stained with Sam's blood. Needs to watch the life pump out of him.
"Dean," Sam says, almost soundlessly.
"I'm keeping it," Dean says slowly. "You need to back. The fuck. Off."
"No," says Sam.
Fine, then. And the Mark sings with joy, because Dean's not going to let Sam take it away from him. Finish him, it whispers. Finish him, and this will be done forever. Dean closes his eyes and he sees it, the same scene that's been playing out in his dreams, in endless variations but always with the same result - the Blade slicing across Sam's throat, Sam's blood warm and wet on his hands, Sam's eyes flashing betrayal and terror and then going blank, Sam's lips forming words that his severed vocal cord can't utter, words like please and no and Dean, Dean, Dean -
Suddenly Sam bucks against his hand, knocking Dean to the ground with a headbutt and a sweep of his leg. Before Dean's head clears, Sam is on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning his arms above his head with one giant hand. The Blade is still in Dean's left hand but no matter how much he writhes and kicks, he can't get out of Sam's grip. Then Sam punches him in the jaw and he lies limp and stunned for a moment, still gripping the Blade with all his might. Sam grabs Dean's right hand and holds it up between them; then Dean hears one of the ugliest sounds he's ever heard, the language of Hell coming from Sam's mouth: come to me.
Dean screams in anger as he watches the Mark creep away from him, crawling onto Sam's hand, its red glow lighting the night around them. Then Sam grabs Dean's left arm, the one holding the Blade, and starts swinging it. There's a brief burst of light and a pained moan from Sam and warm spray of something warm and wet and metallic-smelling and oh God, it's blood, did he do it? Did he kill Sam? Then Sam swings Dean's left arm again and there's a sharp jerk and a blinding light and a burst of pain and fuck, fuck, it hurts so much.
Sam lets go of Dean's arm and rolls on the ground, curling in on himself, and Dean doesn't know what's happening, he doesn't understand why his arm hurts so much and there's so much blood and he's confused and in pain but mostly he's bereft, because something important is gone, whatever was keeping him going has left him. Then his eyes focus on something in front of him, something pale and bloody, and oh fuck, oh fuck, now he understands, now he knows what Sam did. Because Sam is way over there but his hand, his hand is still clutching Dean's, right here on the ground. As Dean watches, the Mark vibrates between their severed hands, flowing up and down, looking for life, before it finally fizzles out.
Sam's a bundle of nervous energy, fueled on hope and adrenaline. He's on his knees, scanning the ground for something, finally landing on his flannel shirt. He picks it up and thrusts it toward Dean's left hand. "Drop that," he says breathlessly, and Dean realizes he's still holding the bloody Blade, its edge now dull and dead. He drops the blade and grabs the sleeve Sam is waving at him. "Hold on tight," Sam says, his voice kind of jumpy and panicky. Dean grips the shirt as Sam tears off one sleeve and then the other, and would have ever thought it would be a good thing that Sam's clothes were so threadbare and easy to tear? He holds one ragged strip of cloth against what remains of Dean's right arm. "Help me out here. Between the two of us I think we can tie this into a tourniquet."
Dean looks at his brother's pale, sweaty face and shakes his head. "You first. You're in worse shape than I am." Sam rolls his eyes but seems to recognize it would be pointless to argue, and the two manage to knot the fabric just below Sam's elbow. It's not nearly tight enough, but it will have to do. By the time they manage to do the same to Dean's bloody stump, he's dizzy from the effort. He stumbles to the cabin and collapses, resting against the wall as Sam frantically scans the ground around him again.
"Where's my jacket? We can wrap them up in my jacket so we don't get too much blood in the car."
Jesus, Sam. Dean stares at his little brother, so determined to fix this, and whatever's left of his heart breaks a little, because it's not fixable. "And then what, Sam? Hike to the car so we can drive to the hospital? You know we're not going to make it." He waves at Sam's blood-soaked t-shirt and jeans. "You're about to bleed out, and I'm not any better."
"But what choice do we have? Call an ambulance?" Sam's found his jacket, and he pins it against his left side with what remains of his arm while he fishes out his phone, but his face falls when he retrieves it, because of course they're too far out for a signal. "Fuck. Fuck!" He hurls the useless phone into the night, and whatever was fueling him has finally run out - he's swaying on his feet, running his hand through his sweaty hair, mumbling "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."
"Come here," Dean says, patting the ground next to him. And suddenly Sam unravels. He crumples against the cabin like a broken doll and slides down until he's seated next to Dean. After a moment, he sags against him in defeat.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he says. "It wasn't supposed to go this way. This is all wrong."
"Yeah, well, that's my fault, not yours."
"It doesn't matter whose fault it is," he says, his voice cracking. "I was trying to save you and I fucked it up. This was supposed to save you."
Dean takes a deep breath. He has to make sure Sam understands that this act, his last anguished act of love and desperation, was not wasted. "You did not fuck it up. You didsave me." He can feel Sam against his shoulder, shaking his head. "Listen to me, Sam," he says, as fiercely as he can. "The Mark was dragging me straight to Hell, and I wasn't going to stop it. You saved me from that. If you hadn't stopped me, right here, today, I would have been gone. I would have killed you and I would have become a demon again, but you saved me, Sammy." He wants to say more but suddenly he's tired, so tired, his tongue thick and heavy.
"So what do we do now?" Sam whispers. "Just..."
"This. Just this." Dean sighs. And it's okay. It really is okay. They're going to die here knowing that the Mark is gone, the Blade is useless, the Knights of Hell are all dead, and the world can take care of the rest of it without them. It's okay.
"I'm glad you're here with me, Sam. If this is the end, I'm glad you're with me."
As his vision starts to go dark around the edges, he sees a spot of warm golden light, and some small part of him is surprised that it's true, that he really is going to walk into the light, and maybe that's a sign that it's final this time, because he doesn't remember ever doing that before. Before he blacks out completely, he realizes he must be seeing double, because now the light looks like two lights. Almost like headlights.
