The Poison Makes the Dose (read on AO3)
Sam/Dean, NC-17
Summary: Post-S9, even if Dean wants to be saved, it’s not going to be that easy. Because I am indulging myself, there are alternate endings, choose-your-own-adventure style. Thanks to![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
giandujakiss and ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
shoofus for beta.
References to past non-con.
When Crowley didn’t show after Sam repeated the ritual, Sam didn’t let his despair escape him. That bastard was probably watching remotely, laughing at him. Sam couldn’t afford to look ridiculous.
Dean was going to—Sam ought to get him into cold storage, at least. He’d have to be healed upon his resurrection, so deterioration wasn’t much of a worry, but Sam would never hear the end of it if his precious memory foam was stained with corpse-leak.
It should’ve been easier, moving through a world in which Dean was gone for the second time (third if you counted Gabriel’s time trick). But it hurt just as much, like constantly being thrown into a wall. There were two choices: keep moving, or stop.
Sam had seen how ‘stop’ worked out for him.
He went to preserve his brother’s corpse, but Dean wasn’t in his room any more.
There was a rushing, oceanic sound in his ears; his hands were numb; the light in the room went gray and staticky.
Sam managed to slide to the floor, back to the wall. He needed to—Castiel didn’t even know. Castiel might be dead too. Metatron might be typing this all out, cackling with glee. He should pray—
He couldn’t find his voice.
He couldn’t find his brother.
The room still smelled like Dean, sweat and gunpowder mixed with the lemon oil Dean had used to push back against fifty years of dust. He’d tried so hard to make this into their home. And even if his trying had included cutting off pieces of Sam, Sam had very recently discovered that he wasn’t willing to let that be the last act in their relationship.
Sam put his head in his hands and fought against the whirlpool in his head that wanted to drown him.
****
A vampire’s neck had a different texture than a possessed human’s, Dean thought. Like spoiled meat, or maybe Sam would’ve said extra firm tofu. Now that they were all dead, he had time to notice that the blood didn’t smell the way it did coming out of a human: some freaky vampire characteristic Dean didn’t care about, only it would’ve felt more satisfying if they’d run hotter.
Dean shook his head and heard the soft patter of castoff blood. “Crowley, what the fuck?”
They weren’t surrounded by bloodsucking freaks any more, so he figured he had time to ask where Sam was, and why the demon had zapped him into this slaughterhouse, and what had happened with Metatron.
“How do you feel, Dean?” Crowley asked instead of answering Dean’s perfectly reasonable question. Crowley sounded pleased. Almost fatherly, which was not a word Dean ever wanted to associate with the little bastard. Dean had half a mind to gut him where he stood, but then it’d be a mess and a half getting home (Crowley might’ve taken him to Serbia for all he knew; the vamps hadn’t done much but scream). Instead he shoved the King of Hell up against a filthy wall, the Blade jumping to Crowley’s neck like it was still thirsty, needing something with more kick.
“Careful, squirrel,” Crowley said, either unconcerned or a better faker than ever. “I’m serious. Aren’t you curious why your insides aren’t still decorating your cheap lumberjack clothes?”
Dean considered. “Not really.” Someone had healed him. Cas if he was lucky, Crowley if he wasn’t. Coming back from mortal wounds was no longer the surprise it had once been, though it remained a disappointment. But Crowley’s words forced him to take an internal census. Desire to kill: pretty high, despite the headless bodies taking up most of the floorspace in the warehouse/den of vampires. Worry about Sam: increasing. Metatron had been gone by the time Sam had gotten to Dean, but Crowley’s evasion wasn’t promising. Injuries: painless, without even the lingering throb of angelic healing. Actually, he felt like he’d just woken up from a full night of sleep after eating three bacon cheeseburgers and then fucking the hottest girl in the bar, and that concluded the inventory.
Crowley put his hand on Dean’s wrist, and Dean allowed him to push the Blade down.
“Pull up your shirt,” Crowley ordered, and rolled his eyes preemptively, so Dean didn’t bother to formulate an innuendo. “I don’t have any designs on your virtue, or even on your vices. This will simply go faster when you see for yourself.”
Worst case, he looked dumb in front of Crowley. Since he didn’t care, he used his free hand to tug his shirts up and—
“I’m a fucking zombie?”
Crowley scoffed and shoved him back a step. “I see resurrection hasn’t been kind to your brain cells, but then consider the starting point.” He put up his hands before Dean could grab him again. “Try something else that can animate a body past its expiration date.”
Dean stared at the ragged, unhealed hole in his chest, bloodless and gray.
“What,” Crowley said, almost pityingly, “did you think the Mark was going to make of you?”
“No,” Dean said, backing away, nearly stumbling over a staring head. He wanted to drop the Blade, to show that he absolutely had not become the thing Crowley was suggesting. His hand tightened on the bone, powder-dry against his fingers. “I’d know.” His heel slid back, through the blood.
“What, because all we do is torture and maim? Or because you were all sweetness and light before? Look around you, my boy. That desire you’re feeling, that need to squeeze the world until it gives up the pulp—you already know it.”
Dean had a hole in him, and he felt fresh as a new bottle of Jack. Ten years off the rack—he’d been razor close for years—he was shaking his head, but he knew, he knew.
“Dean, Dean,” Crowley said, like he was enjoying the taste of the name. “Your feathered friend has Metatron under control. You lasted long enough for that, anyway. And now,” he continued, rubbing his hands together, “we’re ready to see the Moose.”
****
Angels made a subtle difference in the feel of a room when they appeared. Displaced air, or something. Demons weren’t the same, so when Crowley coughed Sam jumped, rising into a defensive pose as quickly as he could even though his limbs felt like they were made of withered twigs.
“Dean!” Dean was behind Crowley, and silent, but Sam didn’t care, moving towards him because only touch could confirm his return.
Then Sam was slammed back up against the wall, pinned like a butterfly, and Dean was still staring at him, not objecting. “I imagine,” Crowley said, pacing theatrically with his hands behind his back, “right now you’re really regretting not reestablishing those anti-demon wards.”
“Let him go,” Dean growled, too late and too angry at the same time. He was gripping the Blade, his forearm corded with the tension of it, and with his chin lowered he looked ready to slice Crowley into a thousand bloody strips.
Crowley sighed and waved a desultory hand, and Sam was released far enough that he could stand, though he couldn’t move towards Dean. Sam had a microsecond of being blindingly furious that Dean had gotten himself into this, and then shoved it down because there were more urgent problems.
“Now listen, boys. I’m only going to say this once, which is why I organized this reunion. That, and to stop little brother from his mosquito-like attempts to summon me.”
“Crowley.” Dean’s voice made the name into a more serious threat than if he’d mentioned entrails.
“Don’t worry, my boy. I know how hot the blood runs in you. But you needn’t paint the whole town red. Not as long as I have my hand on the leash.”
Sam looked back and forth between them. He wasn’t sure what another major kill would do for Dean. But Crowley wasn’t going to let him have a real talk with his brother, and anyway the mention of leashes made Sam’s own body clench up on Dean’s behalf. He’d been Crowley’s tool too long already. “Do it, Dean,” he urged, hoping that the permission he’d refused before would send Dean into action.
Dean flinched like he’d been hit. But he swiveled towards Crowley, and the hand clutching the Blade lifted, almost mechanically.
His eyes went black.
“Oh God,” Sam blurted. Dean didn’t twitch. And he didn’t strike.
Dean was—Sam’s brain refused to process the information. This was some trick, some extra evil from the Blade. Sam was the one who was supposed to become a thing they hunted. Dean was the one who made the stupidest fucking choices imaginable. But not this.
“He can’t kill me, Moose,” Crowley smarmed, indifferent to Sam’s horror. “Abbadon, well, she had a long time in the job, and I wasn’t the King when she was around. But from the very first time I peeled your brother away from you, going after Pestilence, I knew I could have him. Dean here was born under my reign. I put the Blade in his hand. He’s my Knight.”
Dean grunted. Sweat beaded at his temples, but he was getting no closer to Crowley.
“In fact,” Crowley said, “let’s test this. Dean, kill your brother.”
Dean’s head whipped up. The noise of rage he made was worse than his howl at Gadreel. He even moved a step closer to Crowley.
