Fic: Where do we begin (the rubble or our sins)? 1 of 3
Where do we begin (the rubble or our sins)?
Length: About 10,900 words
Rating: R for language (sorry, Dean has a potty mouth)
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley
Spoilers: Through season 9
Synopsis: This is Sam, saving his brother.
An AU that takes place immediately after 9.23. The title is from the song Pompeii by Bastille.
///
THE ROAD SO FAR
///
"Please, Hannah. I just need a minute." Castiel shuts the door to Metatron's office, ignoring Hannah's confused face. She is waiting for orders and he doesn't have any. The things he would order, she can't accomplish. No one can accomplish.
Leaning heavily against the door, he stares at the empty office. At the broken shards of the angel tablet on the floor. At the typewriter, where he wrote out their fate. Did he? Did he actually script Dean's death? Gadreel's sacrifice? Castiel slips the paper out of the typewriter and reads Metatron's last story. He gets as far as the description of the angel blade embedded in Dean's chest before he crumples the paper into a ball and hurls it across the room.
"Why, Father?" he shouts. "Why would You let him do this? Why didn't You stop him? What do You want me to do? Am I supposed to lead them now? Lead them to what? What do You want?"
There is, of course, no answer when Castiel calls his Father. There never is. The urge to sob, to scream, is stronger than it ever was when he was human. He picks up the typewriter and slams it onto the floor, where it lands with a cacophony of metal against plastic, and then stands there stunned by his own violence. "I don't know what to do," he whispers. "I don't want to be a leader. I just want to be an angel again. I just want peace in Heaven. I just want my friend to be alive. Please, Father, tell me what to do."
A cracked piece of the typewriter's housing falls away with a gentle clink, and Castiel notices the inside of the machine is glowing with a soft white light.
It's glowing.
He gets on his knees and peers inside. Inside, there is a small glass vial, filled with the most beautiful light he has ever seen. As soon as he sees it, it speaks to him. Castiel knows it better than he knows the skin and flesh of this borrowed body. It is his grace. With a trembling hand, he retrieves the small bottle. Much of his grace was used for Metatron's spell, and the half-bottle remaining must have helped power his prescriptive typewriter. Half a bottle. It's not much, but it will have to be enough.
///
It starts in his arm.
It's a pulsing sensation, like when the pain of an injury is throbbing in time to your heartbeat, but it's not pain. It's more like the feeling of a numb limb coming back to life.
It creeps up his right arm first, then it starts pulsing in his left hand, and his toes, and it moves toward his core. It brings warmth and life and something else, something extraordinary, something indescribable. Something dark and powerful and hungry.
The soft rumble of Crowley's voice slides just under his consciousness, and whatever he's saying doesn't really matter, but the sound pulls Dean up and out of the depths.
And then the Blade is in his hand and the Mark cries out to it and its power surges through him and now nothing is numb, everything is bright and brilliant and jittery and very, very much alive, and he knows.
Everything he hates about his life - the guilt, the fear, the doubt, the crushing responsibility - is gone.
{You know what you are now.}
"Open your eyes." And he does.
Crowley peers down at him, his face a picture of glee and awe. "Do you understand, Dean?"
Dean nods. He does understand. Old Dean is dead and New and Improved Dean, Dean Adjacent, the Dean who wields (is wielded by) the Mark and the Blade, is taking over. He understands his purpose, his power. He understands everything now.
"Good. I'm going to pop down to the basement before your brother summons me into the middle of a devil's trap. Meet me there."
Your brother. That used to have some special significance. Something beyond a position on the family tree. The words your brother used to be a button labelled push me and watch Dean dance. The vaguest threat, joined with those words, would send him into a blind rage, or panic, or both. But now those words simply inform him that Sam is in the basement.
Well, that's interesting.
And not in a bad way.
///
As Dean nears the dungeon, he can hear Sam, low and intense and just barely holding it together (and that should stir something in him, should make his heart race, but it doesn't, it really really doesn't). "You got him into this. You're going to get him out of it."
He doesn't need to see Crowley's face to know he's smirking - he can hear the smirk. "Get who? Out of what? I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, you son of a bitch! The Mark! Whatever it did to Dean, you're going to undo it!" There is a crash; Sam has thrown something, or kicked something. Or maybe Sam has been thrown or kicked, broken into bloody pieces, and Dean is surprised to realize that any of these possibilities are equally disturbing to him - which is to say, not at all.
"Sorry, Moose, I can't. Even if I could, I don't want to. And I don't think Squirrel wants me to either. Do you, Dean?"
Dean knows a cue when he hears one. He steps into the dungeon and watches emotions wash over Sam's face - surprise, fear, confusion, joy - and then he blinks his eyes black, and the only thing on Sam's face is fury. He lunges for Crowley, screaming in anger. "You're dead, Crowley! You're fucking dead!"
But before he can bury the demon blade in Crowley's chest, Dean flicks his wrist (so easy, so instinctive) and Sam is slammed against the wall.
He's like a giant angry trophy, hanging there, pinned to the wall with his hair in his face, out of breath. He reeks of whiskey and fear (and this ability to detect fear, it's nice), but he's always been a belligerent little shit, even (especially) when he's scared out of his mind. "Get out of him," he growls. "Get out of him, or I swear to God, I will fucking end you."
{So protective of Old Dean, now that he's dead. Little late for that, don't you think?}
New and Improved Dean smiles. "Nobody's in me, Sam. This is me. The new me."
But Sam's not buying it. "Exorcizamus te..." he begins.
"Ah ah ah," says Dean, and he places the Blade over Sam's lips. "You don't want to do that. This really is me, Sam. I'm not anybody's meatsuit. You exorcise me, you're gonna be left with an empty corpse."
"He's telling the truth, Moose," Crowley interjects. "Dean isn't a vessel. Dean, himself, is a demon. Color me chuffed."
And Sam must believe it, because he has that look Dean hasn't seen in years, not since he started looking up at Sam instead of down - that combination of hope and pleading and naked terror that says oh god, Dean, I'm scared, I don't know what to do, please fix this; a look that used to cut through him like a knife, make him bury his own fear and jump on his white horse and fucking fix it.