///
When Dean opens his eyes again, his arm is on fire. "Son of a bitch!" he yells, trying to pull away from the source of the pain, but he's held fast.
"Hold still."
"Cas? Jesus, Cas, is that you?" Dean reflexively tries to move his hand to wipe the blood off his face.
"Not Jesus. Just me. Stop moving." Dean manages to clear his face with his left hand, and now he can see Cas bent over his right arm, knitting it back together. The burning pain finally stops and Cas sits back on his heels. "You should be okay now," he says, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Why are you even here?" asks Dean, rubbing a hand over his face, and shit, his jaw is sore, because -
Sam. Dean leaps to his feet and finds his brother, pale and still, eyes closed, lying on the grass. He drops to his knees at Sam's side and finds a pulse, weak but steady.
"I'm here because Sam texted me coordinates," Cas says.
God. When he was still trying to trick Dean into thinking Cas had the Blade. Thank God.
"Okay, Cas. Fix Sam now."
But when Dean looks up, Cas is leaning wearily against the cabin, not moving.
"Cas? Come on, man. Fix Sam."
"I can't," sighs the angel. "I don't have enough power to heal both of you."
"What the fuck, Cas?" yells Dean, stupefied, because there is no version of events where Dean is supposed to be saved before Sam, saved instead of Sam, and Jesus fuck, how does Cas not know that?
"Sam was still conscious when I got here. He told me to help you first. He said it was more important to save your right arm than his left arm. And he said you'd lost more blood than he had, and you were weakened after losing the Mark."
Sam said, Sam said. All it boils down to is, Sam threw himself onto the hand grenade of Dean's fuck ups, he sacrificed himself on the altar of Dean's bad decisions once again, and Dean wasn't there to stop him, and God, he can't do this again, he can't live through this again, he can't. "Cas," he says. "You've got to save him. You've got to do something."
Cas puts out a hand and pulls Dean to his feet. "I can keep him alive until we get him to a hospital," he says. "And after I've rested, I can heal whatever they weren't able to heal."
Oh, God, thank God. Dean barely notices the bundle Cas picks up off the ground until he places it in his arms - it's Sam's coat, wrapped carefully around his severed hand. "Put that in the car," he says, motioning behind Dean.
Dean spins and sees a Jeep, white beneath spatters of mud. "Where'd you get this?"
"I stole it."
Dean laughs, because for the first time in forever he actually feels like laughing, as he gently places his bundle in the front passenger seat. The two of them carry Sam to the car and Cas slides into the back seat with his legs pillowing Sam's head. He holds the injured arm up and keeps a palm on Sam's chest as Dean drives, like the bat out of Hell he is, to the nearest hospital.
///
When Sam wakes up, his first word is "Dean." His second word is "arm."
"Hey, Sammy, it's okay. I'm here. You're gonna be fine."
"Arm. Lemme see."
Christ. "Sam, you don't want to see that. You can't see anything anyway. It's all bandaged up. But they got it sewn back on. You're going to be okay."
Sam paws weakly at Dean. "No. Your arm."
Oh. That. Dean hasn't even thought about his own arm, hasn't even looked at it. He holds it in front of Sam's face. "See? All gone."
Sam smiles. "Good. Good."
"Yeah. You did good, Sammy." Dean resists the urge to tousle Sam's hair or squeeze his hand or hell, climb into bed with him and hug him until they both start crying. There needs to be some manly, dignified way of saying thank you for saving me, even though I was willing to kill you so you couldn't. He settles for patting Sam's shoulder. "Go back to sleep now, okay? I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise. Somebody's got to keep an eye on you." Dean settles back into the bedside chair and takes a closer look at his arm. The Mark is gone, but it left behind a faint, silvery scar. And that's okay. A reminder is probably a good thing.
///
Author's Note
So, I kind of gave myself the Lord of the Rings ending I wanted. I ended up casting the Mark itself as both Gollum and the Ring, in a way. And yes, it would have been more true to the book if Dean had been the only one to lose a body part, but what can I say. The heart wants what the heart wants.
Rating: R for language
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel
Spoilers: Through season 9
Synopsis: Dean's no longer a demon, but he still needs to be saved. Sequel to Where do we begin (the rubble or our sins)? You should read that one first. (You'll notice I accidentally gave Cas his wings back in that fic. Please pretend that didn't happen.) Once again, the title is from Pompeii by Bastille.
I know everyone else is watching 10.10 right now, but it wanted to post this before it's completely Kripke'd.
THEN
Dean wakes up on the floor of the office, stiff and cold and utterly alone. What the fuck? Why did Sam and Cas leave him? He slowly pulls himself to his feet and ventures out into the dim interior of the warehouse. "Sam?" he calls. "Cas?" There is no response, but he hears a voice in one dark corner. Dean heads for the voice, and turns around a corner of stacked boxes just in time to see Sam, standing in front of a chained demon, draw a knife across his palm and oh, Jesus, no, not this, this wasn't supposed to happen. "Sam!" he yells. "Stop! What are you doing?"
Sam looks across the empty space to Dean, his expression a combination of pity and remorse. "I'm sorry, Dean. You're never going to be cured. I've got to close Hell for your sake. This is the only way I can save you."
Dean's hands clench into fists, but there's no one he can punch. "You promised, dammit! You said we'd either both be alive or we'd both be dead!" But Sam ignores him. He claps his bleeding hand over the demon's mouth and mutters a phrase in Latin.
Suddenly Cas is next to Dean, watching impassively. "Cas?" Dean cries. "Can't you stop him?"
The angel doesn't look away from Sam as he shakes his head. "I can, but I won't. You're going to Hell if he doesn't do this. I promised I wouldn't stop him."
"I'm going to Hell?" Dean stammers. "You couldn't cure me?"