Crowley shuffled back a few inches, smoothing his hands over the front of his black wool coat. “Well, it was worth a shot. I understand, I can’t ask that just yet. You need a little more time to get used to your new status. I won’t hold it against you. Something simpler, perhaps. I could take the classic Kirk/Uhura route, but I expect you’d enjoy that far too much to be a real test. Dean, cut me a hunk of your brother’s hair.”
Dean’s whole body juddered, like a car that had thrown an axle. But slowly he turned. Sam could’ve run; the way Dean was moving, he could’ve avoided Dean long enough to get behind some spell-barred door.
He wasn’t going to leave Dean alone with Crowley. The demon had spilled too much poison into Dean’s eager ears already. Sam stood his ground as the demon who’d been his brother approached.
“Don’t fight me,” Dean said, the words squeezed through his snarl.
The First Blade was so sharp Sam barely felt the tug as it parted the strands, so close to his hairline that a sudden motion would’ve risked slicing himself open. Dean’s mouth opened in a soundless howl, his eyes like tar.
“Stay away, Moose.” Crowley’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “I’m still figuring out what all the buttons do on my new toy. Come at me and you’ll be responsible for turning Dean into Cain all over again.”
With that, he snapped his fingers and they disappeared, fragments of Sam’s hair drifting through the air where Dean had been.
Sam straightened. He allowed himself to shudder in horror one time.
Then he turned and headed for the supply room. He had work to do.
****
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Crowley said, leaning back in his overstuffed chair. “You can’t blame a demon for trying.”
“Pretty sure I can,” Dean shot back. Though really, it was kind of funny if you thought about it—Dean spending more than thirty years trying to take care of Sam, even to the point of resurrecting him and, separately, shoving an angel inside him, then being the one who might end his life. You might even call it ironic.
“Consider it a taste of payback for all the aggro you twits put me through, then. Be good, and I might even approve a conjugal visit for you and the Moose.” Dean waited for the surge of queasy denial that always accompanied digs like that, but nothing. Hunh. “Sit down,” Crowley said, waving his hand. “We have other matters to discuss.”
Hell, Dean was discovering, was very different if you weren’t rack-adjacent. This part (which might well have been topside; Dean wasn’t too clear on the details) was decorated like a brothel, which had to be Crowley’s influence. The air was warm and smelled like sex.
Instead of risking his cool by sitting down on one of the heavily-pillowed chairs and couches and sliding off, Dean leaned against the wall, which was skin-mag pink alternating stripes of silk and velvet. He brought the Blade up between him and Crowley, not because he thought he’d have the strength to use it but just for the comfort of it.
“It’s time to follow your King’s lead,” Crowley said, capital letters and all. “If you don’t, I’ll send wave after wave of lesser demons after your brother until he’s dead for good. Behave, and I’ll leave him in peace. He can die of old age for all I care.”
Dean shifted his weight. “What d’you expect will keep me in line then?”
Crowley smiled and brought his fingertips together, like a low-rent Masterpiece Theater knockoff announcer. “Soon enough, my boy, you won’t give a damn about fighting my orders, as long as I keep throwing you enough raw meat.”
Dean found that way too easy to believe, except for the part about Sam being safe. That part needed fixing. Even if Dean didn’t exactly care as much about coddling Sam as he used to—Sam’s lectures about going too far finally kicking in now that he was black-eyed—he wasn’t going to let Crowley get one over on him. He narrowed his eyes, but kept his mouth shut.
“Now, I’m going to call in the troops,” Crowley said. “Feel free to loom, but try not to talk back. It spoils the impression.”
He clapped his hands, and the room was crawling with demons between one breath and the next, except that they stayed a respectable distance from both him and Crowley. If he wanted to gut any of them, he’d have to lunge. The meatsuit choices made America’s Top Model look like a bunch of dogs.
Dean eyed the assembly—Crowley’s remaining lieutenants, he thought—and imagined how their blood would feel washing hot over his hands, how the bones in their necks would snap after he forced his way through the flesh.
Crowley cleared his throat. Dean thought about cracking wise despite Crowley’s warning, but he wasn’t going to get free of Crowley in the next few minutes and he didn’t want this group of yahoos to see him getting pushed around. Hell was all about who got stood on and who did the standing. Dean didn’t want these demons getting any ideas.
“I need to make an introduction,” Crowley announced. “Dean Winchester is my Knight. I’ve never had one before, but I can already tell that I quite like it. So here’s how it’s going to be. In the absence of conflicting orders from me or attempts on my life, you all answer to him. If he wants pie, you will each and every one of you deliver five kinds. If he wants a blowjob, you will each get on your knees. If he wants a shoulder to cry on about how much he misses his brother—well, you get the picture. Anyone who has questions can ask Dean here. I’m sure he’d be delighted to carve the answers into your skin.”
He smoked out, but the other demons remained. Staring at him, wary. He wondered what Crowley had said about Abbadon’s demise.
“You lookin’ at me?” he asked, attempting a grin. The room cleared in an instant, only one tiny Asian girl remaining an extra five seconds, and when he tilted his head she flickered out too.
“Hey,” he said to the empty air. “When I want a cheeseburger, somebody better show!” He was just fucking with them, though. He hadn’t been hungry since he woke.
Anyway, he could use some time to figure out just how fucked he was. He checked his reflection in one of the ornate, gold-framed mirrors, and spent a few minutes practicing that distinctive demonic eye-flick. The basic switch wasn’t that hard, almost like controlling a blink. Given some time, Dean was pretty sure he could make one green and one black like a really hardcore pirate, or maybe make it look like his eyes were spinning around in their sockets like wheels in a slot machine. He bet you could freak someone out extra with a trick like that.
There was a couch along one wall, red as a beating heart. Dean propped his legs up on the cushions, letting the Blade rest on his stomach while he thought. Its toothy presence was reassuring, like his amulet had been back before God and Dean’s own stupid abandonment issues ruined it.
He didn’t feel that different, all told. Like he’d finally bullseyed a target he’d been aiming at for a while. Hell, Ruby’d just been really bitchy most of the time while she played the long game. When it came down to it, they’d seen humans who didn’t need the black smoke to be the devil’s own, and even the occasional demon like Casey who just didn’t give a fuck about anyone but the dude she loved.
As long as Crowley couldn’t send him against Sam, maybe this wasn’t so bad.
Did he still care about saving people? Honestly, it hadn’t been a priority for a while, since back before they were demon-knifing possession victims on the regular. Punishing the wicked had the side effect of saving others, sometimes, but the thought of rescued civilians didn’t put any fire in his belly. Maybe failing so often and so spectacularly had cured him of that goal even before the Mark ate up the last of his humanity.
Did he still feel like shit for not telling Sam about “Ezekiel” as soon as Sam could’ve made a conscious decision? Yeah. But maybe that was mostly because he couldn’t stand having Sam hate him, and because he’d liked Kevin. Actually, assuming he could get back to the bunker, he could tell Sammy he was sorry all the way now. Fuck knew it’d make his life (unlife? afterlife? death?) better if Sam wasn’t so pissed. That’d be convenient, and demons lied. It was kind of their thing.
The thought buoyed him just until he remembered how well Sam understood demon lies. Sam wouldn’t believe him now even if all he said was that he was sorry Mom died.
Maybe he would have that cheeseburger after all.
****
Advice from Crowley was usually shitty advice, but in this case the sigils were nonnegotiable. Sam put the full set of angels and demon wards back up before even thinking about his next move. He felt—
He was so fucking furious at Dean, for so many reasons, that it was like the rage canceled itself out. He knew his being mad didn’t matter as long as Dean was Crowley’s toy—but at the same time this situation was irrefutable evidence that Dean wasn’t competent to make decisions for himself, much less for Sam. And Sam planned to explain that to him in detail, when he got Dean back.
When he’d been soulless, he’d wanted plenty of things, and he’d gone out and gotten most of them. This was more like the months Gabriel had put him through as the Trickster. He had a goal, and he needed to reach it.
At this point, Sam didn’t know whether praying to Castiel made any difference. He went outside the bunker to try, and he was struck all over again by the beauty of the world. The air was warm and dust-sweet; the sun was out and the green-gilded leaves made dotted shadows against the ground. He heard the rustle of a squirrel running along a branch, and a bird launched itself into the air with a low whirr of wings. This was the world he and Dean had saved, multiple times, despite some very serious efforts to sell them on the idea of immutable destiny. Sam was not going to let this latest atrocity stand.
