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Seeing Dean wincing away from the edges of the Devil’s Trap was like being gut-punched. Dean had landed in a heap, knocking over the chair they’d had prepared for him and sprawling on the floor, his back to Sam. This part of the bunker was always chilly, with the cool of the underground emanating from the rough concrete floors. Sam wondered whether Dean felt it any more. Dean got to his hands and knees, shook his head and shoulders like he was shaking off a hit, then stood up with his neck still bent. Sam couldn’t tell if he was hiding from himself or from Sam.
There had to be meaning in the fact that Dean’s human name still summoned him.
Castiel looked over at Sam, apparently willing to take Sam’s cues.
“Dean,” Sam said. He’d spent a full day after their preparations were complete talking himself up for this, and he felt flayed regardless.
As always, having Sam to brace himself against seemed to make Dean stronger, and angrier. Dean spun, and Sam got a look at just how well being a Knight of Hell suited him. He was dressed in head-to-toe black—leather jacket, black jeans, black shitkicker boots, even an unfaded black t-shirt. Sam was willing to bet his guns and knives would be black as well. His jewelry was gone, though of course what Sam still missed the most was the amulet, which hadn’t been a casualty of this change. The absence of color washed his skin out and took away some of Dean’s golden gleam, but the bags under his eyes were barely visible. Sam had the unwelcome thought that in a lot of ways being a demon agreed with Dean.
“You gonna get this party started any time soon?” Dean said, not anywhere near as cool as he thought he was.
“Why?” Sam challenged, like he was supposed to. “You have somewhere to be?”
Dean sneered, like Sam had just suggested splitting the salad plate. That was Dean trying to prod him into their standard pattern, and Sam couldn’t let that happen. “You know Crowley’s gonna be heading right here to get me out.”
“I doubt we’re that lucky,” Castiel said, almost making Sam jump. Dean seemed surprised too, his eyebrows lifting as if he were just now noticing the angel. “We could likely recapture Crowley in a direct assault.” (Sam had to be impressed at Castiel’s ability to bluff, given Castiel’s privately expressed opinion on the matter.)
“Yeah?” Dean let his eyes go black. Sam had seen the sight too many times already in his memories. It had lost some of its ability to shock, if not any measure of its horror. “You can’t even keep me in here.” He clenched his fists, and the room began to shake. Dust drifted from the ceiling, and fine cracks started to appear on the concrete floor, reaching for the lines of the Devil’s Trap.
Sam reared back and slapped the switch they’d set up. Dean had been the one to sketch out the plans in the first place, which Sam had found tucked into a corner in the library. Dean could’ve gotten it running a ton faster, but he and Castiel had eventually figured out the projectors. Red light lanced out, painting the floor and the ceiling with lines of light in the familiar pattern, so that any physical break in the lines would be irrelevant.
Dean stopped and stared, his mouth open in frank admiration. “Not bad, Sammy,” he admitted. He’d probably notice that if he generated enough debris some of it would break the beams of light, but for the moment he seemed to be done testing his confinement. “But if you really want me here, you need to shoot me with a couple of those Devil’s Trap bullets.”
Sam exchanged a look with Castiel. It might be a good idea, if it became necessary.
“I’m gonna cure you,” Sam said. “Not sure I want a bullet in your brain when that happens.” He withdrew the case from his jacket pocket and let Dean see the syringe.
“Yeah, that worked so well last time!” Dean shifted his weight from heel to heel, back to fight-or-fight mode (even human Dean hadn’t been good at the ‘flight’ option).
“The theory is sound,” Castiel weighed in, stepping closer but still well out of Dean’s reach. “We can restore your humanity.”
“And who fucking says I want it!” Dean snapped. “Dump five tons of cement in here and I’ll be stuck, that’s a fuckton safer.”
“I don’t care what you want,” Sam told him, irony bitter in his mouth.
He could tell by the twist of Dean’s lips that Dean was following his thoughts. “Sam, this ain’t me being tired of life. If I get out—”
“Yeah, and it was so safe to interrupt the Trials and stuff a random angel into my body,” Sam shot back. “The body count on that one hardly broke the dozens, right? If we’re not counting leaving the gates of Hell open.”
Dean’s hands opened and closed on empty air. “You were the one who said we had to stop hurting other people to save each other!”