Now Cas turns to Dean and fixes him with a cold blue stare that makes him feel like a bug pinned to a board. "Yes, I cured you this time. But you know it's not permanent. One way or another, Dean, you will always choose the path that leads you to Hell. This is the only way Sam can save you."
"No, Cas, please. I won't. I promise." Dean grabs the collar of his coat, but suddenly it's empty, as empty as it was when he fished it out of the reservoir after the Leviathans. He turns back to Sam, who is still chanting in Latin. "No, Sam!" he shouts. "Stop! Please!"
Sam doesn't look away from his demon, but his chant changes. "Dean," he says. "Dean, it's okay." It's not okay, it's not okay at all. But Sam keeps repeating, "Dean, it's okay."
Dean wakes with a gasp and he's in his own room, in his own bed, with his own brother gently shaking him by the shoulder. "Dean," he says. "It's okay. You're dreaming."
Oh, Jesus. Please let this be true. Let everything be okay. Dean sits up and eyes Sam carefully. He looks a hell of a lot better than he did the last time he saw him. Of course, their lives are just fucked up enough that this means Dean's immediate thought is he must be dead. "Sammy?" he says, his voice hoarse. "Am I. Are you. Are we alive?"
Sam grins. "Yeah. We're alive."
Dean's alive and Sam's alive and that means it worked. He collapses back into his pillow. "You did it. You fucking did it."
Sam looks happier than Dean's seen him in... months? Years? "We did it. How do you feel?"
How does Dean feel? That's a good question. He closes his eyes and takes an inventory. He feels alive. A little stiff and sore. Thirsty. Hungry. Kind of smelly. And - he holds his right arm up for inspection - still Marked. The sight of the Mark makes his heart lurch a tiny bit, makes him stop and listen for that voice that's been whispering in his ear for months, but it's silent. "I'm good, man. I'm really good. What about you? You look a lot better." Now that his eyes are adjusting to the light, he can see that Sam still looks a little battered, with cuts and scrapes and a fading black eye (I did that, he thinks guiltily, I did all of that to you), but he still looks better than he did at the end of their eight hour ordeal. Sam stands up and stretches, and Dean suddenly realizes he's probably been sitting next to the bed for a very long time. "How long was I out?" he asks.
"You were actually unconscious for the better part of a day," Sam says, rolling the kinks out of his neck. "Then you came around and started waking up for a few minutes at a time, but I imagine you don't remember any of those. You've been out for about a day and a half." He pulls his phone out of his pocket. "Cas had to leave once you were out of the woods. I told him I'd let him know when you were good and awake."
"Had to leave?" Dean knows he's got no right to expect to be at the top of Castiel's to-do list, but still, he would have liked it if he'd been here. On the other hand, this means Dean has some time before he has to apologize for whatever he's done. And when he starts to think about what he's done, it's like he's toeing the edge of an abyss. So no, he's in no hurry to do that - to think about the things he's done, let alone apologize for them. And maybe Cas is in no hurry to see him again. In fact, that makes a lot of sense.
"So, he's, uh. Kind of mad at me, I guess."
"Healing you took a lot out of him," Sam explains, without looking up from his phone. "He's only at about half power. And he recovers faster in Heaven, so he's spending as much time there as possible."
"Okay. That doesn't really answer my question."
Sam finishes his text and gives him a reassuring smile. "Cas isn't angry at you."
"I killed angels, Sam," Dean says. "His brothers and sisters." Dean doesn't deserve his forgiveness.
Sam shrugs. "Yes, and he almost killed your brother, and you forgave him. It's okay, Dean. He knows that wasn't really you."
Just like it wasn't really Sam killing Kevin. But Dean's not going to make that comparison. There are enough of his sins spread out here in front of him; no need to dig that one up. He sighs, staring up at the ceiling. "It's not just angels, you know. I killed hunters. I killed civilians." He killed people for bad reasons and for no reason at all, and he liked it.
"Hey," says Sam. "Look at me." Looking at Sam is a little too hard right now, so Dean keeps staring at the ceiling. The ceiling doesn't judge, doesn't have any expectations, can't be disappointed. He never tried to kill the fucking ceiling.
"Yes, the demon did some pretty bad things," Sam continues. "But that wasn't you, Dean. And nothing the demon did is ever going to cancel out the people you've saved, okay? Nothing."
"Sam," Dean says. "Please don't talk about the demon like it's a third person. It was me, okay? I was the fucking demon. No one riding me, no one wearing my meat suit, no one pulling my strings. Just me."
"Then what do you call that?" says Sam, holding up Dean's Marked arm. "A freckle? This changed you, Dean."
Dean frowns at the Mark. "Yeah, and it's gonna change me again if I don't get rid of it."
"And that's why we're getting rid of it," says Sam. Like it's easy as that. Dean turns his attention to the ceiling again, because that's all he can handle right now.
///
THEN
It's two days before Castiel has a chance to return to the bunker. Sam has warned him that Dean is wallowing in guilt, berating himself for his actions under the influence of the Mark. So he is surprised that the first words he hears from Dean are not an apology, or even gratitude for saving his life, but a question.
"Cas, what happened to the other demon Sam was curing?"
"Sam didn't tell you?"
"He told me he healed him and let him go. But he's lying"
Castiel pauses to consider this. It's not a lie, but it's a half-truth, and Sam surely had a reason for telling it. "Why do you think he's lying?" he says.
"Dammit, Cas. I know him. I know when he's lying. And I know you know the truth. So spill it."
Sam didn't ask him not to tell Dean. There must be some reason he chose not to, but Castiel can't think of what it would be.
"He's not lying to you," he says. "He did cure the demon, and send it on its way. But it didn't leave the bunker. While we were caring for you, it took his knife and cut its own throat."
Dean blanches. "He killed himself."
"Yes," Castiel confirms. "I do not know why."
"I do," says Dean quietly. "I know what that feels like."
///
THEN
Sam stands in the middle of the warehouse office, holding the lit match, his eyes bright with excitement. "I can fix it," he says. "I've figured out how to fix it."