“Hey, Castiel,” he started. Talking out loud helped, if only to distinguish what he was doing now from what he’d done as a kid. It was different to know than to believe. He needed to be clear that he was negotiating with terrorists, not worshiping the divine. “I, uh, I hope you’re okay. Metatron hasn’t showed up to gloat, so I’m hoping for the best. If you’re hearing this, please, you have to come down. It’s—it’s Dean.”
He stopped. What more was there to say?
The air twitched and Castiel was there.
The cold calculating part of Sam, the one that let him win poker games and put bullets in center mass, told him what to do next. He grabbed Castiel into a hug before the angel could speak, closing his arms tight and fisting his hands against Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel always felt smaller than he should. And the feeling became real as soon as they touched: not quite human contact, and nothing like Dean, but Sam wasn’t alone, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that until Castiel had arrived to give it to him.
“Cas,” Sam said, his brother’s nickname falling too easily from his mouth. There was no need to hide the strained desperation in his tone.
“Sam.” Castiel’s returning squeeze was rib-creaking, once it came.
“Okay,” Sam gasped after about thirty seconds. “Need to breathe now.”
“My apologies,” Castiel said, releasing him. “Metatron—told me about Dean, before we defeated him.” He wasn’t quite achieving his usual blankness; Sam felt a momentary comfort that someone else understood how fundamentally broken the world was.
Sam blew out a breath. “Okay, so what next? How do we get him back?”
“Back?” Castiel tilted his head. “I can’t resurrect him, Sam, my powers are too faded. And none of the host would—”
“He doesn’t need resurrecting,” Sam snapped. “He needs fixing. He’s a demon!”
Castiel’s mouth fell open. Sam hadn’t seen the angel shocked all that often. Dean would’ve found it hilarious. Apparently Metatron had missed the final act, too, and had prematurely gloated.
“He died, but he came back. It’s got to be the Mark of Cain.”
“Yes,” Castiel said, his shoulders already straightening. “Yes, that is very possible.”
“So we need to restore him to humanity.”
Castiel turned on his thousand-yard stare, which Sam always figured he was more entitled to than most, since it went with accessing millennia of memories spanning multiple planes of existence. “I don’t know if it can be done.”
“Well,” Sam said, “then we’ve got work to do.” He gestured towards the bunker—he’d scrape a path for Castiel, then reset the wards—and Castiel followed him.
****
Crowley couldn’t organize a bar fight in Chicago after the Sox blew the pennant. Either that or (really more likely, but less fun to think) he was testing Dean’s own skills. Crowley had announced the mission in front of his (other) favorite demons, so Dean’d likely get forced if he didn’t go of his own accord. At least this time he didn’t want Dean to come back with captives, and also nobody was going to call him a little bitch unless they really wanted their vocal cords stuffed under their fingernails. And—okay, so maybe Dean had to give Crowley some credit—he’d chosen a group of really obviously not pacifist werewolves, so Dean didn’t want to turn the job down. Ten demons were almost a match for having Sammy at his back.
Dean hadn’t bothered to master the freaky telekinesis thing, if he even had it apart from calling the Blade (seriously, someone needed to write a guidebook covering this whole Mark of Cain business), so there was a lot of running, some ducking, and a satisfying amount of blood.
He had his knee on the last one’s back, pressing her into the ground as he pulled her head back for easy access to her throat, when minion #3 came running up to him. “Dean!”
Dean looked up, letting his annoyance with the interruption show. The air was a few degrees chillier than was comfortable, and he wanted to be done. Below him, the werewolf still struggled; he could feel her body shake with the knowledge of inevitable death, but she was a fighter.
“Um, Sir Dean?” the demon tried again. It was in a young body, a teen boy or a girl not much older, spiky hair and a clean-scrubbed look that it probably found ironic.
Dean sliced and felt the warm spray of blood. The werewolf slumped, irrelevant now. “Yeah?”
“We thought you’d want to see.”
He sighed, wiping his hands on the werewolf’s back, and stood. Fucking demons and their fucking love of dramatic suspense.
He wasn’t expecting puppies. There were already two little bodies limp on the ground out back of the werewolves’ house. The remaining three were shoulder to shoulder, snarling at the assembled demons, one of whom was poking at the group with a stick.
“Hey!” Dean said sharply. The stick-wielder stopped. “Okay, tell me you’re sure we’re not just looking at real Fidos here, ‘cause that’d just be embarrassing.”
“There was a nursery,” the demon wearing the Asian girl said. “They were in it.”
“Ah, fuck,” Dean said, scrubbing his free hand through his hair before he remembered it was still sticky with blood. “Okay. You,” he pointed at the demon who’d dragged him over and made this his problem, “get me a bag.”
To say that Garth was unhappy to be woken in the middle of the night and presented with three squirming, whining werewolf orphans was a slight understatement, especially when Dean refused to cross his threshold.
“Sam did call you, right? Told you what’s the what, kept you updated, yeah?”
Dean probably would’ve taken a mean enjoyment in the flash of hurt that crossed Garth’s face even before. So, that’d be a no. But Garth was competent enough that there still might be a Devil’s Trap just inside. If Dean had to guess, he’d wager he was powerful enough to get out, but it probably wouldn’t be fun. He let the bag fall to the ground; the noises from within increased, then subsided. “Look, you got two choices here. Take these puppies, raise ‘em right, keep ‘em from killing.”
Garth’s eyes darted back and forth from the pile on the ground to Dean’s blood-sticky face. “I guess I don’t need to ask what the other one is.”
Dean tilted his head. “Fair warning, Garth. I don’t know why or how, but I kinda like you.” He let his eyes unveil the demon. “But if you get in my way, I’ll gut you, and I’ll like that too.”
Garth’s whole body seemed to shrink in on itself, not in fear but something else, some other emotion Dean didn’t want to know about. He opened his mouth, and Dean buzzed out before he had to hear a word.
That part was cool.
The demon in the Asian girl was waiting for him, back in Crowley’s bordello. Dean raised his eyebrow.
“I was just checking to see if you wanted anything,” she said, leaning forward a little to emphasize two of the things he might want.
Dean appreciated the view for a moment, then shook his head. “What’s your name?” Might as well start learning them. Calling them by the numbers he’d assigned them in his head would be funny, but probably not the best idea in the long run.
“Teresa,” she said.
It was way too early for him to be recruiting potential allies against Crowley. At the very least, Crowley would be on guard for it, and any demons he assigned to Dean would be reporting back. Dean sat himself down on yet another overly stuffed couch and splayed his legs invitingly as he leaned back. “Well, Teresa, I’m Dean Winchester. And I wouldn’t mind a beer.”
She sashayed forward. She’d hidden her eyes, so they were a sweet brown, and her lips were freshly glossed. Her hair was just long enough to brush her shoulders, which were bare except for the spaghetti straps of her black satin top. Her skirt was red and her heels were chunky, which made him wonder how effective she’d been at hunting werewolves, and that was about all the interest Dean had in what she was wearing.
She got close enough to touch, but didn’t sit on his lap uninvited like he’d mostly expected. She did hand him a Corona, though; he hadn’t even noticed her make it appear. “You know, we have a lot in common, Dean.”
“Our keen fashion sense?”
She smirked. “You’re all alone in there. No previous occupant to send to the basement. I picked this body up from a coma ward. She was just dumped at a hospital in New Jersey, probably by her pimp. Seemed like a waste. And I’ve got to admit, it’s different, having the place to yourself.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, taking a sip. Beer tasted different in Hell, or maybe that was what beer was going to taste like from now on and all his kicks would have to come from slitting throats.
Growing bolder, she sat down next to him, not quite brushing his shoulder. Coy and deliberate, nothing like how Sam would’ve done it. “The body’s pretty, though, right?”
“Oh yeah,” Dean acknowledged, rolling the bottle in between his palms. Sam wasn’t here, and the demon was. The Blade, safe in its wrapping, throbbed against his thigh. He wondered if she knew how it wanted her blood; wondered if that turned her on like it did him.
“We could have some fun,” she suggested. “You, me, and Hui-fang.”