“Curing you isn’t hurting other people,” Sam said, relentless. “I was just dying. You’re a demon, and even if we do wrap you in every sigil and rune we can find in the Bunker, someday Crowley or one of his minions is going to figure out how to free you, and Cas and I aren’t always gonna be around to stop it.”
That stung, he could tell. Dean looked away, eyes still black. Sam wondered whether it would be better if Dean had them under control, or if that would mean that the evil was settling even deeper into his bones.
“You down with this, Cas?” Dean appealed.
“I’ve rarely found your plans probable in any respect,” Castiel said. “And their success tends to trigger unforeseen consquences. However, they do tend to succeed in their immediate aims at an astonishing rate. I don’t think having you as an active Knight of Hell in Crowley’s service is advisable, especially with Heaven in such a state of disorganization. And I know it’s not what you want. As a result, I’ve decided to follow Sam’s lead for the time being, despite the evident risk of further disaster.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Sam told him dryly. “So, Dean, are you going to sit down and let me inject you, or do we need the chains?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Dean’s eyes flickered back to human green. “Demons don’t cooperate. Demons fuck shit up. You step into this circle, I’m gonna hurt you, just like Crowley said.”
Sam was so done with this. “Then maybe you should’ve thought of that before you took the fucking Mark of Cain! It wasn’t like it was called the Cutie Mark!”
“Dude,” Dean said, sounding equal parts disgusted and impressed, “how do you even know about that?”
“How do you?” Sam asked.
Dean scoffed and mumbled something about bronies.
“If I could return the conversation to the subject of Dean’s demonic essence,” Castiel interjected.
“You’re no fun,” Dean grumbled. But he turned and righted the chair that was in the trap with him. When he sat, he spread his legs like his balls were the size of grapefruits and folded his arms, staring up at Sam defiantly. “So you’re gonna inject me with your purified human blood, hunh. And I’m just gonna sit still for that?”
“Yeah, you are,” Sam agreed. “I listened to what you said about Cain. He got his bloodlust under control, after thousands of years as a demon. He did it for love. And you will too.”
Dean’s eyes went wide and human, the bottle-green of his irises more striking now for how Sam had missed it. His lips parted and his cheeks colored, as if even saying the word ‘love’ in his presence embarrassed him. “Come on, Dean,” Sam taunted. “You care about me so much, you don’t want me to leave you? Then step up. A demon can’t be my brother.”
Dean was terrified, of course. The trick was having him off balance enough to ignore his own fears. Barking orders like Dad would’ve wasn’t ideal, but Sam wasn’t going to leave any tool unused. Sure enough, Dean had stiffened in his seat.
After a moment, Dean bit his lip and lowered his eyes. “I won’t fight you. But it’s not gonna work, Sam. Crowley’s gonna be on your ass twenty-four seven.”
That was as much consent as Sam expected. He didn’t gloat about how fast Dean had caved, mostly because he didn’t want Dean himself to notice. “Give up the Blade,” he said. “Once you do that, we can get started.”
Dean’s reflexive snarl would’ve made a lesser man quail.
“Dean,” Sam said.
“I can call it to me whenever I want to,” Dean said, like a surly little kid.
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem with letting us lock it up,” Sam said logically. “Just so there won’t be any accidents. I don’t want to end up like Abel—or Tessa.”
To his credit, Dean did look guilty when Sam said that. “Fine,” he said, pouting. Between one breath and the next, the Blade was on the floor in front of him. Castiel approached, careful as if he were dismantling a bomb, and scooped it up. They didn’t know if the box they’d covered in Enochian sigils would do any good against the bond between Dean and the Blade, but distance might help a little.
As soon as Castiel had left the room and wouldn’t see Dean’s suffering, Sam stepped forward, into the Devil’s Trap, and put his hand on Dean’s neck. The skin was warm, human-standard.
He pressed more firmly, and Dean tilted his head, exposing his neck. Sam could’ve used another injection site, but this would circulate through Dean’s system faster than the arm, and frankly he wanted to see Dean submit, needed the reassurance.
Murmuring prayers that made Dean’s eyes go black, he began.
****
Dean had probably forgotten more about Hell than he remembered. Memory was kind in the way that life was not. Still, the pain of the rehumanization treatment had to rank in the top three of his torture experiences, at least. Sam and Cas ended up chaining him to the chair, with sigils sharpied onto the backs of his hands, after he’d shoved Sam halfway across the room without even meaning to.