"Oh yeah?" says the demon. He steps closer to Sam, unaware of the devil's trap above him, and Dean grins, because Sam's a smart son of a bitch, and his plan worked. Except. There is no devil's trap. This time, there's only Sam and the demon, and Dean helplessly watching. He tries to shout a warning to Sam, but he can't speak; there's pressure against his chest and he can't speak or breathe or move, all he can do is stand there and watch as the demon smiles and says "can't fix what ain't broken, Sammy," swiping with an ancient blade. Sam gasps and goes down in a heap, clutching at his bleeding throat, mouth forming silent words, eyes growing dim as the pool of blood around him gets larger and larger.
Dean jerks awake, his heart pumping with adrenaline and fear and something, something else, something that isn't fear or horror, something closer to... excitement.
///
THEN
"I found something," says Dean, tossing a newspaper on the table that barely misses Sam's oatmeal.
"In a newspaper?" Sam squints at the paper in confusion.
"Of course, in a newspaper. The same place we find most of our hunts?"
Oh. A hunt. Sam sighs. "I thought we were going to concentrate on the Mark."
Dean flips a chair around and straddles it backwards, his fingertips nervously drumming on his thighs. "I know, I know, but dammit. I've got to do something. I can't just sit around like this. I need to get back to normal, Sam. I need to hunt. I need to - "
Dean stops, but Sam can hear the unspoken words hanging in the air. I need to kill something. And yeah, that's the whole problem. Dean's restless and twitchy with need, and killing something will be like scratching a mosquito bite - it will only make it itch worse.
"I need to do something good," Dean says. "Everything I've done since I got the Mark has been bad. I've gotta change that."
Crap. Sam understands guilt as well as anyone, and he knows how heavily Dean's Mark-fueled acts are weighing on him. But he also knows what will happen when Dean kills again. "I don't think that's a good idea," he says tentatively. "Let's just work on the Mark, like we planned, okay?"
Dean stands up, hands clenching into fists, and for a second Sam's sure he's going to pick a fight, and he tries to determine whether it would be helpful or not to serve as his punching bag, and really, how they hell did they get here? Why is should I let my brother punch me to vent some aggression, or is that only going to make him worse a choice he has to make?
Then Dean's fists relax and he frowns, visibly deflated. "Fine. I'm going down to the shooting range. Don't want to get rusty."
Sam watches him leave and desperately hopes paper targets don't count as a kill.
///
THEN
Dean wanders through cold storerooms, his fingertips lightly trailing along the edges of ancient trunks and dusty boxes. He's not looking as much as he is feeling his way, listening to a voice just on the edge of his consciousness. It's here, it says. The Blade is here. You can feel it, can't you? And he can. It's a subtle but unmistakeable sensation, like knowing someone else is in a dark room. The Blade is here, somewhere in the Bunker, and he's being drawn to it.
There, the voice whispers. That wooden box, on the bottom shelf. It's not as dusty as the others. Dean hears a click as he lifts the box off the shelf, and he knows Sam has set some kind of trap, some kind of alarm, but it doesn't matter. He picks the lock easily and opens the box to reveal the Blade, his Blade, and he lifts it reverently.
"Don't, Dean." Sam is behind him. "Put it back."
Dean closes his eyes and feels the heft of the Blade, the warm familiar shape of its handle. The Mark tingles with anticipation. All he has to do it swing it. Pivot and swing, holding the Blade at arm's length. He pictures the look of shock on Sam's face as it tangles in his shirt, or his hair, or whatever is standing between the Blade and his flesh. He imagines pushing, thrusting, slicing, gouging. The warm coppery smell of blood. All he has to do is swing it.
When he wakes, he can almost hear its echo. All you have to do is swing it. It takes him a few minutes to remember why he wouldn't want to.
By the time it whispers during his waking hours, it feels normal again. Normal and powerful and encouraging and right, so right.
Ask him, it says.
"Hey, Sammy," he says lightly. "Where's the Blade?"
"What?"
"The Blade. Where is it? What did you do with it?"
Sam hesitates just a second too long. "Why?"
"Just curious." Dean shrugs, cool and casual. "It's a dangerous thing. Needs to be secure."
"Cas. Cas has it. I asked him to put it somewhere safe."
"Did you."
"Yeah, I did. Is that a problem?"
"Nope. No problem at all." Dean smiles.
He's lying.
But that's okay. So is Dean.
///
THEN
Sam sits at the library table, surrounded by books and notes. He's on the phone, but he glances up when Dean walks in and gives him a quick shake of his head. No good news here.
"No, I'm okay. Just, you know. Another dead end. It's frustrating. But we'll get there. I'll talk to you tomorrow." Sam ends his call with a sigh and plants his elbows on the library table, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. Dean knows he hadn't had a lot of hope in this particular lead, but it was the only one they had, and it turned out to be useless. Dean's starting to think the whole thing is useless. Sam isn't there yet; Sam still has hope, and every failure breaks him a little bit more.
"No luck on Cas's end, I take it," says Dean.
"Nope." Sam's silent for a minute. "But we'll find something. I promise." He looks over at Dean, trying to check him over without looking like he's checking him over, something Sam's never realized that Dean will always catch. He takes in the jittery foot tapping, the weight loss, the darkening circles under his eyes. The things he can see. The biggest tell, of course, is invisible to Sam's eyes - the Mark's voice, calm and prodding and insistent.
Sam stands up and starts pacing - his own tell, indicating that he's thinking hard about something, and anxious about bringing it up. "Dean," he finally says. "What if." He takes a deep breath. "What if you gave it to me?"
Dean stares in disbelief. "What?"
"No, look, hear me out. I know what you're going to say, I know you think I can't handle it. But it took a few weeks for the Mark to really affect you. So if you give it to me, we'll both be okay for a while. While we look for a way to fix it."
Of course he wants it. He's wanted it all along. He took the Blade from you, and now he needs the Mark to go with it. It's been his plan the whole time. He wants to take it all away from you.