Dean deposited the Corona on the rickety curliqued end table next to him and twisted, snake-fast, to grab her hands and pin them back against the couch cushions. Her wrists were so thin; her pulse rabbited against his palms as she gasped and pressed herself up, trying to grind against him. She smelled like cinnamon.
Dean bit his lip, and struggled against the desire to rip her apart with his teeth. After a few long, shuddering moments, he was back in control. He could see his face, reflected and distorted, in her eyes. She could’ve done the same, if she’d been wearing her own face.
“Yeah,” he said, and cracked his neck. “Let’s have some fun.”
Her expression began to change even before he began to speak: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio—”
It hurt like fuck, but he still had his tattoo as a wall against demon home invasion, and it or the Mark kept him intact long enough to get her vomiting out of the girl’s body.
Who blinked, dazed, and then began screaming him in a language he didn’t understand.
Like Dean wouldn’t be able to recognize Teresa’s retread of Ruby’s bullshit story. Dean didn’t know if Ruby had faked the whole thing—it might’ve been easier than finding an actual hot young braindead chick—but he did know that his own preferences wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Crowley probably had a list up in the demon break room.
He wasn’t saying he wouldn’t fuck a demon ever, but the thought of some girl screaming in her head while some black-eyed monster fucked her – it just hit a little close to home, was all.
Dean raised his finger to his lips, cautioning, and she cut herself off. He wondered what, if anything, she remembered or understood. “Yo!” he said, loud in the airless room. “Demons, assemble!”
He had to admit, he was a little impressed at how fast they arrived.
The hot acrid smell beside him indicated that the girl had pissed herself, which was understandable but also a reminder of what had too often happened on the rack, not to mention the couch was covered with really slippery fabric. Dean stood and moved half a step away from her. The demons moved back in near-perfect unison.
“I’m not gonna pretend I’m the smart one,” he told them. “But do yourselves a favor and don’t treat me like a fucking moron. You,” he pointed at the androgynous demon, a/k/a Minion #3, “get her to—I dunno, someplace they’ll take good care of her. Don’t think I won’t check.”
The demon nodded and hurried to comply, even as his nose wrinkled as he approached. Hui-fang (he doubted Teresa had lied about that) eeped with terror, then disappeared with the demon.
“Now, you”—he pointed at the puppy-poker this time—“clean up this couch, and you—” that one was random—“find me a place to hang out that isn’t straight out of House of the Rising Sun.”
****
“So get this,” Sam said, swiveling the book so that Castiel could read for himself, assuming he could read Old French. “All the sources agree that Cain started out human. He only became a demon when he spilled his brother’s blood, or maybe when God cursed him afterwards.”
Castiel tilted his head with that particular ‘yes, and?’ look that said he found Sam, like most humans, mostly pointless. Which Sam supposed was a step up from abomination.
“What that means is that Cain was human. His Knights were all once human, too. They’re stronger, but there’s no reason that the same cure I used on Crowley wouldn’t work on Dean. All we need is a way to get him alone. Maybe a distraction for Crowley. Do you think the other angels would—?”
He stopped, because he hadn’t known that Castiel could look that disapproving. “The other angels are far too busy putting Heaven back in order, and far too disillusioned with me. Recall that I’m not even full-powered.”
That was a problem Sam would have to deal with later; Castiel seemed fine, even if he said he was weak. “Okay, right. So we create some kind of non-angelic distraction, grab Dean—” He glanced towards the bookshelves at the back of the library. There had to be a spell in one of those grimoires that could be used on the King of Hell. As for catching Dean, Sam was half tempted to put a pie in the middle of a Devil’s Trap. Maybe with a box propped up on a stick over it, with a string to pull when Dean came to investigate. Dean always did go for the classics.
“Let me ‘recap,’” Castiel said, using the air quotes fingers that Sam dearly wished he’d never learned. “You intend that the two of us capture a Knight of Hell, we have to assume against his will, and hold him long enough to cure him with your blood, while Crowley knows where you are, knows you can cure demons if given enough time, and presently commands the legions of Hell.”
Sam shrugged. “That about covers it.”
Castiel’s voice had taken on its warrior’s growl. “It’s not the worst plan you’ve ever had. That’s not a compliment, by the way.”
“Dean will help. Once we show him we can do it.” Dean had a history of refusing to trust Sam at the worst possible times. But Sam wasn’t going to let that happen, not now.
Castiel turned and headed towards the kitchen. Bemused, Sam rose to follow him. He opened the refrigerator and began poking around.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked, when he couldn’t restrain himself any longer.
“Dean always says that everything looks better after a few beers. I’m testing the theory.”
Sam snorted despite himself. “Yeah, pretty sure even he doesn’t believe that.” The sight of the kitchen, still pristine from Dean’s last cleaning binge, reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in—well, counting wasn’t going to do anyone any good. But fainting with hunger also wasn’t going to get him any closer to rescuing Dean, so he went to shoulder Cas out of the way and make himself a sandwich. And one for the angel, too.
****
Another day, another massacre. Dean had the nagging suspicion that each death made him like the process of killing even more, but what was he supposed to do? He was a weapon, and Crowley was pointing him at monsters who deserved to be carved up. Dean was pretty sure about that, anyhow.
After the turmoil of the last few years, Crowley was taking advantage of Dean to consolidate his power, and that meant going after all the non-demon monsters organized enough to give him trouble. Alpha vamp (Dean would’ve gloated over that one even if he hadn’t been black-eyed); alpha wolf; alpha pishtaco; alpha ghoul (that one too, because fuck those guys—there was nothing he could do for Adam, but he could chalk up a few kills in his memory); alpha wendigo; alpha rawhead. There were a bunch more, obviously, but Crowley wanted him to pace himself, or that was what he said when Dean was itching to go leave Crowley’s mansion again, the rawhead’s blood drying too fast on his skin.
“Don’t you see, Dean, without me you’d be just another ravening animal,” he continued in a tone of sweet reason, which only made Dean angrier. “You need to be made to pace yourself. After all, killing is the only thing you’re good for.”
“Oh, I’m also a fantastic lay,” Dean told him, his lip curling.
Crowley pursed his lips. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, which Dean supposed was probably for the best. Demon lusts were mostly nondiscriminatory, and it was even odds he’d bend over if Crowley told him to. Crowley might even want him to enjoy it (though then again so had Alastair). Dean had bloodier problems. He hadn’t wanted to fight the last set of kill orders, though he’d resisted Crowley’s instruction to stop using his demonic telekinesis to pull pranks on lesser demons; that shit was hilarious now that he’d gotten the mechanics locked down.
Being Crowley’s lackey was not okay. An eternity of being Crowley’s lackey was even less okay. From Abbadon’s example, he had the idea that in a couple hundred years he could figure out how to break Crowley’s hold, but he didn’t want to wait that long. Plus, given the way every cell in his body cried out for the next thing to tear apart, Crowley might be right about Dean turning into a mindless dog.
And now he’d tipped Crowley over into lecture mode, which was incredibly annoying, the way he’d always pretended it was with Sam. First there was the repeated warning about not exorcising meatsuits for trivial offenses, since good bodies were so hard to come by. If Dean had known how annoying Crowley would get about that, he might’ve found another way to deal with Teresa.
Then, for good measure, Crowley put his hands behind his back and paced, like the Napoleonic asshole he was. “You need to learn what it is to be a demon. Those strange feelings you have—things are changing for you, my boy. Accidental genocides, inappropriate erections, all that. You listen to me, and you’ve got some chance of turning that uncontrolled bloodlust into a more manageable joie de murder.”
That might even be true, twitchy post-rawhead fingers notwithstanding. It just meant he needed to get to Sam even more. If anyone could figure out how to get rid of him, it’d be Sam. And what had gotten said back when Dean was human didn’t have much meaning now. Sam could kill demons, no matter if he loved them or didn’t.
“You see, Dean, your limited intelligence reaches its relative peak when dealing out destruction, which helps explain your appallingly overpopulated trophy list. I’m simply—”
The sudden shock of pain was a relief from the monologue. It was like he was being shot through with barbed arrows, pulled backward and inside out. It wasn’t a feeling he thought he could have off of the rack.