But now? Now it's not his problem. And damn, that feels good.
"How?" Sam's voice cracks, like this single word, acknowledging and accepting everything, is too much for him.
Dean shrugs. "The Mark. Immortality. I don't know. I don't question it. It just is."
Sam grimaces as he struggles to move. "Crowley!" he shouts. "What the fuck did you do to him?"
"Oh, I don't deserve all the credit," Crowley says, as he approaches the Winchesters. "Dean started it all when he accepted the Mark and the Blade. I just gave him a little nudge." He beams proudly at Dean, which makes him vaguely uncomfortable, like he's a damn prize. "Now, boys, can we end the little reunion? It's time to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. You and I, Squirrel, we've got places to go. People to see. Enemies to exterminate."
Many things have changed, but one thing hasn't: Crowley is still an intolerable fuckwad who needs to be reminded he's not in control. Dean turns to him and brandishes the Blade. "You call me Squirrel one more time and I'll stick your head on a pike. Are we clear?" With a surprised expression, Crowley puts up his hands and backs away, and Dean turns back to Sam. "But he's right about one thing. I do need to go."
"With him?" Sam gasps. "No, please, Dean. We can undo this. We know how to heal a demon. Please."
Dean shakes his head. "Sorry, Sammy. This is me now. I'm not a hunter any more. I don't belong here."
{You don't belong here and you don't want to be here and Sam has no idea how freeing that is. Isn't even capable of knowing.}
From a safe distance, Crowley makes an impatient noise. "Well? You ready to finish him off?"
Dean stares at him, confused. "What?"
Crowley draws a finger across his throat. "You know. Finish him off."
What the fuck? Dean's no longer feeling Sam's gravitational pull, but that doesn't mean he needs to kill him. "No! Jesus, Crowley, what's wrong with you?" He glares at Crowley in disgust, then turns back to Sam. "But I can't let you stop me, either."
And even though he's not ready to finish him off, he knows, the way he knows the sun will rise in the morning, that Sam is going to try to stop him unless he stops Sam first. Because Sam will never just let him walk away into his new and improved life, the way Dean let Sam go.
Is this what Sam felt like when he left for Stanford? Is this what it's like? To know that whatever wreckage you're leaving behind, it doesn't matter, because what's ahead of you is so much better than anything you've ever had, so completely worth it? Is this what it's like to have your future matter more than your past? To really and truly not care, not because you're dead inside, not because you've used up all of your ability to care, but because it just doesn't matter any more?
{You can forgive Sam for Stanford now, can't you? Because this feels good, doesn't it?}
Holy fuck, it does.
He leans close to Sam and brushes the stupid long hair out of his eyes. Sam needs to see this. He needs to see and hear and understand. "It's over," Dean says, calm and sincere. "I'm not your brother the hunter any more. I'm something else." Something better. Something so much better. "You need to let go."
{He's let go of you before, he can damn sure do it again.}
He blinks his eyes to black again and Sam flinches. Dean releases his hold, and Sam slides down the wall and slumps to his knees but quickly scrabbles back on his feet.
"Please, Dean," he says. "We can fix this."
With a sigh, Dean smacks him in the jaw, right on the bruised spot where he hit him yesterday (yesterday? was it just yesterday that everything changed?). Sam's head snaps back and slams into the wall with a crack, and he collapses.
"Sorry, Sam," Dean says. "I'm not broken." For once, Dean's not broken.
And he turns and walks out of the dungeon, out of the bunker, toward things that do matter.
///
With a feathery whoosh, Castiel lands in the bunker library. It's cold, dark, and empty. "Sam!" he shouts. "Where are you?" He curses the Enochian carved onto the brothers' ribs, not for the first time, and races down the hall to the bedrooms, still shouting for Sam. Finally he remembers his cell phone, and draws it from his pocket with shaking hands. Please don't let him be burning Dean's body, he thinks, as he taps Sam's number, only to be greeted with a deceptively cheerful "This is Sam Winchester, please leave a message."
The bedrooms are empty as well, and Castiel heads down the stairs, fumbling with his phone. This time when it rings, he hears a faint corresponding ring down the hall and nearly collapses in relief. Sam is here somewhere.
"Here" seems to be the dungeon - Castiel can hear Sam's phone, but before he finds him, he stumbles over an overturned metal bowl and recognizes the scattered ingredients of a summoning spell. "Oh, Sam," he breathes. "What have you done? What did you summon?"
The spell is forgotten when he spots Sam crumpled against the far wall. Castiel kneels next to him on the floor and notes the bruised jaw. Sliding a hand under his head, he tries to lift him to a sitting position, but the back of Sam's head feels sticky, and when Cas draws his hand back, it is stained with blood. Whatever he managed to summon must have been ferocious. Cas puts his palm over Sam's forehead and senses a cracked skull. He sends a tiny pulse of power through Sam, just enough to heal the skull and his concussion - he doesn't have much to spare, and Dean will need so much. Possibly more than he has available.
Sam groans and blinks back into consciousness, and Castiel helps him sit upright. "Sam? Sam! What happened to you? Where is Dean?"
"Oh, God, Cas." Sam is utterly broken, defeated. "Dean is - "
"I know," Castiel interrupts. He's not going to make Sam tell that story. "Metatron told me he killed him. But I might be able to bring him back. Where is he?"
But Sam's face doesn't show any hope, and the angel understands that odd expression about blood running cold, because he feels a chill of despair down to his core. It's too late. He probably doesn't have enough power to resurrect Dean's body if it's been burned. But he will try. He will always try. "Sam?" he says gently. "Did you burn him? I still might be able to save him, but I need to know where he is."
Sam slumps against the wall. "He's not dead, Cas. He's a demon. Dean is a demon."
///
Dean eyes the bullet curiously. It's an oddly familiar color, a whiter shade of silver, strangely lightweight for its size, and cool to the touch. "You realize this won't kill an angel, right?"