Dean plants his hands against Sam's chest and shoves him into the wall. "What are you saying, Sam?" he growls. Sam tries to push away, but Dean's Mark-fueled rage holds him firm. "You want it for yourself?"
"No, no, I don't want it. I'm just trying to give you a break, buy us some time," Sam stammers, all shock and trepidation and panicky "let me help you" expression and dammit, Dean does not need his help. Does not want his help. Does not trust the offer.
As if he didn't know. As if he thought he could get away with it.
"Dean?" Sam says tentatively. "What about you? Do you want it for yourself?"
Yes. No. Yes. More than anything. No, no, no. No.
Yes.
Dean holds him there while he waits for his vision to clear, for his heartbeat to even out. "It won't work," he finally says. "I can't just give it up like that. Don't ask again. I'm sorry, Sam." He drops his arms and releases Sam, stalking out of the room before his brother can say a word.
///
THEN
Dean's phone chirps a text message alert, and as he checks the screen, his lips compress into a thin line. "Shit," he mutters. "Holy motherfucking shit."
"What?"
Dean holds his phone for Sam to see. The message is short - a set of numbers that Sam immediately recognizes as coordinates, and the signature Cain. "Cain?" says Sam, puzzled. "The Cain? Why is he sending you coordinates?"
"Shit," says Dean, putting his hand over his face. "I knew this was coming." He looks at the table, at the wall, at anything except Sam. "When I got... when he gave me... when he transferred the Mark to me. He made me promise to, ah, to put him out of his misery, when he requested it. I guess this is him requesting."
"But why you?"
"The Blade. It has to be done with the Blade." He suddenly turns to face Sam, and dammit if he doesn't look excited for a second, before he seems to tamp it down. "It means you're going to have to give me the Blade, Sam. I have to use it."
Fuck. Sam knows what will happen when Dean gets his hands on the Blade, when he actually kills Cain with it, how it will accelerate the loss of control and willpower.
On the other hand... who better to give advice on getting rid of the Mark?
"Okay. So we'll go see Cain."
"We?" Dean shakes his head. "This doesn't involve you."
"Like fuck it doesn't." Everything about this involves Sam. "Dean, I can't turn you loose with the Blade. You know that. And even I you could, I'm not going to let you deal with it alone."
"What do you think you can do, Sam?" Dean says angrily.
"I don't know!" Sam throws up his hands. Maybe if he'd been there the first time Dean met Cain, he would have stopped him from getting the Mark in the first place. All he knows is, Dean isn't going on this trip without him. "I'm going with," he says. "Deal with it."
Dean closes his eyes and Sam watches him tamping down again. Get angry, he thinks. Get as fucking angry as you want. I don't care.
"Fine," Dean says. "Be ready to leave in ten. But we're gonna need the Blade. We'll need to get it back from Cas, won't we?" He's wearing a peculiar angry smirk.
Sam ignores the look and reaches for Dean's phone. "I'll text him the coordinates. He can meet us there."
///
THEN
"Please, Dean," Sam begs. "Drop the Blade." He tries to lock eyes with Dean, but instead Dean finds himself drawn to the cut on his brother's face, blood sliding down his throat, staining his collar, and something about it makes his heart beat faster, makes him feel flushed and electric and alive.
Do it. Feel his blood running through your fingertips.
"Dean!" Sam struggles against the chain. But Dean can barely hear him over the siren song of the Mark. Can't hear him, doesn't want to hear him, doesn't care what he's saying.
Sam shudders as Dean pushes the Blade into his chest, bisecting the tattoo that ultimately offered no protection at all against the one thing he really needed to be afraid of. He blinks at Dean with a mixture of pain and betrayal and surprise, because deep down, he really thought it would never come to this, he thought Dean would come through and save him in the end just as he always does, and he was wrong, so wrong, and it makes Dean smile, because he likes showing people they've underestimated him.
Dean wakes with a start and he's not in Magnus's magic castle, and Sam's not chained to a pillar, slumped over, covered in blood, the Blade buried in his chest, and Dean's not holding it there, but he's still breathing heavily, still feels the adrenaline surge, still needs a minute to come down from the rush, to realize he's in a craptastic motel in the middle of fucking nowhere and Sam's in the bed next to his and he really needs to look over there and make sure it was just a dream, and he will in just a second, as soon as he catches his breath.
Okay.
He slides his eyes to the right and jumps again because yes, Sam's there, clearly visible in the pale blue of the parking lot light leaking from the thin ratty curtains. He's propped up on one elbow, watching Dean. They stare at each other in silence for a heartbeat.
"Dean?" he says softly. "What were you dreaming about?"
About killing him. And you liked it.
Dean pulls the sheet up to cover his right arm. "Why do you do ask?"
"You were making..." Sam hesitates, searching for a word. "Happy noises."
Good, that's good, he can roll with that. Dean waggles his eyebrows. "What do you think I was dreaming about?"
But it doesn't work, because Sam keeps staring at him, looking anxious and sad and resigned and all of those things Sam always is now. "Not that kind of happy," he says.
Dean sighs, turning to face the wall. "Go back to sleep, Sam."
Yes, you did like it. You'll like it even more when it's not a dream. When you have the Blade back, where it belongs.
Dean doesn't go back to sleep, and he thinks Sam probably doesn't either.
///
THEN
The road ends in a washed-out ruin of rocks and mud a mile before they get to Cain's location. Dean stomps out of the car - a lot angrier than he should be, Sam thinks nervously - and surveys the area. "No way we're driving through this," he says.
Sam peers to the left and right. "Looks like it normally fords here. Must have been a heavy rain, washed it out. I guess we're hoofing it." He reaches into the back seat for his bag. When he looks back up, Dean is already picking his way across the washed out road.
"Dean?" Sam calls. "You need anything from the car?"