He saw Crowley’s face contort in anger, and then it was lights out.
part 2
Sam/Dean, NC-17
Summary: Post-S9, even if Dean wants to be saved, it’s not going to be that easy. Because I am indulging myself, there are alternate endings, choose-your-own-adventure style. Thanks to
giandujakiss and shoofus for beta.References to past non-con.
When Crowley didn’t show after Sam repeated the ritual, Sam didn’t let his despair escape him. That bastard was probably watching remotely, laughing at him. Sam couldn’t afford to look ridiculous.
Dean was going to—Sam ought to get him into cold storage, at least. He’d have to be healed upon his resurrection, so deterioration wasn’t much of a worry, but Sam would never hear the end of it if his precious memory foam was stained with corpse-leak.
It should’ve been easier, moving through a world in which Dean was gone for the second time (third if you counted Gabriel’s time trick). But it hurt just as much, like constantly being thrown into a wall. There were two choices: keep moving, or stop.
Sam had seen how ‘stop’ worked out for him.
He went to preserve his brother’s corpse, but Dean wasn’t in his room any more.
There was a rushing, oceanic sound in his ears; his hands were numb; the light in the room went gray and staticky.
Sam managed to slide to the floor, back to the wall. He needed to—Castiel didn’t even know. Castiel might be dead too. Metatron might be typing this all out, cackling with glee. He should pray—
He couldn’t find his voice.
He couldn’t find his brother.
The room still smelled like Dean, sweat and gunpowder mixed with the lemon oil Dean had used to push back against fifty years of dust. He’d tried so hard to make this into their home. And even if his trying had included cutting off pieces of Sam, Sam had very recently discovered that he wasn’t willing to let that be the last act in their relationship.
Sam put his head in his hands and fought against the whirlpool in his head that wanted to drown him.
****
A vampire’s neck had a different texture than a possessed human’s, Dean thought. Like spoiled meat, or maybe Sam would’ve said extra firm tofu. Now that they were all dead, he had time to notice that the blood didn’t smell the way it did coming out of a human: some freaky vampire characteristic Dean didn’t care about, only it would’ve felt more satisfying if they’d run hotter.
Dean shook his head and heard the soft patter of castoff blood. “Crowley, what the fuck?”
They weren’t surrounded by bloodsucking freaks any more, so he figured he had time to ask where Sam was, and why the demon had zapped him into this slaughterhouse, and what had happened with Metatron.
“How do you feel, Dean?” Crowley asked instead of answering Dean’s perfectly reasonable question. Crowley sounded pleased. Almost fatherly, which was not a word Dean ever wanted to associate with the little bastard. Dean had half a mind to gut him where he stood, but then it’d be a mess and a half getting home (Crowley might’ve taken him to Serbia for all he knew; the vamps hadn’t done much but scream). Instead he shoved the King of Hell up against a filthy wall, the Blade jumping to Crowley’s neck like it was still thirsty, needing something with more kick.
“Careful, squirrel,” Crowley said, either unconcerned or a better faker than ever. “I’m serious. Aren’t you curious why your insides aren’t still decorating your cheap lumberjack clothes?”
Dean considered. “Not really.” Someone had healed him. Cas if he was lucky, Crowley if he wasn’t. Coming back from mortal wounds was no longer the surprise it had once been, though it remained a disappointment. But Crowley’s words forced him to take an internal census. Desire to kill: pretty high, despite the headless bodies taking up most of the floorspace in the warehouse/den of vampires. Worry about Sam: increasing. Metatron had been gone by the time Sam had gotten to Dean, but Crowley’s evasion wasn’t promising. Injuries: painless, without even the lingering throb of angelic healing. Actually, he felt like he’d just woken up from a full night of sleep after eating three bacon cheeseburgers and then fucking the hottest girl in the bar, and that concluded the inventory.
Crowley put his hand on Dean’s wrist, and Dean allowed him to push the Blade down.
“Pull up your shirt,” Crowley ordered, and rolled his eyes preemptively, so Dean didn’t bother to formulate an innuendo. “I don’t have any designs on your virtue, or even on your vices. This will simply go faster when you see for yourself.”
Worst case, he looked dumb in front of Crowley. Since he didn’t care, he used his free hand to tug his shirts up and—
“I’m a fucking zombie?”
Crowley scoffed and shoved him back a step. “I see resurrection hasn’t been kind to your brain cells, but then consider the starting point.” He put up his hands before Dean could grab him again. “Try something else that can animate a body past its expiration date.”
Dean stared at the ragged, unhealed hole in his chest, bloodless and gray.
“What,” Crowley said, almost pityingly, “did you think the Mark was going to make of you?”
“No,” Dean said, backing away, nearly stumbling over a staring head. He wanted to drop the Blade, to show that he absolutely had not become the thing Crowley was suggesting. His hand tightened on the bone, powder-dry against his fingers. “I’d know.” His heel slid back, through the blood.
“What, because all we do is torture and maim? Or because you were all sweetness and light before? Look around you, my boy. That desire you’re feeling, that need to squeeze the world until it gives up the pulp—you already know it.”
Dean had a hole in him, and he felt fresh as a new bottle of Jack. Ten years off the rack—he’d been razor close for years—he was shaking his head, but he knew, he knew.
“Dean, Dean,” Crowley said, like he was enjoying the taste of the name. “Your feathered friend has Metatron under control. You lasted long enough for that, anyway. And now,” he continued, rubbing his hands together, “we’re ready to see the Moose.”
****
Angels made a subtle difference in the feel of a room when they appeared. Displaced air, or something. Demons weren’t the same, so when Crowley coughed Sam jumped, rising into a defensive pose as quickly as he could even though his limbs felt like they were made of withered twigs.
“Dean!” Dean was behind Crowley, and silent, but Sam didn’t care, moving towards him because only touch could confirm his return.
Then Sam was slammed back up against the wall, pinned like a butterfly, and Dean was still staring at him, not objecting. “I imagine,” Crowley said, pacing theatrically with his hands behind his back, “right now you’re really regretting not reestablishing those anti-demon wards.”
“Let him go,” Dean growled, too late and too angry at the same time. He was gripping the Blade, his forearm corded with the tension of it, and with his chin lowered he looked ready to slice Crowley into a thousand bloody strips.
Crowley sighed and waved a desultory hand, and Sam was released far enough that he could stand, though he couldn’t move towards Dean. Sam had a microsecond of being blindingly furious that Dean had gotten himself into this, and then shoved it down because there were more urgent problems.
“Now listen, boys. I’m only going to say this once, which is why I organized this reunion. That, and to stop little brother from his mosquito-like attempts to summon me.”
“Crowley.” Dean’s voice made the name into a more serious threat than if he’d mentioned entrails.
“Don’t worry, my boy. I know how hot the blood runs in you. But you needn’t paint the whole town red. Not as long as I have my hand on the leash.”
Sam looked back and forth between them. He wasn’t sure what another major kill would do for Dean. But Crowley wasn’t going to let him have a real talk with his brother, and anyway the mention of leashes made Sam’s own body clench up on Dean’s behalf. He’d been Crowley’s tool too long already. “Do it, Dean,” he urged, hoping that the permission he’d refused before would send Dean into action.
Dean flinched like he’d been hit. But he swiveled towards Crowley, and the hand clutching the Blade lifted, almost mechanically.
His eyes went black.
“Oh God,” Sam blurted. Dean didn’t twitch. And he didn’t strike.
Dean was—Sam’s brain refused to process the information. This was some trick, some extra evil from the Blade. Sam was the one who was supposed to become a thing they hunted. Dean was the one who made the stupidest fucking choices imaginable. But not this.
“He can’t kill me, Moose,” Crowley smarmed, indifferent to Sam’s horror. “Abbadon, well, she had a long time in the job, and I wasn’t the King when she was around. But from the very first time I peeled your brother away from you, going after Pestilence, I knew I could have him. Dean here was born under my reign. I put the Blade in his hand. He’s my Knight.”
Dean grunted. Sweat beaded at his temples, but he was getting no closer to Crowley.
“In fact,” Crowley said, “let’s test this. Dean, kill your brother.”
Dean’s head whipped up. The noise of rage he made was worse than his howl at Gadreel. He even moved a step closer to Crowley.