Crowley smiles that all-knowing smile that he's really come to hate. "I see your boyfriend didn't tell you about my new toy. It's an angel bullet. Made from an angel blade. To kill an angel. If you happened to have an angel on your list."
Huh. Dean does, in fact, have some angels on his list. Pretty much all of them, in fact. Tossing the bullet in the air, he thinks about shooting one. It seems so cold. So distant. So impersonal.
{Why would you want to use a gun when you've got the Blade? Why would you want to watch an angel die from a distance when you can be right there, close enough to feel the cold fire escaping around the edge of the Blade?}
He tosses the bullet back to Crowley. "No thanks," he says. "I think the Blade will do just fine."
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "You think. But you don't know. Might I ask when you plan to test this theory?"
"No, you might not."
(But when he does get a chance, he finds out he's right. The Blade works just fine. Better than fine.)
///
Sam pulls out his lockpick and grasps the doorknob, but it's not locked. He knows as soon as he opens the door that he's too late. The heavy metallic stench of fresh blood rushes up to meet him, and he backs away without even looking at the bodies. He knows who he would find, and he knows who he wouldn't find.
(The world is still full of evil, and Sam is still drowning in it. But this time Dean is the one holding his head under the surface.)
///
As Crowley sips whiskey in his elegantly furnished study, he can only be described as smug and self-satisified. But if anyone has the right to be smug and self-satisfied, it's the King of Hell. The undisputed King of Hell. Now in possession of the greatest weapon he could ever have dreamed of. Well, close to possession, anyway. Dean is a demon, and for all intents and purposes he is a Knight of Hell, but there's one last step before he becomes a true Knight. One step that will force the remaining shreds of his human soul into hiding forever. One act he can't come back from.
And here he comes, the cherry on Crowley's sundae, walking into the study. Dean picks up Crowley's whiskey bottle and takes a swig as he settles into the chair across from him. For the most part, he looks like the hunter he was months ago. Same swagger, same smirk, same unfortunate wardrobe. Few people would notice the difference. But Crowley isn't people, and even when Dean's eyes are their normal green, he can see it in there. The fire, the hate, the constant need bubbling just under the surface. A need Crowley is eager to encourage.
"Ah, there's my favorite soldier. I have another job for you."
"Go screw yourself," Dean sneers. "I'm not your errand boy, Crowley."
And the attitude. For fuck's sake, the attitude. One could hardly believe it possible, but it's even worse than before. "You'll like this one. I need the scalp of a hunter. Someone who has killed a vampire."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, that's oddly specific."
"As is the spell that requires it. But I thought you'd probably know one or two who fit the bill."
Feigning nonchalance - bless him, the dear boy doesn't know how his eyes betray him - Dean examines his fingernails. "Yeah, I do."
"Longer hair would be best," Crowley says, peering cautiously at Dean to see if he'll take the bait. "More convenient. Provides a handle away from the bloody bits." Dean glares at him through narrowed eyes, and Crowley responds with a shrug. "I'm nothing if not practical. So, do you have anybody in mind?"
"Yeah, I got someone in mind," Dean snarls.
Ah, hope springs eternal. "It wouldn't happen to be...?"
Dean stares at him, confused, for a beat. Hope quashed.
"What, Sam? No, dammit, it's not Sam. I told you to leave him alone. As long as he lets me live my life, he can live his."
"Of course. My misunderstanding. Is that what he's doing, then? Letting you live your life? Haven't heard from him lately?" Dean doesn't answer, but he's not the only one who can feign nonchalance. Crowley retrieves his whiskey bottle and refills his drink. "So, this other candidate. Friend of yours, back in the day?"
"Nope. Met her once. Didn't like her."
"Oh?" Now it's Crowley's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Fuck you, that's why not."
"Forgive me," Crowley smiles cordially. "Didn't mean to intrude on a private manner."
Of course, Crowley can easily guess who Dean has picked, and why he picked her, and it swirls a tiny drop of disappointment into his smug self-satisfaction. But it doesn't matter - he's got time. If there truly is a brotherhood of hunters, these minor acts of fratricide will do well to pave the way for the big one. And if not... oh well. A few hunters taken out of the game is still a good thing. After all, does it really matter if Dean picked a victim just because she insulted his precious little brother? He's still working his way up to it, but he'll be there soon. And once he has passed the point of no return, that useless little shred of humanity left in him will wither and die. It's a pity that Moose must be sacrificed; Crowley will always have a soft spot in his heart for the boy. But he's the only thing standing between Dean and Knighthood.
///
Sam tosses his duffle bag onto the unnecessary second bed (force of habit, that's all) and digs through dirty clothes and useless weapons until he finds the canister of salt. He pours a salt line across the windowsill; then turns to the door and starts to pour out more salt, but stops. He stares at it for a moment, then perches on the other bed with his laptop, leaving the door unwarded.
(In an hour, he will drift into an uneasy sleep, still leaning against the headboard. After a couple of hours he will wake from a nightmare, breathless and panicky, barely biting back a scream; he will stumble off the bed and, with trembling hands, pour a heavy line of salt in front of the door.)
///
Tracy Bell is pretty. Soft young skin, big brown eyes, long dark hair, legs for days, probably nice tits under that shapeless button-up shirt. In another life, she'd get his best seductive smile, his uninterrupted eye contact, his moving in close enough to be just on the other side of appropriate, just enough to let her know he's interested.
But he doesn't live that other life any more. This life (or whatever it is) he has now is full of new sensations. The smell of her anxiety. The feel of her heartbeat, a physical sensation that surrounds her like an aura. The heat of the Mark as it calls for her blood.
{The truth is, you don't even remember why you dislike her. The truth is, it doesn't even matter.}
Her pulse quickens as her anxiety escalates to fear. He steps closer, stretching this out, savoring it. He hasn't even drawn the Blade from his jacket yet, but her heart is already pounding like a wild thing trying to escape her chest. When he finally reveals it, in all its grotesque archaic glory, she knows she's going to die. As he presses the sharp edge to her throat, she gasps "Why?" He blinks his eyes to black, smiles, and says "Told you to look for black eyes, bitch."