Dean doesn't turn around. "Nope. Only thing I need is the Blade," he calls over his shoulder. "And that's not in the car. Is it, Sam?"
Sam stops. He knows. Dean knows the Blade is in his bag. No, he can't know. There's no way. Unless he... feels the damn thing somehow?
Several yards ahead, Dean turns and smiles at Sam, a cold smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Coming?"
Fuck. Sam throws the bag over his shoulder, checks his compass, and starts after his brother.
After half an hour of silent hiking, the brothers stop a few yards from a dilapidated cabin, sitting small and dark on a gentle slope.
"You think that's it?" Sam says quietly. "It looks abandoned."
"Yeah, that's it," Dean replies. "I see a beehive. Dude likes bees."
"Okay, that's not weird at all," Sam laughs. Dean doesn't laugh. Dean is angry and twitchy and drawn tight as a bowstring, and Sam's pretty sure something is going to go terribly wrong here. "So, ah, what are you planning to do?" he asks tentatively. "Just walk in?"
"Pretty much," says Dean. "You got another plan?"
"Yeah, I do," says Sam. "I was thinking, he's ready to die, right? And you need to get rid of the Mark. What if you tell him you'll kill him if he takes the Mark first? He's going to be dead anyway, right? So what's it to him whether he has the Mark or not?"
Dean rolls his eyes. "Sam, how am I gonna give him the Mark and then kill him? I can only kill him with the Blade and the Mark. That's how it works."
"I know you can't," Sam says quickly. "But Cas could. Cas could kill him with an angel blade while he's got the Mark."
Dean pauses, staring at the cabin. "Yeah," he finally answers. "Could work. When Cas shows up here with the Blade, he could finish him off. He looks at Sam, eyebrow raised. " Cause Cas is gonna show up here with the Blade, right?"
Fuck.
"Or, you know, we don't even have to wait for him," stammers Sam. "We could take Cain with us and meet up with him."
Dean gives him that cold smile again. "Yeah, we could do that. Let's go talk to the man."
///
NOW
Sam stands back as Dean raps on the weathered grey door. "Cain!" he calls. "You wanted me. I'm here."
The cabin is silent at first, but soon Sam hears the heavy thump of boots heading toward them. The door creaks open to reveal a bearded man holding an oil lamp. He's wild and disheveled looking, with piercing blue eyes that flick over Dean and turn to focus on Sam.
"So," he says. "You're the brother." He stands aside and Dean walks confidently into the cabin. Sam stays outside, held motionless by Cain's stare.
"I killed my brother to save him," he says quietly, and though Sam towers over him, he feels like a child cowering under his gaze. "What are you prepared to do for your brother?"
Sam swallows thickly. "Anything," he whispers.
As if he's passed some kind of test, Cain tilts his head to motion him into the cabin. Once they're inside, Cain's attention is focused on Dean. "You brought the Blade?" he asks.
"We have a proposition," Sam says. "If you'll take the Mark back from Dean, we know an angel who will -"
Cain ignores him. "You brought the Blade?" he asks Dean again.
"Please, hear me out," says Sam. "You can take the Mark back from Dean, if you're ready to die, and then it won't hurt anyone any more."
"Hush, boy!" Cain turns his withering stare to Sam. "What makes you think I'm ready to die?"
He turns back to Dean. "You brought the Blade?"
Sam's mind whirls. If Cain's not ready to die, they are completely fucked.
"Yes, I brought the Blade," Dean says calmly. "I thought you wanted me to use it on you."
"A little arrogant on your part." Cain makes an impatient gesture. "Show it to me."
"Show him the blade," Dean says, flicking his eyes to Sam.
Jesus, Dean's going to give it all away without getting Cain to take the Mark back. Sam feels everything slipping away from them. "No, Dean, not without the deal," he says.
"Dammit, Sam!" yells Dean. "There is no deal! Get the Blade out of your goddamn bag!"
And Sam finally gets it. "So, you were never even willing to try to deal with him. You lied to me."
Dean huffs a small derisive laugh. "Yeah, I lied. And you lied about having the Blade. We all lied, Sam. Now get. The fucking Blade. Out of your bag." His eyes light up as Sam reluctantly withdraws it from his bag, and he sees it for the first time since he was cured. He rubs the Mark absently. "Now let me have it so I can put this demon out of his misery."
"Oh no," laughs Cain. "I didn't call you here to kill me. I called you here to take the Mark back."
Oh, God, thank God. Sam can breathe again, because Cain wants his Mark back and it's all going to work out after all, thank God.
But Dean's hackles are raised. "The fuck," he says angrily. "What do you mean, take it back?"
"You aren't worthy," sneers Cain. "Did you think I wouldn't know? Did you think I wouldn't find out about you?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" yells Dean, stepping closer to Cain.
"You're a coward and a fool," Cain responds calmly. "You said you needed the Mark to kill the last Knight of Hell, and instead you tried to take her place. You're incapable of saving the world. You couldn't even save one person. I killed my own brother to keep him from Lucifer's grasp, and you offered yours to him like a lamb to the slaughter. You are not worthy of the Mark. I will have it back."
"The fuck you will!" shouts Dean, swinging a fist. But Cain is still a demon, still inhumanly strong. He grabs Dean's arm, holding it motionless, then clutches his right hand in his own and mutters a few syllables in a strange tongue. It's a language Sam hasn't heard in years, a language not spoken by caged archangels but by other residents of Hell, and he'll never forget it - a guttural, broken thing that sounds like fractured bones grinding together, like blood bubbling up in the throat, and he knows Dean recognizes the demon tongue as well, understands that Cain is saying come to me.
And the Mark obeys. It lights Dean's arm with a lurid red glow as it creeps toward his hand, toward Cain, and Sam slumps against the wall in relief. It's over; Cain is taking the Mark back and it's over, thank God.