It wasn’t only physical, not even mostly. Taking Sam’s blood was like getting injected with raw knowledge of his own failures, again and again. It felt like the essence of every time he hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough, good enough. Every shitty thing he’d done, aboveground and below, coming back to bubble through his bones and sizzle through his nerves. Dean thought maybe being a demon was forgiving yourself your infinite crimes, which meant that this was the opposite. He cried like a little kid each time. The tears seemed the same as ever, not taking any of the blackness with them.
From Sam’s worried examinations after each dose, Crowley hadn’t taken nearly as badly to the treatment. The low point was when he had to demand new clothes because he’d pissed himself, which wouldn’t have been fun to admit to a stranger. Sam unchained him and brought him a bucket, ignoring Dean’s snarking until he broke and suggested that the alternative was a hose, and then watched Dean to make sure he didn’t wash away any of the lines on the Devil’s Trap. Dean didn’t mention how he didn’t think that would matter at all if he got serious about escaping—which he would the moment he heard that Crowley was within range—and just made fun of Sam’s voyeurism. Afterwards, Sam gave him faded jeans and plaid to wear.
“Aw, come on,” Dean cajoled. “I know you washed my stuff.” No way would Sam let piss-stinking clothes just sit around.
“Sorry,” Sam said, not sorry. “I guess I don’t like seeing you dressed like a Hot Topic vampire.”
“Dude,” Dean said, genuinely offended. “Plenty of bad guys wear black. Oh hey, did I tell you, I iced the alpha vamp? Whole bunch of alphas, actually. Crowley’s got kind of a thing.”
Sam blinked a couple of times. “Congratulations, I guess.” He didn’t sound convinced. They were never going to get anywhere on the subject of ‘good you can do by going evil,’ and Dean had been on both ends of that conversation too many times to count, so he didn’t push.
And then it was time for the next injection. Sam paced while Dean went through the sweats and the shakes and the crying. Sam did push-ups and sit-ups, and Dean didn’t have the energy to make fun of the yoga mat he’d put down at the edge of their demon containment chamber.
“Sam,” Dean said after watching Sam do a complicated jumprope routine with what had to be the world’s longest jumprope to accommodate his freakish size, “you need to stop. Go have something more than Gatorade, okay? I’m starving just watching you, and I don’t need to eat.”
Sam glared at him. His hair was plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat, his clothes sopping with it too, and he was breathing too hard to speak. Which was exactly Dean’s point: This wasn’t exercise. This was punishment.
“You won’t do anyone any good if you’re fainting,” Dean coaxed.
“I’m not interested in ‘anyone,’” Sam said. He rested his weight against the wall and leaned over, bracing his hands on his upper thighs.
“Sammy,” Dean said, pained. He hated to see Sam like this, all that anger sharpened to a blade that could cut you from across the room. “Don’t, you know, don’t destroy yourself for me.”
“What, that’s your job?”
Dean didn’t know exactly which one of them he was supposed to be destroying in Sam’s version, but maybe that was the point. “I’m just saying. It’s not worth it if you burn yourself out to save me. If you look at the last couple years, you gotta ask if we learned anything from my deal, and your year hunting Lilith.”
“I learned,” Sam said, and if Dean had been human the tone would’ve been enough to make him run out of the room and get dead drunk. “I learned that lying and destroying your relationship with your brother isn’t worth what you think it is.”
Dean winced. Sam’s focus on saving him had made it easy to forget just how mad Sam still was. Probably had made it easy for Sam, too.
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he nearly spat the next words out. “Crowley can’t have you. That’s it.”
“Careful, Sammy. You sound like a jealous boyfriend.”
“Well, you sound like a bitchy one,” Sam tossed back, and Dean was impressed into silence.
****
Dean swore and yelled throughout his morning injection, subsiding to scattered curses and mumbling about fucking drain cleaner. Sam mostly didn’t have trouble tuning it out. This wasn’t Dean, not really. This was an infection.
“Don’t think you’re making me better,” Dean said, which made Sam start guiltily. Dean knew him so well, there was a good chance he’d roughly figured out what Sam was thinking.
“I’m going for ‘human,’” Sam said. “Pretty sure that’s better by definition.”
Dean snorted. “You know, Sammy, the worst thing I ever did to you, I did before the Mark. And if you change me back, I’m still not gonna be sorry I saved you. Sorry I didn’t find a way to tell you, yeah, and sorry as hell about Kevin. But wanting you to live—no.”