And if her fear was delicious, her death is indescribable.
///
Sam draws Ruby's knife along the demon's chest, trying to ignore Castiel's concerned stare. For someone who once coerced Dean into picking up the knife again, he's suddenly awfully squeamish about torture, and Sam wants to send him away, but he seems to have made it his mission to take Dean's place as Sam's keeper. And yeah, that's a train of thought Sam does not need to board. He points the knife at the demon's face. "You can tell me his demon name, and I'll make sure you die quickly," he says calmly. "Or you can keep this up. Your choice. Either way you end up dead, so you might as well get it over with. No reason for heroics here."
The demon laughs. "I may be bound to this body, but that doesn't mean I have to be present. I can slide on into the background and let poor Roger have the driver's seat. You wouldn't hurt a meatsuit."
"Wouldn't I?" Sam's pushes the knife in farther, and Castiel looks away. "You don't know me very well."
"I'll do it!" gasps the demon. "I'll fucking do it!"
"Fine," sneers Sam. "And you know what I'll do? I'll bury poor Roger so deep no one will ever find him. And you'll still be permanently bound to him. Forever. In a grave."
Castiel has apparently had all he can take; he puts a hand on Sam's arm to pull him away. "Please, Sam," he says. "This is not what Dean would have - "
Sam whirls angrily around. "Cas? Are you really going to tell me this isn't what Dean would have wanted? Is that what you're about to say? Because you do realize we're in this position because Dean did what Dean wanted, right?" He punctuates his statement by sliding the knife across the demon's throat, leaving a shallow gash.
"But to torture a vessel? To bury him alive? This isn't you, Sam."
(And what is the benefit of being Sam, anyway? What good has it done so far?)
He rolls his eyes. "This asshole's bluffing. His vessel is already dead." He turns to the demon. "There's absolutely nothing stopping me from digging a hole and throwing him in there. Forever. And since he doesn't seem to have any information on Dean, I might as well do it." He wipes the blade clean on the demon's shirt and slides it into his pocket. "So, Cas. You gonna help me dig a hole?"
The demon slumps in defeat. "Okay," he mutters. "It's Belial. His name is Belial. So just kill me and get it over with, all right? You got what you wanted."
Sam smiles, but the demon blade remains in his pocket. Castiel blinks at him, confused. "Are you going to...?"
"Kill him?" says Sam. "No. I might need him later."
"You lied!" screeches the demon.
"Yeah, I lied," Sam snaps. "Demons lie, I lie. Deal with it."
Castiel frowns. "What do you plan to do with him?"
Jesus, Cas. Not this. "You know what I need him for. Don't do this to me. I told you, I need your help. I can't do it without you."
"And I told you I will not help you," Castiel replies. But Sam knows no matter how much he opposes the plan, he will feel compelled to do his part in the end. And Castiel knows this as well. He accepts his fate, sighs, and changes the subject. "How did you know the vessel was dead?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. No, I don't really know if he's dead."
"I see. So threatening to bury him was a bluff."
"Bluff? No. I'd do it. Bury him for a week and then dig him out and see if he's ready to talk." He turns to the demon. "And I'll still do it, if it turns out you lied to me."
Castiel blinks in confusion again. "You would bury a vessel alive?"
"No, no," says Sam, looking away. "He, um, he wouldn't have been alive. I would have made sure he was dead."
"So you would have killed the vessel just so you could torture the demon?"
Sam locks eyes with Castiel. "Dean is killing people. Hunters and civilians. And angels, Cas. He has to be stopped." Castiel looks away, and Sam knows he's seeing the charred patterns of angel wings that Dean leaves like a trail of breadcrumbs. Angels, demons, hunters, civilians - no one has been safe. "You know I don't want to kill a vessel," Sam continues. But he's one person, Cas. We've killed God knows how many vessels when it was the best way to kill a demon. So if one person has to be sacrificed to save everyone Dean is going to kill if we don't stop him? Yes, I would do that."
"Sam. That doesn't sound like you."
But Sam has learned that being Sam doesn't really work a lot of the time. Sometimes he has to be someone else.
///
Crowley is adjusting his tie in the ornate mirror when he catches Dean's reflection behind him. He doesn't bother to turn around. "Dean, Dean, Dean. Wasn't sure I'd see you today."
"Yeah, my teddy bear picnic got rained out."
"Amusing. But maybe too close to the truth. Word on the street is, you're too soft for this job."
Old Dean would have thoughtfully evaluated this information, would have carefully considered whether it were an advantage or a drawback to be underestimated by the local demon population. New and Improved Dean isn't sure he gives a shit. "Maybe the street needs to shut its fucking trap before I show it how soft I am."
Crowley shrugs. "You know how the street is. The peanut gallery, they have opinions. Sometimes baseless. Sometimes not."
"What are you saying, Crowley?"
"I'm saying, they see your brother, still running around. Still hunting them. Still apparently hunting you. And they wonder why you're not doing anything about it."
Goddammit. It always comes down to this, and Dean's tired of it. Your brother has gone from sacred to neutral to a huge pain in his ass. "I told you, I'm leaving Sam alone as long as he leaves me alone. It's none of your business anyway."
Crowley turns around and looks Dean in the eye. "Then maybe you'd be interested in another little bit of gossip from the peanut gallery. The fact that Sam has your true name now. And just what do you suppose he intends to do with that?"
"Dammit," Dean groans. Because he knows exactly what Sam can and will do with his true name.
"Exactly," smiles Crowley. "Names have power, Dean, and you know what he's going to do with yours, now that he can summon you. So much for live and let live, yes?"
It always comes down to Sam, doesn't it? Always the sticking point. Ignoring Dean when he wants to be saved, saving Dean when he wants to be ignored. Fuck, Sam. Can't you just leave it alone?
{He'll never leave you alone. Now that you want to live your own life, now that you're free, he'll never leave you alone.}
Sometimes the Mark whispers; sometimes it screams. But it always tells the truth.
"Guess it's time to stop him," Dean says.
"That's my boy," says Crowley, with a wide grin.