Crowley shuffled back a few inches, smoothing his hands over the front of his black wool coat. “Well, it was worth a shot. I understand, I can’t ask that just yet. You need a little more time to get used to your new status. I won’t hold it against you. Something simpler, perhaps. I could take the classic Kirk/Uhura route, but I expect you’d enjoy that far too much to be a real test. Dean, cut me a hunk of your brother’s hair.”
Dean’s whole body juddered, like a car that had thrown an axle. But slowly he turned. Sam could’ve run; the way Dean was moving, he could’ve avoided Dean long enough to get behind some spell-barred door.
He wasn’t going to leave Dean alone with Crowley. The demon had spilled too much poison into Dean’s eager ears already. Sam stood his ground as the demon who’d been his brother approached.
“Don’t fight me,” Dean said, the words squeezed through his snarl.
The First Blade was so sharp Sam barely felt the tug as it parted the strands, so close to his hairline that a sudden motion would’ve risked slicing himself open. Dean’s mouth opened in a soundless howl, his eyes like tar.
“Stay away, Moose.” Crowley’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away. “I’m still figuring out what all the buttons do on my new toy. Come at me and you’ll be responsible for turning Dean into Cain all over again.”
With that, he snapped his fingers and they disappeared, fragments of Sam’s hair drifting through the air where Dean had been.
Sam straightened. He allowed himself to shudder in horror one time.
Then he turned and headed for the supply room. He had work to do.
****
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” Crowley said, leaning back in his overstuffed chair. “You can’t blame a demon for trying.”
“Pretty sure I can,” Dean shot back. Though really, it was kind of funny if you thought about it—Dean spending more than thirty years trying to take care of Sam, even to the point of resurrecting him and, separately, shoving an angel inside him, then being the one who might end his life. You might even call it ironic.
“Consider it a taste of payback for all the aggro you twits put me through, then. Be good, and I might even approve a conjugal visit for you and the Moose.” Dean waited for the surge of queasy denial that always accompanied digs like that, but nothing. Hunh. “Sit down,” Crowley said, waving his hand. “We have other matters to discuss.”
Hell, Dean was discovering, was very different if you weren’t rack-adjacent. This part (which might well have been topside; Dean wasn’t too clear on the details) was decorated like a brothel, which had to be Crowley’s influence. The air was warm and smelled like sex.
Instead of risking his cool by sitting down on one of the heavily-pillowed chairs and couches and sliding off, Dean leaned against the wall, which was skin-mag pink alternating stripes of silk and velvet. He brought the Blade up between him and Crowley, not because he thought he’d have the strength to use it but just for the comfort of it.
“It’s time to follow your King’s lead,” Crowley said, capital letters and all. “If you don’t, I’ll send wave after wave of lesser demons after your brother until he’s dead for good. Behave, and I’ll leave him in peace. He can die of old age for all I care.”
Dean shifted his weight. “What d’you expect will keep me in line then?”
Crowley smiled and brought his fingertips together, like a low-rent Masterpiece Theater knockoff announcer. “Soon enough, my boy, you won’t give a damn about fighting my orders, as long as I keep throwing you enough raw meat.”
Dean found that way too easy to believe, except for the part about Sam being safe. That part needed fixing. Even if Dean didn’t exactly care as much about coddling Sam as he used to—Sam’s lectures about going too far finally kicking in now that he was black-eyed—he wasn’t going to let Crowley get one over on him. He narrowed his eyes, but kept his mouth shut.
“Now, I’m going to call in the troops,” Crowley said. “Feel free to loom, but try not to talk back. It spoils the impression.”
He clapped his hands, and the room was crawling with demons between one breath and the next, except that they stayed a respectable distance from both him and Crowley. If he wanted to gut any of them, he’d have to lunge. The meatsuit choices made America’s Top Model look like a bunch of dogs.
Dean eyed the assembly—Crowley’s remaining lieutenants, he thought—and imagined how their blood would feel washing hot over his hands, how the bones in their necks would snap after he forced his way through the flesh.
Crowley cleared his throat. Dean thought about cracking wise despite Crowley’s warning, but he wasn’t going to get free of Crowley in the next few minutes and he didn’t want this group of yahoos to see him getting pushed around. Hell was all about who got stood on and who did the standing. Dean didn’t want these demons getting any ideas.
“I need to make an introduction,” Crowley announced. “Dean Winchester is my Knight. I’ve never had one before, but I can already tell that I quite like it. So here’s how it’s going to be. In the absence of conflicting orders from me or attempts on my life, you all answer to him. If he wants pie, you will each and every one of you deliver five kinds. If he wants a blowjob, you will each get on your knees. If he wants a shoulder to cry on about how much he misses his brother—well, you get the picture. Anyone who has questions can ask Dean here. I’m sure he’d be delighted to carve the answers into your skin.”
He smoked out, but the other demons remained. Staring at him, wary. He wondered what Crowley had said about Abbadon’s demise.
“You lookin’ at me?” he asked, attempting a grin. The room cleared in an instant, only one tiny Asian girl remaining an extra five seconds, and when he tilted his head she flickered out too.
“Hey,” he said to the empty air. “When I want a cheeseburger, somebody better show!” He was just fucking with them, though. He hadn’t been hungry since he woke.
Anyway, he could use some time to figure out just how fucked he was. He checked his reflection in one of the ornate, gold-framed mirrors, and spent a few minutes practicing that distinctive demonic eye-flick. The basic switch wasn’t that hard, almost like controlling a blink. Given some time, Dean was pretty sure he could make one green and one black like a really hardcore pirate, or maybe make it look like his eyes were spinning around in their sockets like wheels in a slot machine. He bet you could freak someone out extra with a trick like that.
There was a couch along one wall, red as a beating heart. Dean propped his legs up on the cushions, letting the Blade rest on his stomach while he thought. Its toothy presence was reassuring, like his amulet had been back before God and Dean’s own stupid abandonment issues ruined it.
He didn’t feel that different, all told. Like he’d finally bullseyed a target he’d been aiming at for a while. Hell, Ruby’d just been really bitchy most of the time while she played the long game. When it came down to it, they’d seen humans who didn’t need the black smoke to be the devil’s own, and even the occasional demon like Casey who just didn’t give a fuck about anyone but the dude she loved.
As long as Crowley couldn’t send him against Sam, maybe this wasn’t so bad.
Did he still care about saving people? Honestly, it hadn’t been a priority for a while, since back before they were demon-knifing possession victims on the regular. Punishing the wicked had the side effect of saving others, sometimes, but the thought of rescued civilians didn’t put any fire in his belly. Maybe failing so often and so spectacularly had cured him of that goal even before the Mark ate up the last of his humanity.
Did he still feel like shit for not telling Sam about “Ezekiel” as soon as Sam could’ve made a conscious decision? Yeah. But maybe that was mostly because he couldn’t stand having Sam hate him, and because he’d liked Kevin. Actually, assuming he could get back to the bunker, he could tell Sammy he was sorry all the way now. Fuck knew it’d make his life (unlife? afterlife? death?) better if Sam wasn’t so pissed. That’d be convenient, and demons lied. It was kind of their thing.
The thought buoyed him just until he remembered how well Sam understood demon lies. Sam wouldn’t believe him now even if all he said was that he was sorry Mom died.
Maybe he would have that cheeseburger after all.
****
Advice from Crowley was usually shitty advice, but in this case the sigils were nonnegotiable. Sam put the full set of angels and demon wards back up before even thinking about his next move. He felt—
He was so fucking furious at Dean, for so many reasons, that it was like the rage canceled itself out. He knew his being mad didn’t matter as long as Dean was Crowley’s toy—but at the same time this situation was irrefutable evidence that Dean wasn’t competent to make decisions for himself, much less for Sam. And Sam planned to explain that to him in detail, when he got Dean back.
When he’d been soulless, he’d wanted plenty of things, and he’d gone out and gotten most of them. This was more like the months Gabriel had put him through as the Trickster. He had a goal, and he needed to reach it.
At this point, Sam didn’t know whether praying to Castiel made any difference. He went outside the bunker to try, and he was struck all over again by the beauty of the world. The air was warm and dust-sweet; the sun was out and the green-gilded leaves made dotted shadows against the ground. He heard the rustle of a squirrel running along a branch, and a bird launched itself into the air with a low whirr of wings. This was the world he and Dean had saved, multiple times, despite some very serious efforts to sell them on the idea of immutable destiny. Sam was not going to let this latest atrocity stand.