Sam sighed. “Yeah, Dean, I get it. You’re never going to let me choose for myself.”
“Ah, fuck you,” Dean snapped, which was at least different. “You’re mad I didn’t leave you to die. News flash: I tried that with Lucifer, and did that end the shitshow? No, it opened up a whole new chapter with Cas gone wild and you soulless. We got the Mother of All and the Leviathans with a new and exciting way to end the world bloody! Sacrifice doesn’t work for us. Maybe God doesn’t find it pleasing when it comes from a Winchester. So yeah, I dragged you out of that chapel and I called on an angel. You can get pissed about what happened next and how I didn’t tell you as soon as I could. You should. But not about saving you, Sam. Not that.”
Sam blinked at him a couple of times, then swallowed. “Okay. You’re still wrong. But that’s ten times more of a reason than you ever gave me before.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, funny thing about being a demon: I don’t feel like such a piece of shit. Being a fuckup’s not so bad, this side of the line. Helps me use my words, you know?”
“No,” Sam said, considering, “I’m pretty sure that’s pure Dean Winchester logic, not demonic. Sadly, I’ve known enough demons to tell the difference.”
“Look at you,” Dean said, grinning. “All enlightened and not stereotyping.”
He had to hope that this was Dean’s last-ditch attempt to throw off the cure. If that was true, there were some things he needed to say, just in case it didn’t work. “When this is over, when you’re back to you, things have to change. I get that I can’t stop you from making decisions I won’t like. But shutting me out, trying to keep me from taking my own risks—it always makes things worse. And I know I did my part. No more, for either of us. We share everything or we share nothing.”
Dean looked away, drawing his shoulders in. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Sam.”
“I’m not,” Sam said, and realized with some surprise that he was certain of himself all the way through. None of the niggling suspicion and guilt that had made him defensive back when he was drinking demon blood; none of the resentment that had tainted earlier vows, even when they were the right thing to do. Equality between them was something he needed for himself. And if Dean couldn’t give it as a human, then that would be the end, and it would hurt, and he’d still love Dean even if he couldn’t live with him.
Dean glanced at him, then away again, frowning. His eyes were black mirrors, as if he were too distracted by his own thoughts to keep up the façade. Sam had to believe that was a good sign.
****
Crowley’s “Winchester!” made Dean jump—he landed in a fighting crouch, whipping his head around. Crowley was standing behind him. They were back in the bordello room, except a whole bunch of beaver shots had been added to the walls, including one that was a close-up painting of a chick who’d obviously never heard of Brazilians.
“Really?” Crowley’s disgusted voice broke through Dean’s reflexive lust. “Ahem.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the walls were back to their pink-and-red stripes.
Wait. Could he even do that?
Dean called the Blade to himself, but when it appeared in his hand it was and wasn’t itself, flickering like a spirit.
“Crowley,” Dean growled.
“You don’t call, you don’t write.” Crowley spread his hands like he was trying to convince an invisible audience just how reasonable he was. “I had to do something to check on your well-being.”
Demons didn’t dream. A job perk, or something. He could close his eyes and not see blood if he didn’t want to. Crowley must’ve overridden that protection and invaded his sleep, which meant Dean hadn’t been grabbed out of the Bunker.
There was a pattern to this, and it started with Dean asking Crowley what he wanted.
Dean stared at him, chin down. He’d had a pretty good stone killer face before the Mark, and he doubted it’d gotten any less scary; Crowley swallowed. Still, he was the King of Hell. Tugging self-importantly at the bottom of his jacket, Crowley somehow managed to look down his nose at Dean. “You have to know that this game of keepaway just puts Sam at the top of my to-do list.”
“But here you are,” Dean told him, glancing dismissively around the dream-room. “Why is that, exactly? Can’t remember the address? Get a pencil, you can write it down.”
“Tell me, Dean-O, how much do you think the Moose resents that he can’t get free of you, no matter how hard he tries? You pant after him like a bitch in heat. You’re the bad penny who just keeps turning up.” Every sentence brought Crowley closer. “You’re the ghost in the house, haunting what you should’ve left behind. You’re a curse and you. Just. Won’t. Leave.” He was inches away, and Dean could feel phantom spittle hitting his face. “You should inflict yourself on someone more deserving than poor suffering Sammy.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dean said, and brought up the dream-Blade. Dream-Crowley’s mouth went slack with surprise as Dean lifted him up, yellow-white lightning crackling around him. The dream dissolved before Dean could get the pleasure of watching him die.