///
Part 2
Length: About 10,900 words
Rating: R for language (sorry, Dean has a potty mouth)
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Castiel, Crowley
Spoilers: Through season 9
Synopsis: This is Sam, saving his brother.
An AU that takes place immediately after 9.23. The title is from the song Pompeii by Bastille.
///
THE ROAD SO FAR
///
"Please, Hannah. I just need a minute." Castiel shuts the door to Metatron's office, ignoring Hannah's confused face. She is waiting for orders and he doesn't have any. The things he would order, she can't accomplish. No one can accomplish.
Leaning heavily against the door, he stares at the empty office. At the broken shards of the angel tablet on the floor. At the typewriter, where he wrote out their fate. Did he? Did he actually script Dean's death? Gadreel's sacrifice? Castiel slips the paper out of the typewriter and reads Metatron's last story. He gets as far as the description of the angel blade embedded in Dean's chest before he crumples the paper into a ball and hurls it across the room.
"Why, Father?" he shouts. "Why would You let him do this? Why didn't You stop him? What do You want me to do? Am I supposed to lead them now? Lead them to what? What do You want?"
There is, of course, no answer when Castiel calls his Father. There never is. The urge to sob, to scream, is stronger than it ever was when he was human. He picks up the typewriter and slams it onto the floor, where it lands with a cacophony of metal against plastic, and then stands there stunned by his own violence. "I don't know what to do," he whispers. "I don't want to be a leader. I just want to be an angel again. I just want peace in Heaven. I just want my friend to be alive. Please, Father, tell me what to do."
A cracked piece of the typewriter's housing falls away with a gentle clink, and Castiel notices the inside of the machine is glowing with a soft white light.
It's glowing.
He gets on his knees and peers inside. Inside, there is a small glass vial, filled with the most beautiful light he has ever seen. As soon as he sees it, it speaks to him. Castiel knows it better than he knows the skin and flesh of this borrowed body. It is his grace. With a trembling hand, he retrieves the small bottle. Much of his grace was used for Metatron's spell, and the half-bottle remaining must have helped power his prescriptive typewriter. Half a bottle. It's not much, but it will have to be enough.
///
It starts in his arm.
It's a pulsing sensation, like when the pain of an injury is throbbing in time to your heartbeat, but it's not pain. It's more like the feeling of a numb limb coming back to life.
It creeps up his right arm first, then it starts pulsing in his left hand, and his toes, and it moves toward his core. It brings warmth and life and something else, something extraordinary, something indescribable. Something dark and powerful and hungry.
The soft rumble of Crowley's voice slides just under his consciousness, and whatever he's saying doesn't really matter, but the sound pulls Dean up and out of the depths.
And then the Blade is in his hand and the Mark cries out to it and its power surges through him and now nothing is numb, everything is bright and brilliant and jittery and very, very much alive, and he knows.
Everything he hates about his life - the guilt, the fear, the doubt, the crushing responsibility - is gone.
{You know what you are now.}
"Open your eyes." And he does.
Crowley peers down at him, his face a picture of glee and awe. "Do you understand, Dean?"
Dean nods. He does understand. Old Dean is dead and New and Improved Dean, Dean Adjacent, the Dean who wields (is wielded by) the Mark and the Blade, is taking over. He understands his purpose, his power. He understands everything now.
"Good. I'm going to pop down to the basement before your brother summons me into the middle of a devil's trap. Meet me there."
Your brother. That used to have some special significance. Something beyond a position on the family tree. The words your brother used to be a button labelled push me and watch Dean dance. The vaguest threat, joined with those words, would send him into a blind rage, or panic, or both. But now those words simply inform him that Sam is in the basement.
Well, that's interesting.
And not in a bad way.
///
As Dean nears the dungeon, he can hear Sam, low and intense and just barely holding it together (and that should stir something in him, should make his heart race, but it doesn't, it really really doesn't). "You got him into this. You're going to get him out of it."
He doesn't need to see Crowley's face to know he's smirking - he can hear the smirk. "Get who? Out of what? I don't know what you're talking about."
"You know exactly what I'm talking about, you son of a bitch! The Mark! Whatever it did to Dean, you're going to undo it!" There is a crash; Sam has thrown something, or kicked something. Or maybe Sam has been thrown or kicked, broken into bloody pieces, and Dean is surprised to realize that any of these possibilities are equally disturbing to him - which is to say, not at all.
"Sorry, Moose, I can't. Even if I could, I don't want to. And I don't think Squirrel wants me to either. Do you, Dean?"
Dean knows a cue when he hears one. He steps into the dungeon and watches emotions wash over Sam's face - surprise, fear, confusion, joy - and then he blinks his eyes black, and the only thing on Sam's face is fury. He lunges for Crowley, screaming in anger. "You're dead, Crowley! You're fucking dead!"
But before he can bury the demon blade in Crowley's chest, Dean flicks his wrist (so easy, so instinctive) and Sam is slammed against the wall.
He's like a giant angry trophy, hanging there, pinned to the wall with his hair in his face, out of breath. He reeks of whiskey and fear (and this ability to detect fear, it's nice), but he's always been a belligerent little shit, even (especially) when he's scared out of his mind. "Get out of him," he growls. "Get out of him, or I swear to God, I will fucking end you."
{So protective of Old Dean, now that he's dead. Little late for that, don't you think?}
New and Improved Dean smiles. "Nobody's in me, Sam. This is me. The new me."
But Sam's not buying it. "Exorcizamus te..." he begins.
"Ah ah ah," says Dean, and he places the Blade over Sam's lips. "You don't want to do that. This really is me, Sam. I'm not anybody's meatsuit. You exorcise me, you're gonna be left with an empty corpse."
"He's telling the truth, Moose," Crowley interjects. "Dean isn't a vessel. Dean, himself, is a demon. Color me chuffed."
And Sam must believe it, because he has that look Dean hasn't seen in years, not since he started looking up at Sam instead of down - that combination of hope and pleading and naked terror that says oh god, Dean, I'm scared, I don't know what to do, please fix this; a look that used to cut through him like a knife, make him bury his own fear and jump on his white horse and fucking fix it.