But as the Mark reaches Cain's hand, Dean roars in anger and suddenly Sam's hand is burning. He drops the Blade with a yelp of surprise and pain and it flies into Dean's outstretched left hand. As Sam uselessly screams "stop," Dean buries the Blade in Cain's chest and the demon crumples to the floor. Dean maintains his grasp as the Mark flees Cain's dead flesh, retreating completely up his arm, its glow dying out.
"Oh God," says Sam, staggering back up to his feet. "Oh God. What the fuck, Dean? Why? Why did you stop him?"
Dean drops the lifeless arm and turns to him with a victorious look. "I'm keeping the Mark. It's mine."
///
Sam, of all people, should understand. He knows what it's like to want it, to want it so bad, to need it. He knows what it feels like for that power to become part of you, not overriding you, but spinning through you, not other than, but in addition to you, making you better, making you something strong and fiery and fearless and so, so much better than you ever were. Not ridden with guilt, but filled with righteous anger.
"I want to keep it," Dean says.
"Please," Sam repeats. "Let me save you."
There is nothing to be saved.
Dean turns on his heel and leaves the cabin, with Sam close behind. "Dean, look," Sam sputters. "You don't want to do this. We can still get rid of it. We'll figure something out."
Of course Sam doesn't get it. There's nothing to figure out. Dean's heartbeat pounds in his ears, and the Mark pulses along with its rhythm. Or maybe it's the other way around. It doesn't matter any more. He and the Mark are one again.
"Dean, please. You can do this." Sam grabs his arm, and Dean feels a hot wave of rage rolling through him. He puts his right hand against Sam's chest and shoves him backward until he stumbles into the cabin wall. He holds him there, pinning him to the wall with the Blade against his throat.
"I told you," he growls, "I'm going to keep it." Sam stands motionless, palms against the wall, his eyes full of concern but not terror, and Dean needs it, needs to see the look on Sam's face when he realizes his brother is going to kill him. He needs to see his hands stained with Sam's blood. Needs to watch the life pump out of him.
"Dean," Sam says, almost soundlessly.
"I'm keeping it," Dean says slowly. "You need to back. The fuck. Off."
"No," says Sam.
Fine, then. And the Mark sings with joy, because Dean's not going to let Sam take it away from him. Finish him, it whispers. Finish him, and this will be done forever. Dean closes his eyes and he sees it, the same scene that's been playing out in his dreams, in endless variations but always with the same result - the Blade slicing across Sam's throat, Sam's blood warm and wet on his hands, Sam's eyes flashing betrayal and terror and then going blank, Sam's lips forming words that his severed vocal cord can't utter, words like please and no and Dean, Dean, Dean -
Suddenly Sam bucks against his hand, knocking Dean to the ground with a headbutt and a sweep of his leg. Before Dean's head clears, Sam is on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning his arms above his head with one giant hand. The Blade is still in Dean's left hand but no matter how much he writhes and kicks, he can't get out of Sam's grip. Then Sam punches him in the jaw and he lies limp and stunned for a moment, still gripping the Blade with all his might. Sam grabs Dean's right hand and holds it up between them; then Dean hears one of the ugliest sounds he's ever heard, the language of Hell coming from Sam's mouth: come to me.
Dean screams in anger as he watches the Mark creep away from him, crawling onto Sam's hand, its red glow lighting the night around them. Then Sam grabs Dean's left arm, the one holding the Blade, and starts swinging it. There's a brief burst of light and a pained moan from Sam and warm spray of something warm and wet and metallic-smelling and oh God, it's blood, did he do it? Did he kill Sam? Then Sam swings Dean's left arm again and there's a sharp jerk and a blinding light and a burst of pain and fuck, fuck, it hurts so much.
Sam lets go of Dean's arm and rolls on the ground, curling in on himself, and Dean doesn't know what's happening, he doesn't understand why his arm hurts so much and there's so much blood and he's confused and in pain but mostly he's bereft, because something important is gone, whatever was keeping him going has left him. Then his eyes focus on something in front of him, something pale and bloody, and oh fuck, oh fuck, now he understands, now he knows what Sam did. Because Sam is way over there but his hand, his hand is still clutching Dean's, right here on the ground. As Dean watches, the Mark vibrates between their severed hands, flowing up and down, looking for life, before it finally fizzles out.
Sam's a bundle of nervous energy, fueled on hope and adrenaline. He's on his knees, scanning the ground for something, finally landing on his flannel shirt. He picks it up and thrusts it toward Dean's left hand. "Drop that," he says breathlessly, and Dean realizes he's still holding the bloody Blade, its edge now dull and dead. He drops the blade and grabs the sleeve Sam is waving at him. "Hold on tight," Sam says, his voice kind of jumpy and panicky. Dean grips the shirt as Sam tears off one sleeve and then the other, and would have ever thought it would be a good thing that Sam's clothes were so threadbare and easy to tear? He holds one ragged strip of cloth against what remains of Dean's right arm. "Help me out here. Between the two of us I think we can tie this into a tourniquet."
Dean looks at his brother's pale, sweaty face and shakes his head. "You first. You're in worse shape than I am." Sam rolls his eyes but seems to recognize it would be pointless to argue, and the two manage to knot the fabric just below Sam's elbow. It's not nearly tight enough, but it will have to do. By the time they manage to do the same to Dean's bloody stump, he's dizzy from the effort. He stumbles to the cabin and collapses, resting against the wall as Sam frantically scans the ground around him again.
"Where's my jacket? We can wrap them up in my jacket so we don't get too much blood in the car."
Jesus, Sam. Dean stares at his little brother, so determined to fix this, and whatever's left of his heart breaks a little, because it's not fixable. "And then what, Sam? Hike to the car so we can drive to the hospital? You know we're not going to make it." He waves at Sam's blood-soaked t-shirt and jeans. "You're about to bleed out, and I'm not any better."