Dean opened his eyes and he was back in the world, strapped into his chair because demons didn’t need no stinking beds. All he could see was the faint outline of the door from the hallway lights. Someone who’d spent less time in Purgatory might’ve feared that anything could be hiding in the blackness around him, but Dean would’ve heard even a held breath. The room they were keeping him in wasn’t warm, and some of the smell from the archives leaked in. Dean never had liked the scent of research; that was Sam’s turn-on.
What an idiot he was. Even if he pulled this off, Sam would never—Sam was never going to approve of him, much less forgive him.
But—
He hadn’t lied, after Metatron had stabbed him. For all that the Blade made things red and simple, he didn’t want to be in that haze. Yeah, the high was great, but he was going to run out of supernatural trash faster than he was going to run out of killing joy. Or suppose Crowley got him back and found that Antichrist kid, or that kitsune who’d sworn to grow up and kill Dean back—right now, he’d take them out without even meaning to. And if some little hunter like Krissy got in his way—
He’d even take Sam out. That was no ‘if,’ because Sam would get in the way of the rest of them, standing up to Dean because of his stupid fucking hero complex.
Kind of funny, how he’d spent so much time saying ‘no’ to Dickariah and Michael, and ended up saying ‘yes’ to something even bloodier.
Being a demon hadn’t changed a godforsaken thing. He was ruined one way or another. Maybe the nausea he felt at the thought of striking Sam down was proof that, like Sam said, how he felt for his brother was the worst part of him and not the best. That’d explain how his obsession outlived his humanity, anyhow.
If he gutted Sam with the Blade in a rage blackout, it’d be like God and destiny won, making him into some pathetic photocopy of Cain, pissing on Dean for all the times he’d saved Sam.
Where the fuck was Sam, anyway? He had too much time to think, tied up in here.
Dean stared at the darkness and the blank stone walls beyond and waited for the next dose.
****
“What’s that smell?” Castiel said, tilting his head as he sniffed, which made him look really weird.
Sam hadn’t noticed anything. Reading ancient languages in a desperate search for more information about speeding up demon cures tended to require all his focus. “Hunh?”
He looked around the library and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Maybe there was something in the air, like old pennies—
“Sam!” He followed Castiel’s pointing finger to the entrance stairs, where black smoke was oozing down towards them.
“It’s not a demon,” Castiel said grimly. Sam was already running for the security cameras.
There was a huge tanker trunk backed up to the entrance, and an airlock-sized plastic tunnel pumping its contents through the cracks in the door. Sam didn’t need the sleazy wink one worker turned to give the security camera to know that these were demons.
“I’ll do my best to keep it contained,” Castiel said.
“I’ll—figure out how to get them out,” Sam agreed, hurrying for the tunnels. When this was over, he was going to help Dean install the holy water sprinklers and automated gunports that Dean had fantasized about.
He swung by the dungeon, because Dean might have some useful ideas. He’d no sooner rushed out an explanation then the chains around Dean burst, every link exploded like a popcorn kernel.
“No!” Sam said. “You’ve got to stay there. Crowley hasn’t been able to reach you.”
“I’m not gonna stand here while—” Dean stopped. He blinked rapidly. “Positive pressure.”
“What?”
“This place was designed—no, you know what, just listen. The AC’s in the control room, left side, third console. There’s a switch on the far right, with a dial underneath. Dial as far up as it goes, hit the switch. And cover your mouth!” he yelled at Sam’s already retreating back.
Sam jogged to the control room and followed instructions. The noise was amazing—powerful fans, he realized. The Men of Letters didn’t build small.
He inspected the stairs to the main level carefully and saw no traces of the black cloud. Nostrils flaring—Dean would’ve had a field day with the dog jokes if he’d seen—he inched up the stairs. “Castiel!” he yelled, hardly hearing himself over the jetlike noise of the fans.
“Sam!” Castiel was suddenly in front of him. “There are ten demons outside.” When Sam checked the cameras, he saw two tangled in the plastic tubing they’d used to pump whatever this gas was, while the others were fanning out, ready to fight.
This was an exploratory push, more a tap at the door than an assault. Crowley could do so much more.