But now? Now it's not his problem. And damn, that feels good.
"How?" Sam's voice cracks, like this single word, acknowledging and accepting everything, is too much for him.
Dean shrugs. "The Mark. Immortality. I don't know. I don't question it. It just is."
Sam grimaces as he struggles to move. "Crowley!" he shouts. "What the fuck did you do to him?"
"Oh, I don't deserve all the credit," Crowley says, as he approaches the Winchesters. "Dean started it all when he accepted the Mark and the Blade. I just gave him a little nudge." He beams proudly at Dean, which makes him vaguely uncomfortable, like he's a damn prize. "Now, boys, can we end the little reunion? It's time to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar's. You and I, Squirrel, we've got places to go. People to see. Enemies to exterminate."
Many things have changed, but one thing hasn't: Crowley is still an intolerable fuckwad who needs to be reminded he's not in control. Dean turns to him and brandishes the Blade. "You call me Squirrel one more time and I'll stick your head on a pike. Are we clear?" With a surprised expression, Crowley puts up his hands and backs away, and Dean turns back to Sam. "But he's right about one thing. I do need to go."
"With him?" Sam gasps. "No, please, Dean. We can undo this. We know how to heal a demon. Please."
Dean shakes his head. "Sorry, Sammy. This is me now. I'm not a hunter any more. I don't belong here."
{You don't belong here and you don't want to be here and Sam has no idea how freeing that is. Isn't even capable of knowing.}
From a safe distance, Crowley makes an impatient noise. "Well? You ready to finish him off?"
Dean stares at him, confused. "What?"
Crowley draws a finger across his throat. "You know. Finish him off."
What the fuck? Dean's no longer feeling Sam's gravitational pull, but that doesn't mean he needs to kill him. "No! Jesus, Crowley, what's wrong with you?" He glares at Crowley in disgust, then turns back to Sam. "But I can't let you stop me, either."
And even though he's not ready to finish him off, he knows, the way he knows the sun will rise in the morning, that Sam is going to try to stop him unless he stops Sam first. Because Sam will never just let him walk away into his new and improved life, the way Dean let Sam go.
Is this what Sam felt like when he left for Stanford? Is this what it's like? To know that whatever wreckage you're leaving behind, it doesn't matter, because what's ahead of you is so much better than anything you've ever had, so completely worth it? Is this what it's like to have your future matter more than your past? To really and truly not care, not because you're dead inside, not because you've used up all of your ability to care, but because it just doesn't matter any more?
{You can forgive Sam for Stanford now, can't you? Because this feels good, doesn't it?}
Holy fuck, it does.
He leans close to Sam and brushes the stupid long hair out of his eyes. Sam needs to see this. He needs to see and hear and understand. "It's over," Dean says, calm and sincere. "I'm not your brother the hunter any more. I'm something else." Something better. Something so much better. "You need to let go."
{He's let go of you before, he can damn sure do it again.}
He blinks his eyes to black again and Sam flinches. Dean releases his hold, and Sam slides down the wall and slumps to his knees but quickly scrabbles back on his feet.
"Please, Dean," he says. "We can fix this."
With a sigh, Dean smacks him in the jaw, right on the bruised spot where he hit him yesterday (yesterday? was it just yesterday that everything changed?). Sam's head snaps back and slams into the wall with a crack, and he collapses.
"Sorry, Sam," Dean says. "I'm not broken." For once, Dean's not broken.
And he turns and walks out of the dungeon, out of the bunker, toward things that do matter.
///
With a feathery whoosh, Castiel lands in the bunker library. It's cold, dark, and empty. "Sam!" he shouts. "Where are you?" He curses the Enochian carved onto the brothers' ribs, not for the first time, and races down the hall to the bedrooms, still shouting for Sam. Finally he remembers his cell phone, and draws it from his pocket with shaking hands. Please don't let him be burning Dean's body, he thinks, as he taps Sam's number, only to be greeted with a deceptively cheerful "This is Sam Winchester, please leave a message."
The bedrooms are empty as well, and Castiel heads down the stairs, fumbling with his phone. This time when it rings, he hears a faint corresponding ring down the hall and nearly collapses in relief. Sam is here somewhere.
"Here" seems to be the dungeon - Castiel can hear Sam's phone, but before he finds him, he stumbles over an overturned metal bowl and recognizes the scattered ingredients of a summoning spell. "Oh, Sam," he breathes. "What have you done? What did you summon?"
The spell is forgotten when he spots Sam crumpled against the far wall. Castiel kneels next to him on the floor and notes the bruised jaw. Sliding a hand under his head, he tries to lift him to a sitting position, but the back of Sam's head feels sticky, and when Cas draws his hand back, it is stained with blood. Whatever he managed to summon must have been ferocious. Cas puts his palm over Sam's forehead and senses a cracked skull. He sends a tiny pulse of power through Sam, just enough to heal the skull and his concussion - he doesn't have much to spare, and Dean will need so much. Possibly more than he has available.
Sam groans and blinks back into consciousness, and Castiel helps him sit upright. "Sam? Sam! What happened to you? Where is Dean?"
"Oh, God, Cas." Sam is utterly broken, defeated. "Dean is - "
"I know," Castiel interrupts. He's not going to make Sam tell that story. "Metatron told me he killed him. But I might be able to bring him back. Where is he?"
But Sam's face doesn't show any hope, and the angel understands that odd expression about blood running cold, because he feels a chill of despair down to his core. It's too late. He probably doesn't have enough power to resurrect Dean's body if it's been burned. But he will try. He will always try. "Sam?" he says gently. "Did you burn him? I still might be able to save him, but I need to know where he is."
Sam slumps against the wall. "He's not dead, Cas. He's a demon. Dean is a demon."
///
Dean eyes the bullet curiously. It's an oddly familiar color, a whiter shade of silver, strangely lightweight for its size, and cool to the touch. "You realize this won't kill an angel, right?"
Crowley smiles that all-knowing smile that he's really come to hate. "I see your boyfriend didn't tell you about my new toy. It's an angel bullet. Made from an angel blade. To kill an angel. If you happened to have an angel on your list."