"But what choice do we have? Call an ambulance?" Sam's found his jacket, and he pins it against his left side with what remains of his arm while he fishes out his phone, but his face falls when he retrieves it, because of course they're too far out for a signal. "Fuck. Fuck!" He hurls the useless phone into the night, and whatever was fueling him has finally run out - he's swaying on his feet, running his hand through his sweaty hair, mumbling "I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do."
"Come here," Dean says, patting the ground next to him. And suddenly Sam unravels. He crumples against the cabin like a broken doll and slides down until he's seated next to Dean. After a moment, he sags against him in defeat.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he says. "It wasn't supposed to go this way. This is all wrong."
"Yeah, well, that's my fault, not yours."
"It doesn't matter whose fault it is," he says, his voice cracking. "I was trying to save you and I fucked it up. This was supposed to save you."
Dean takes a deep breath. He has to make sure Sam understands that this act, his last anguished act of love and desperation, was not wasted. "You did not fuck it up. You didsave me." He can feel Sam against his shoulder, shaking his head. "Listen to me, Sam," he says, as fiercely as he can. "The Mark was dragging me straight to Hell, and I wasn't going to stop it. You saved me from that. If you hadn't stopped me, right here, today, I would have been gone. I would have killed you and I would have become a demon again, but you saved me, Sammy." He wants to say more but suddenly he's tired, so tired, his tongue thick and heavy.
"So what do we do now?" Sam whispers. "Just..."
"This. Just this." Dean sighs. And it's okay. It really is okay. They're going to die here knowing that the Mark is gone, the Blade is useless, the Knights of Hell are all dead, and the world can take care of the rest of it without them. It's okay.
"I'm glad you're here with me, Sam. If this is the end, I'm glad you're with me."
As his vision starts to go dark around the edges, he sees a spot of warm golden light, and some small part of him is surprised that it's true, that he really is going to walk into the light, and maybe that's a sign that it's final this time, because he doesn't remember ever doing that before. Before he blacks out completely, he realizes he must be seeing double, because now the light looks like two lights. Almost like headlights.
///
When Dean opens his eyes again, his arm is on fire. "Son of a bitch!" he yells, trying to pull away from the source of the pain, but he's held fast.
"Hold still."
"Cas? Jesus, Cas, is that you?" Dean reflexively tries to move his hand to wipe the blood off his face.
"Not Jesus. Just me. Stop moving." Dean manages to clear his face with his left hand, and now he can see Cas bent over his right arm, knitting it back together. The burning pain finally stops and Cas sits back on his heels. "You should be okay now," he says, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Why are you even here?" asks Dean, rubbing a hand over his face, and shit, his jaw is sore, because -
Sam. Dean leaps to his feet and finds his brother, pale and still, eyes closed, lying on the grass. He drops to his knees at Sam's side and finds a pulse, weak but steady.
"I'm here because Sam texted me coordinates," Cas says.
God. When he was still trying to trick Dean into thinking Cas had the Blade. Thank God.
"Okay, Cas. Fix Sam now."
But when Dean looks up, Cas is leaning wearily against the cabin, not moving.
"Cas? Come on, man. Fix Sam."
"I can't," sighs the angel. "I don't have enough power to heal both of you."
"What the fuck, Cas?" yells Dean, stupefied, because there is no version of events where Dean is supposed to be saved before Sam, saved instead of Sam, and Jesus fuck, how does Cas not know that?
"Sam was still conscious when I got here. He told me to help you first. He said it was more important to save your right arm than his left arm. And he said you'd lost more blood than he had, and you were weakened after losing the Mark."
Sam said, Sam said. All it boils down to is, Sam threw himself onto the hand grenade of Dean's fuck ups, he sacrificed himself on the altar of Dean's bad decisions once again, and Dean wasn't there to stop him, and God, he can't do this again, he can't live through this again, he can't. "Cas," he says. "You've got to save him. You've got to do something."
Cas puts out a hand and pulls Dean to his feet. "I can keep him alive until we get him to a hospital," he says. "And after I've rested, I can heal whatever they weren't able to heal."
Oh, God, thank God. Dean barely notices the bundle Cas picks up off the ground until he places it in his arms - it's Sam's coat, wrapped carefully around his severed hand. "Put that in the car," he says, motioning behind Dean.
Dean spins and sees a Jeep, white beneath spatters of mud. "Where'd you get this?"
"I stole it."
Dean laughs, because for the first time in forever he actually feels like laughing, as he gently places his bundle in the front passenger seat. The two of them carry Sam to the car and Cas slides into the back seat with his legs pillowing Sam's head. He holds the injured arm up and keeps a palm on Sam's chest as Dean drives, like the bat out of Hell he is, to the nearest hospital.
///
When Sam wakes up, his first word is "Dean." His second word is "arm."
"Hey, Sammy, it's okay. I'm here. You're gonna be fine."
"Arm. Lemme see."
Christ. "Sam, you don't want to see that. You can't see anything anyway. It's all bandaged up. But they got it sewn back on. You're going to be okay."
Sam paws weakly at Dean. "No. Your arm."
Oh. That. Dean hasn't even thought about his own arm, hasn't even looked at it. He holds it in front of Sam's face. "See? All gone."
Sam smiles. "Good. Good."
"Yeah. You did good, Sammy." Dean resists the urge to tousle Sam's hair or squeeze his hand or hell, climb into bed with him and hug him until they both start crying. There needs to be some manly, dignified way of saying thank you for saving me, even though I was willing to kill you so you couldn't. He settles for patting Sam's shoulder. "Go back to sleep now, okay? I'll be here when you wake up."
"Promise?"
"Promise. Somebody's got to keep an eye on you." Dean settles back into the bedside chair and takes a closer look at his arm. The Mark is gone, but it left behind a faint, silvery scar. And that's okay. A reminder is probably a good thing.
///
Author's Note
So, I kind of gave myself the Lord of the Rings ending I wanted. I ended up casting the Mark itself as both Gollum and the Ring, in a way. And yes, it would have been more true to the book if Dean had been the only one to lose a body part, but what can I say. The heart wants what the heart wants.