The garage had an elevator to get the vehicles out, but Sam was worried the noise and vibration would be noticeable even with the fans going. He gestured for Castiel to follow him, and headed towards the entrance to the hidden airshaft.
He was glad he’d kept up his fitness regime. Climbing roughly three stories on an ancient metal ladder bolted to the inside of a concrete tube would’ve been a workout even if demons hadn’t been waiting for them topside.
Sam let Castiel go first after he popped the hatch, on the theory that the angel could weather a blow to the head better than Sam could. But they were still unobserved—Crowley had apparently never gotten a look at the schematics for the Bunker, a small favor. Sam nodded at Castiel, and they split up, approaching the demons from both sides.
Dean had to be going nuts down there. Sam figured he had five minutes, max, before Dean said fuck it and broke out, fully exposing himself to Crowley as soon as he crossed the boundary of the Bunker.
The first demon died easily; the second less so, and then he was facing four pissed-off demons with his knife in one hand and his gun in the other.
He fired six Devil’s Trap bullets, putting two of them down before the gun clicked empty and he was bowled over. He managed to get his knife between his body and the demon’s—a guy wearing a plumber’s uniform with a patch that said ‘Dave’—and turned the fall into a setup for a kick, flinging the body from on top of him with his feet and managing to hit the next demon as it used its mind to shove him back against a tree. The demon’s concentration broke and Sam slammed his knife into the join of shoulder and chest, pulling it free even before the fire-crackle of demon death burned out.
“Sam!”
Sam took Castiel’s yell as a warning and ducked. A demon crashed into the ground behind him, and Sam whirled to stab it in the back before it could rise again.
“I believe that’s the last,” Castiel said. There was a spray of blood across his chin and part of his cheek, and his hands were gloved in blood. Sam’s stomach lurched. Yes, he’d heard Castiel say his powers were diminished, but to see him reduced to physically ripping demons apart was still a shock.
What couldn’t be helped had to be dealt with. “Thanks,” Sam said. “Got any ideas about how we get rid of a tanker truck full of poison gas?” Dean would’ve wanted to blow it up, he thought, and the realization made him start jogging back to the airshaft, the quickest way back given all the locks on the main door.
“I’ll take care of it,” Castiel called out, and Sam made a mental note to spend more time being grateful for their remaining friend.
As he slid down the ladder fireman-style, praying that Dean hadn’t done anything too stupid, he considered the implications of this assault. Crowley had definitely sent the second string. He was making a point: I’m coming for you.
****
Dean had only pointed the gun at Sam for five seconds, tops, and now Sam was all pissed at him even though Dean had consented to being disarmed, including the knife that Sam never would’ve guessed about. Blah blah ‘you have to stay safe’ blah. Like Dean would’ve gained anything from staying inside the Bunker if Sam was outside getting himself killed. Also, somebody had gotten to ice a bunch of demons and it wasn’t him, which got on his nerves.
Whatever. Dean also didn’t see why Sam wanted him back in the Devil’s Trap now that it was obvious how little it mattered to him. (Okay, symbolism was important, but Dean didn’t have to admit that, especially when the alternative allowed him to make himself a sandwich in his own damn kitchen. But then it turned out that Sam had, as Dean should’ve expected, allowed mold to become the dominant food group in the fridge, which meant that staying out was hardly worth it.)
“I’m gonna kill that bastard extra for this,” he commented to no one in particular. Sam had talked him back into the Devil’s Trap, but no way was he accepting chains again.
Sam ignored him. The sight of the books piled around Sam made Dean feel warm and almost comfortable. Of course Sam had to sit on the floor because the dungeon wasn’t built for research like the library was, but it was the spirit of the thing.
“We’ve got to give him something else to worry about,” Sam finally said, slamming a cover closed in frustration.
“Heaven won’t help us,” Cas reminded them from the darkness at the edge of the room, where he was hanging out now. Dean thought that as a human he would’ve been more concerned about how the angel was looking like he’d lost most of his feathers. But everybody died, or should die. All the caring he had left was scraped together for Sam, and even that was at least half Dean not wanting anyone else—Death included—to fuck with his stuff.
Back to their present annoyance. “Garth and his hunter friends are out,” Dean admitted, and Sam gave him a look that said that he was disappointed without even needing to ask. “Pretty much the only things left that’ll fight Crowley are the monsters.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Wait a second. You told me you took out a bunch of the alphas. But not all, right?”
Dean nodded, already not liking where this was going.