Huh. Dean does, in fact, have some angels on his list. Pretty much all of them, in fact. Tossing the bullet in the air, he thinks about shooting one. It seems so cold. So distant. So impersonal.
{Why would you want to use a gun when you've got the Blade? Why would you want to watch an angel die from a distance when you can be right there, close enough to feel the cold fire escaping around the edge of the Blade?}
He tosses the bullet back to Crowley. "No thanks," he says. "I think the Blade will do just fine."
Crowley raises an eyebrow. "You think. But you don't know. Might I ask when you plan to test this theory?"
"No, you might not."
(But when he does get a chance, he finds out he's right. The Blade works just fine. Better than fine.)
///
Sam pulls out his lockpick and grasps the doorknob, but it's not locked. He knows as soon as he opens the door that he's too late. The heavy metallic stench of fresh blood rushes up to meet him, and he backs away without even looking at the bodies. He knows who he would find, and he knows who he wouldn't find.
(The world is still full of evil, and Sam is still drowning in it. But this time Dean is the one holding his head under the surface.)
///
As Crowley sips whiskey in his elegantly furnished study, he can only be described as smug and self-satisified. But if anyone has the right to be smug and self-satisfied, it's the King of Hell. The undisputed King of Hell. Now in possession of the greatest weapon he could ever have dreamed of. Well, close to possession, anyway. Dean is a demon, and for all intents and purposes he is a Knight of Hell, but there's one last step before he becomes a true Knight. One step that will force the remaining shreds of his human soul into hiding forever. One act he can't come back from.
And here he comes, the cherry on Crowley's sundae, walking into the study. Dean picks up Crowley's whiskey bottle and takes a swig as he settles into the chair across from him. For the most part, he looks like the hunter he was months ago. Same swagger, same smirk, same unfortunate wardrobe. Few people would notice the difference. But Crowley isn't people, and even when Dean's eyes are their normal green, he can see it in there. The fire, the hate, the constant need bubbling just under the surface. A need Crowley is eager to encourage.
"Ah, there's my favorite soldier. I have another job for you."
"Go screw yourself," Dean sneers. "I'm not your errand boy, Crowley."
And the attitude. For fuck's sake, the attitude. One could hardly believe it possible, but it's even worse than before. "You'll like this one. I need the scalp of a hunter. Someone who has killed a vampire."
Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, that's oddly specific."
"As is the spell that requires it. But I thought you'd probably know one or two who fit the bill."
Feigning nonchalance - bless him, the dear boy doesn't know how his eyes betray him - Dean examines his fingernails. "Yeah, I do."
"Longer hair would be best," Crowley says, peering cautiously at Dean to see if he'll take the bait. "More convenient. Provides a handle away from the bloody bits." Dean glares at him through narrowed eyes, and Crowley responds with a shrug. "I'm nothing if not practical. So, do you have anybody in mind?"
"Yeah, I got someone in mind," Dean snarls.
Ah, hope springs eternal. "It wouldn't happen to be...?"
Dean stares at him, confused, for a beat. Hope quashed.
"What, Sam? No, dammit, it's not Sam. I told you to leave him alone. As long as he lets me live my life, he can live his."
"Of course. My misunderstanding. Is that what he's doing, then? Letting you live your life? Haven't heard from him lately?" Dean doesn't answer, but he's not the only one who can feign nonchalance. Crowley retrieves his whiskey bottle and refills his drink. "So, this other candidate. Friend of yours, back in the day?"
"Nope. Met her once. Didn't like her."
"Oh?" Now it's Crowley's turn to raise an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Fuck you, that's why not."
"Forgive me," Crowley smiles cordially. "Didn't mean to intrude on a private manner."
Of course, Crowley can easily guess who Dean has picked, and why he picked her, and it swirls a tiny drop of disappointment into his smug self-satisfaction. But it doesn't matter - he's got time. If there truly is a brotherhood of hunters, these minor acts of fratricide will do well to pave the way for the big one. And if not... oh well. A few hunters taken out of the game is still a good thing. After all, does it really matter if Dean picked a victim just because she insulted his precious little brother? He's still working his way up to it, but he'll be there soon. And once he has passed the point of no return, that useless little shred of humanity left in him will wither and die. It's a pity that Moose must be sacrificed; Crowley will always have a soft spot in his heart for the boy. But he's the only thing standing between Dean and Knighthood.
///
Sam tosses his duffle bag onto the unnecessary second bed (force of habit, that's all) and digs through dirty clothes and useless weapons until he finds the canister of salt. He pours a salt line across the windowsill; then turns to the door and starts to pour out more salt, but stops. He stares at it for a moment, then perches on the other bed with his laptop, leaving the door unwarded.
(In an hour, he will drift into an uneasy sleep, still leaning against the headboard. After a couple of hours he will wake from a nightmare, breathless and panicky, barely biting back a scream; he will stumble off the bed and, with trembling hands, pour a heavy line of salt in front of the door.)
///
Tracy Bell is pretty. Soft young skin, big brown eyes, long dark hair, legs for days, probably nice tits under that shapeless button-up shirt. In another life, she'd get his best seductive smile, his uninterrupted eye contact, his moving in close enough to be just on the other side of appropriate, just enough to let her know he's interested.
But he doesn't live that other life any more. This life (or whatever it is) he has now is full of new sensations. The smell of her anxiety. The feel of her heartbeat, a physical sensation that surrounds her like an aura. The heat of the Mark as it calls for her blood.
{The truth is, you don't even remember why you dislike her. The truth is, it doesn't even matter.}
Her pulse quickens as her anxiety escalates to fear. He steps closer, stretching this out, savoring it. He hasn't even drawn the Blade from his jacket yet, but her heart is already pounding like a wild thing trying to escape her chest. When he finally reveals it, in all its grotesque archaic glory, she knows she's going to die. As he presses the sharp edge to her throat, she gasps "Why?" He blinks his eyes to black, smiles, and says "Told you to look for black eyes, bitch."