“Hey, Castiel,” he started. Talking out loud helped, if only to distinguish what he was doing now from what he’d done as a kid. It was different to know than to believe. He needed to be clear that he was negotiating with terrorists, not worshiping the divine. “I, uh, I hope you’re okay. Metatron hasn’t showed up to gloat, so I’m hoping for the best. If you’re hearing this, please, you have to come down. It’s—it’s Dean.”
He stopped. What more was there to say?
The air twitched and Castiel was there.
The cold calculating part of Sam, the one that let him win poker games and put bullets in center mass, told him what to do next. He grabbed Castiel into a hug before the angel could speak, closing his arms tight and fisting his hands against Castiel’s shoulders. Castiel always felt smaller than he should. And the feeling became real as soon as they touched: not quite human contact, and nothing like Dean, but Sam wasn’t alone, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d needed that until Castiel had arrived to give it to him.
“Cas,” Sam said, his brother’s nickname falling too easily from his mouth. There was no need to hide the strained desperation in his tone.
“Sam.” Castiel’s returning squeeze was rib-creaking, once it came.
“Okay,” Sam gasped after about thirty seconds. “Need to breathe now.”
“My apologies,” Castiel said, releasing him. “Metatron—told me about Dean, before we defeated him.” He wasn’t quite achieving his usual blankness; Sam felt a momentary comfort that someone else understood how fundamentally broken the world was.
Sam blew out a breath. “Okay, so what next? How do we get him back?”
“Back?” Castiel tilted his head. “I can’t resurrect him, Sam, my powers are too faded. And none of the host would—”
“He doesn’t need resurrecting,” Sam snapped. “He needs fixing. He’s a demon!”
Castiel’s mouth fell open. Sam hadn’t seen the angel shocked all that often. Dean would’ve found it hilarious. Apparently Metatron had missed the final act, too, and had prematurely gloated.
“He died, but he came back. It’s got to be the Mark of Cain.”
“Yes,” Castiel said, his shoulders already straightening. “Yes, that is very possible.”
“So we need to restore him to humanity.”
Castiel turned on his thousand-yard stare, which Sam always figured he was more entitled to than most, since it went with accessing millennia of memories spanning multiple planes of existence. “I don’t know if it can be done.”
“Well,” Sam said, “then we’ve got work to do.” He gestured towards the bunker—he’d scrape a path for Castiel, then reset the wards—and Castiel followed him.
****
Crowley couldn’t organize a bar fight in Chicago after the Sox blew the pennant. Either that or (really more likely, but less fun to think) he was testing Dean’s own skills. Crowley had announced the mission in front of his (other) favorite demons, so Dean’d likely get forced if he didn’t go of his own accord. At least this time he didn’t want Dean to come back with captives, and also nobody was going to call him a little bitch unless they really wanted their vocal cords stuffed under their fingernails. And—okay, so maybe Dean had to give Crowley some credit—he’d chosen a group of really obviously not pacifist werewolves, so Dean didn’t want to turn the job down. Ten demons were almost a match for having Sammy at his back.
Dean hadn’t bothered to master the freaky telekinesis thing, if he even had it apart from calling the Blade (seriously, someone needed to write a guidebook covering this whole Mark of Cain business), so there was a lot of running, some ducking, and a satisfying amount of blood.
He had his knee on the last one’s back, pressing her into the ground as he pulled her head back for easy access to her throat, when minion #3 came running up to him. “Dean!”
Dean looked up, letting his annoyance with the interruption show. The air was a few degrees chillier than was comfortable, and he wanted to be done. Below him, the werewolf still struggled; he could feel her body shake with the knowledge of inevitable death, but she was a fighter.
“Um, Sir Dean?” the demon tried again. It was in a young body, a teen boy or a girl not much older, spiky hair and a clean-scrubbed look that it probably found ironic.
Dean sliced and felt the warm spray of blood. The werewolf slumped, irrelevant now. “Yeah?”
“We thought you’d want to see.”
He sighed, wiping his hands on the werewolf’s back, and stood. Fucking demons and their fucking love of dramatic suspense.
He wasn’t expecting puppies. There were already two little bodies limp on the ground out back of the werewolves’ house. The remaining three were shoulder to shoulder, snarling at the assembled demons, one of whom was poking at the group with a stick.
“Hey!” Dean said sharply. The stick-wielder stopped. “Okay, tell me you’re sure we’re not just looking at real Fidos here, ‘cause that’d just be embarrassing.”
“There was a nursery,” the demon wearing the Asian girl said. “They were in it.”
“Ah, fuck,” Dean said, scrubbing his free hand through his hair before he remembered it was still sticky with blood. “Okay. You,” he pointed at the demon who’d dragged him over and made this his problem, “get me a bag.”
To say that Garth was unhappy to be woken in the middle of the night and presented with three squirming, whining werewolf orphans was a slight understatement, especially when Dean refused to cross his threshold.
“Sam did call you, right? Told you what’s the what, kept you updated, yeah?”
Dean probably would’ve taken a mean enjoyment in the flash of hurt that crossed Garth’s face even before. So, that’d be a no. But Garth was competent enough that there still might be a Devil’s Trap just inside. If Dean had to guess, he’d wager he was powerful enough to get out, but it probably wouldn’t be fun. He let the bag fall to the ground; the noises from within increased, then subsided. “Look, you got two choices here. Take these puppies, raise ‘em right, keep ‘em from killing.”
Garth’s eyes darted back and forth from the pile on the ground to Dean’s blood-sticky face. “I guess I don’t need to ask what the other one is.”
Dean tilted his head. “Fair warning, Garth. I don’t know why or how, but I kinda like you.” He let his eyes unveil the demon. “But if you get in my way, I’ll gut you, and I’ll like that too.”
Garth’s whole body seemed to shrink in on itself, not in fear but something else, some other emotion Dean didn’t want to know about. He opened his mouth, and Dean buzzed out before he had to hear a word.
That part was cool.
The demon in the Asian girl was waiting for him, back in Crowley’s bordello. Dean raised his eyebrow.
“I was just checking to see if you wanted anything,” she said, leaning forward a little to emphasize two of the things he might want.
Dean appreciated the view for a moment, then shook his head. “What’s your name?” Might as well start learning them. Calling them by the numbers he’d assigned them in his head would be funny, but probably not the best idea in the long run.
“Teresa,” she said.
It was way too early for him to be recruiting potential allies against Crowley. At the very least, Crowley would be on guard for it, and any demons he assigned to Dean would be reporting back. Dean sat himself down on yet another overly stuffed couch and splayed his legs invitingly as he leaned back. “Well, Teresa, I’m Dean Winchester. And I wouldn’t mind a beer.”
She sashayed forward. She’d hidden her eyes, so they were a sweet brown, and her lips were freshly glossed. Her hair was just long enough to brush her shoulders, which were bare except for the spaghetti straps of her black satin top. Her skirt was red and her heels were chunky, which made him wonder how effective she’d been at hunting werewolves, and that was about all the interest Dean had in what she was wearing.
She got close enough to touch, but didn’t sit on his lap uninvited like he’d mostly expected. She did hand him a Corona, though; he hadn’t even noticed her make it appear. “You know, we have a lot in common, Dean.”
“Our keen fashion sense?”
She smirked. “You’re all alone in there. No previous occupant to send to the basement. I picked this body up from a coma ward. She was just dumped at a hospital in New Jersey, probably by her pimp. Seemed like a waste. And I’ve got to admit, it’s different, having the place to yourself.”
“I wouldn’t know,” he said, taking a sip. Beer tasted different in Hell, or maybe that was what beer was going to taste like from now on and all his kicks would have to come from slitting throats.
Growing bolder, she sat down next to him, not quite brushing his shoulder. Coy and deliberate, nothing like how Sam would’ve done it. “The body’s pretty, though, right?”
“Oh yeah,” Dean acknowledged, rolling the bottle in between his palms. Sam wasn’t here, and the demon was. The Blade, safe in its wrapping, throbbed against his thigh. He wondered if she knew how it wanted her blood; wondered if that turned her on like it did him.
“We could have some fun,” she suggested. “You, me, and Hui-fang.”