And if her fear was delicious, her death is indescribable.
///
Sam draws Ruby's knife along the demon's chest, trying to ignore Castiel's concerned stare. For someone who once coerced Dean into picking up the knife again, he's suddenly awfully squeamish about torture, and Sam wants to send him away, but he seems to have made it his mission to take Dean's place as Sam's keeper. And yeah, that's a train of thought Sam does not need to board. He points the knife at the demon's face. "You can tell me his demon name, and I'll make sure you die quickly," he says calmly. "Or you can keep this up. Your choice. Either way you end up dead, so you might as well get it over with. No reason for heroics here."
The demon laughs. "I may be bound to this body, but that doesn't mean I have to be present. I can slide on into the background and let poor Roger have the driver's seat. You wouldn't hurt a meatsuit."
"Wouldn't I?" Sam's pushes the knife in farther, and Castiel looks away. "You don't know me very well."
"I'll do it!" gasps the demon. "I'll fucking do it!"
"Fine," sneers Sam. "And you know what I'll do? I'll bury poor Roger so deep no one will ever find him. And you'll still be permanently bound to him. Forever. In a grave."
Castiel has apparently had all he can take; he puts a hand on Sam's arm to pull him away. "Please, Sam," he says. "This is not what Dean would have - "
Sam whirls angrily around. "Cas? Are you really going to tell me this isn't what Dean would have wanted? Is that what you're about to say? Because you do realize we're in this position because Dean did what Dean wanted, right?" He punctuates his statement by sliding the knife across the demon's throat, leaving a shallow gash.
"But to torture a vessel? To bury him alive? This isn't you, Sam."
(And what is the benefit of being Sam, anyway? What good has it done so far?)
He rolls his eyes. "This asshole's bluffing. His vessel is already dead." He turns to the demon. "There's absolutely nothing stopping me from digging a hole and throwing him in there. Forever. And since he doesn't seem to have any information on Dean, I might as well do it." He wipes the blade clean on the demon's shirt and slides it into his pocket. "So, Cas. You gonna help me dig a hole?"
The demon slumps in defeat. "Okay," he mutters. "It's Belial. His name is Belial. So just kill me and get it over with, all right? You got what you wanted."
Sam smiles, but the demon blade remains in his pocket. Castiel blinks at him, confused. "Are you going to...?"
"Kill him?" says Sam. "No. I might need him later."
"You lied!" screeches the demon.
"Yeah, I lied," Sam snaps. "Demons lie, I lie. Deal with it."
Castiel frowns. "What do you plan to do with him?"
Jesus, Cas. Not this. "You know what I need him for. Don't do this to me. I told you, I need your help. I can't do it without you."
"And I told you I will not help you," Castiel replies. But Sam knows no matter how much he opposes the plan, he will feel compelled to do his part in the end. And Castiel knows this as well. He accepts his fate, sighs, and changes the subject. "How did you know the vessel was dead?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah. No, I don't really know if he's dead."
"I see. So threatening to bury him was a bluff."
"Bluff? No. I'd do it. Bury him for a week and then dig him out and see if he's ready to talk." He turns to the demon. "And I'll still do it, if it turns out you lied to me."
Castiel blinks in confusion again. "You would bury a vessel alive?"
"No, no," says Sam, looking away. "He, um, he wouldn't have been alive. I would have made sure he was dead."
"So you would have killed the vessel just so you could torture the demon?"
Sam locks eyes with Castiel. "Dean is killing people. Hunters and civilians. And angels, Cas. He has to be stopped." Castiel looks away, and Sam knows he's seeing the charred patterns of angel wings that Dean leaves like a trail of breadcrumbs. Angels, demons, hunters, civilians - no one has been safe. "You know I don't want to kill a vessel," Sam continues. But he's one person, Cas. We've killed God knows how many vessels when it was the best way to kill a demon. So if one person has to be sacrificed to save everyone Dean is going to kill if we don't stop him? Yes, I would do that."
"Sam. That doesn't sound like you."
But Sam has learned that being Sam doesn't really work a lot of the time. Sometimes he has to be someone else.
///
Crowley is adjusting his tie in the ornate mirror when he catches Dean's reflection behind him. He doesn't bother to turn around. "Dean, Dean, Dean. Wasn't sure I'd see you today."
"Yeah, my teddy bear picnic got rained out."
"Amusing. But maybe too close to the truth. Word on the street is, you're too soft for this job."
Old Dean would have thoughtfully evaluated this information, would have carefully considered whether it were an advantage or a drawback to be underestimated by the local demon population. New and Improved Dean isn't sure he gives a shit. "Maybe the street needs to shut its fucking trap before I show it how soft I am."
Crowley shrugs. "You know how the street is. The peanut gallery, they have opinions. Sometimes baseless. Sometimes not."
"What are you saying, Crowley?"
"I'm saying, they see your brother, still running around. Still hunting them. Still apparently hunting you. And they wonder why you're not doing anything about it."
Goddammit. It always comes down to this, and Dean's tired of it. Your brother has gone from sacred to neutral to a huge pain in his ass. "I told you, I'm leaving Sam alone as long as he leaves me alone. It's none of your business anyway."
Crowley turns around and looks Dean in the eye. "Then maybe you'd be interested in another little bit of gossip from the peanut gallery. The fact that Sam has your true name now. And just what do you suppose he intends to do with that?"
"Dammit," Dean groans. Because he knows exactly what Sam can and will do with his true name.
"Exactly," smiles Crowley. "Names have power, Dean, and you know what he's going to do with yours, now that he can summon you. So much for live and let live, yes?"
It always comes down to Sam, doesn't it? Always the sticking point. Ignoring Dean when he wants to be saved, saving Dean when he wants to be ignored. Fuck, Sam. Can't you just leave it alone?
{He'll never leave you alone. Now that you want to live your own life, now that you're free, he'll never leave you alone.}
Sometimes the Mark whispers; sometimes it screams. But it always tells the truth.
"Guess it's time to stop him," Dean says.
"That's my boy," says Crowley, with a wide grin.
///
Part 2