Dean deposited the Corona on the rickety curliqued end table next to him and twisted, snake-fast, to grab her hands and pin them back against the couch cushions. Her wrists were so thin; her pulse rabbited against his palms as she gasped and pressed herself up, trying to grind against him. She smelled like cinnamon.
Dean bit his lip, and struggled against the desire to rip her apart with his teeth. After a few long, shuddering moments, he was back in control. He could see his face, reflected and distorted, in her eyes. She could’ve done the same, if she’d been wearing her own face.
“Yeah,” he said, and cracked his neck. “Let’s have some fun.”
Her expression began to change even before he began to speak: “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio—”
It hurt like fuck, but he still had his tattoo as a wall against demon home invasion, and it or the Mark kept him intact long enough to get her vomiting out of the girl’s body.
Who blinked, dazed, and then began screaming him in a language he didn’t understand.
Like Dean wouldn’t be able to recognize Teresa’s retread of Ruby’s bullshit story. Dean didn’t know if Ruby had faked the whole thing—it might’ve been easier than finding an actual hot young braindead chick—but he did know that his own preferences wouldn’t have gone unnoticed. Crowley probably had a list up in the demon break room.
He wasn’t saying he wouldn’t fuck a demon ever, but the thought of some girl screaming in her head while some black-eyed monster fucked her – it just hit a little close to home, was all.
Dean raised his finger to his lips, cautioning, and she cut herself off. He wondered what, if anything, she remembered or understood. “Yo!” he said, loud in the airless room. “Demons, assemble!”
He had to admit, he was a little impressed at how fast they arrived.
The hot acrid smell beside him indicated that the girl had pissed herself, which was understandable but also a reminder of what had too often happened on the rack, not to mention the couch was covered with really slippery fabric. Dean stood and moved half a step away from her. The demons moved back in near-perfect unison.
“I’m not gonna pretend I’m the smart one,” he told them. “But do yourselves a favor and don’t treat me like a fucking moron. You,” he pointed at the androgynous demon, a/k/a Minion #3, “get her to—I dunno, someplace they’ll take good care of her. Don’t think I won’t check.”
The demon nodded and hurried to comply, even as his nose wrinkled as he approached. Hui-fang (he doubted Teresa had lied about that) eeped with terror, then disappeared with the demon.
“Now, you”—he pointed at the puppy-poker this time—“clean up this couch, and you—” that one was random—“find me a place to hang out that isn’t straight out of House of the Rising Sun.”
****
“So get this,” Sam said, swiveling the book so that Castiel could read for himself, assuming he could read Old French. “All the sources agree that Cain started out human. He only became a demon when he spilled his brother’s blood, or maybe when God cursed him afterwards.”
Castiel tilted his head with that particular ‘yes, and?’ look that said he found Sam, like most humans, mostly pointless. Which Sam supposed was a step up from abomination.
“What that means is that Cain was human. His Knights were all once human, too. They’re stronger, but there’s no reason that the same cure I used on Crowley wouldn’t work on Dean. All we need is a way to get him alone. Maybe a distraction for Crowley. Do you think the other angels would—?”
He stopped, because he hadn’t known that Castiel could look that disapproving. “The other angels are far too busy putting Heaven back in order, and far too disillusioned with me. Recall that I’m not even full-powered.”
That was a problem Sam would have to deal with later; Castiel seemed fine, even if he said he was weak. “Okay, right. So we create some kind of non-angelic distraction, grab Dean—” He glanced towards the bookshelves at the back of the library. There had to be a spell in one of those grimoires that could be used on the King of Hell. As for catching Dean, Sam was half tempted to put a pie in the middle of a Devil’s Trap. Maybe with a box propped up on a stick over it, with a string to pull when Dean came to investigate. Dean always did go for the classics.
“Let me ‘recap,’” Castiel said, using the air quotes fingers that Sam dearly wished he’d never learned. “You intend that the two of us capture a Knight of Hell, we have to assume against his will, and hold him long enough to cure him with your blood, while Crowley knows where you are, knows you can cure demons if given enough time, and presently commands the legions of Hell.”
Sam shrugged. “That about covers it.”
Castiel’s voice had taken on its warrior’s growl. “It’s not the worst plan you’ve ever had. That’s not a compliment, by the way.”
“Dean will help. Once we show him we can do it.” Dean had a history of refusing to trust Sam at the worst possible times. But Sam wasn’t going to let that happen, not now.
Castiel turned and headed towards the kitchen. Bemused, Sam rose to follow him. He opened the refrigerator and began poking around.
“What are you doing?” Sam asked, when he couldn’t restrain himself any longer.
“Dean always says that everything looks better after a few beers. I’m testing the theory.”
Sam snorted despite himself. “Yeah, pretty sure even he doesn’t believe that.” The sight of the kitchen, still pristine from Dean’s last cleaning binge, reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in—well, counting wasn’t going to do anyone any good. But fainting with hunger also wasn’t going to get him any closer to rescuing Dean, so he went to shoulder Cas out of the way and make himself a sandwich. And one for the angel, too.
****
Another day, another massacre. Dean had the nagging suspicion that each death made him like the process of killing even more, but what was he supposed to do? He was a weapon, and Crowley was pointing him at monsters who deserved to be carved up. Dean was pretty sure about that, anyhow.
After the turmoil of the last few years, Crowley was taking advantage of Dean to consolidate his power, and that meant going after all the non-demon monsters organized enough to give him trouble. Alpha vamp (Dean would’ve gloated over that one even if he hadn’t been black-eyed); alpha wolf; alpha pishtaco; alpha ghoul (that one too, because fuck those guys—there was nothing he could do for Adam, but he could chalk up a few kills in his memory); alpha wendigo; alpha rawhead. There were a bunch more, obviously, but Crowley wanted him to pace himself, or that was what he said when Dean was itching to go leave Crowley’s mansion again, the rawhead’s blood drying too fast on his skin.
“Don’t you see, Dean, without me you’d be just another ravening animal,” he continued in a tone of sweet reason, which only made Dean angrier. “You need to be made to pace yourself. After all, killing is the only thing you’re good for.”
“Oh, I’m also a fantastic lay,” Dean told him, his lip curling.
Crowley pursed his lips. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said, which Dean supposed was probably for the best. Demon lusts were mostly nondiscriminatory, and it was even odds he’d bend over if Crowley told him to. Crowley might even want him to enjoy it (though then again so had Alastair). Dean had bloodier problems. He hadn’t wanted to fight the last set of kill orders, though he’d resisted Crowley’s instruction to stop using his demonic telekinesis to pull pranks on lesser demons; that shit was hilarious now that he’d gotten the mechanics locked down.
Being Crowley’s lackey was not okay. An eternity of being Crowley’s lackey was even less okay. From Abbadon’s example, he had the idea that in a couple hundred years he could figure out how to break Crowley’s hold, but he didn’t want to wait that long. Plus, given the way every cell in his body cried out for the next thing to tear apart, Crowley might be right about Dean turning into a mindless dog.
And now he’d tipped Crowley over into lecture mode, which was incredibly annoying, the way he’d always pretended it was with Sam. First there was the repeated warning about not exorcising meatsuits for trivial offenses, since good bodies were so hard to come by. If Dean had known how annoying Crowley would get about that, he might’ve found another way to deal with Teresa.
Then, for good measure, Crowley put his hands behind his back and paced, like the Napoleonic asshole he was. “You need to learn what it is to be a demon. Those strange feelings you have—things are changing for you, my boy. Accidental genocides, inappropriate erections, all that. You listen to me, and you’ve got some chance of turning that uncontrolled bloodlust into a more manageable joie de murder.”
That might even be true, twitchy post-rawhead fingers notwithstanding. It just meant he needed to get to Sam even more. If anyone could figure out how to get rid of him, it’d be Sam. And what had gotten said back when Dean was human didn’t have much meaning now. Sam could kill demons, no matter if he loved them or didn’t.
“You see, Dean, your limited intelligence reaches its relative peak when dealing out destruction, which helps explain your appallingly overpopulated trophy list. I’m simply—”
The sudden shock of pain was a relief from the monologue. It was like he was being shot through with barbed arrows, pulled backward and inside out. It wasn’t a feeling he thought he could have off of the rack.
He saw Crowley’s face contort in anger, and then it was lights out.
part 2
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