“That’s our play, then. Find the remaining alphas, point out that Crowley’s coming for them next as soon as he gets his Knight back, and tell them we’re the only ones who can take Dean off the table.”
“Right, because alphas have been so trustworthy this far.” Dean wanted to reach through the Devil’s Trap and smack some sense into Sam. Also now that he was thinking about the alphas he very strongly wanted to kill a dozen or so. Based on previous experience, they’d almost be a challenge.
“We don’t need to trust them,” Sam said relentlessly. “We just need to point out where their self-interest lies.”
“No way,” Dean said. “You are not negotiating with a bunch of alphas with just an angel with his batteries low to protect you.” Cas didn’t seem offended by the accurate description, just folded his arms and watched the two of them.
“Then we’ll let you out, and you can go back in when we’re done,” Sam said, like that was reasonable. “If you promise you’ll keep them on, you can wear the sigils that keep Crowley from summoning you. Your presence will make our claims a lot more credible.”
“Now you think you can trust me?” Sure, Sam would let Dean out when it suited Sam, but let Dean suggest a beer run and it was like Dean had asked to gut a puppy.
Sam looked at him. “For this, yeah, I do. You didn’t say yes to Michael. You let me fall into the Pit. You’ll come, and you’ll protect me, and then we’ll come back here and finish this.”
Sam had always had the faith, between them.
****
Finding the alphas proved both more difficult and easier than Sam expected. More difficult, because when they had a line on the alpha gremlin, Dean had to be dissuaded from killing his way into the gremlin’s presence, and Sam was pretty sure the struggle set Dean’s treatment back substantially. As it was, he slaughtered three of the monsters, and would’ve done more if Sam hadn’t wrapped his whole body around Dean’s and shook him back to a tenuous control.
Easier, because when Sam did get the alpha to listen, it agreed to reach out to the other alphas remaining. Not before suggesting that killing Dean would be simpler, and not before Dean got to posture about liking to see it try. But after a lot of inarticulate roaring—and speechifying on the gremlin’s side—they’d secured breathing room from Crowley. Castiel had even considered them safe enough to go pursue a lead on his own health, for which Sam was abstractly grateful.
“You know this is gonna bite us in the ass,” Dean grumbled as Sam opened the door to the Bunker.
Sam waved him further inside and started redrawing the sigils to keep him contained and unreachable. “What else is new,” he observed. “We didn’t make any promises.”
“’m just saying, with our luck they’re gonna get jazzed to be working together. It’s gonna be Axis and Allies, and we are way short on allies.”
Sam suppressed the smile that wanted to come from Dean’s use of ‘we.’ “Maybe. But if it didn’t happen when the Leviathans were here, odds are it isn’t going to.”
Dean’s pursed lips told Sam what he thought of that.
“Give me the anti-Crowley amulet and let’s get back to your treatment,” Sam said. There was a reason he hadn’t wanted Dean’s protection to be too portable; Dean had a tendency to wander.
Dean looked longingly at the kitchen. “Oh, come on. Not even time for a beer?”
Dean was so fucking charming, it was easy to forget what he was. “Dean,” he said, infusing it with all his conviction. Someone needed to be making the decisions here, and it wasn’t the demon.
“I’d kill for some shots and a blow job,” Dean grumbled, turning down the hallway towards the dungeon.
“Right now, you’d kill for a lot less than that. And there’ll be plenty of time to get your rocks off when you’re cured.”
“You offering, Sam? ‘Cause that’d be a better incentive than you’ve given me so far.”
Sam only kept moving because of years of training taking shocks. That wasn’t a thing they joked about, probably because so many other people did. At least, that’s what he always told himself. “Shut up and get in the Devil’s Trap,” he said, possibly his worst comeback ever.
“Fine,” Dean snapped, flashing black-eyes, as if that was any kind of rebuke.
And if Sam lingered a bit with his hand spread over Dean’s jaw and neck, tilting him into the right place for the injection, he was only reassuring himself that Dean was here, submitting, and not out wreaking havoc.
****
Dean understood that he was a moron for stepping right back into the Devil’s Trap and baring his neck for Sam’s needle. He’d had his skin peeled from his body with less pain. But Sam had said he trusted Dean to do what Sam asked, even after everything. Sam had even smiled at him. If being a demon was all about indulging your worst impulses, then it made sense that Dean couldn’t make himself give that up.
At least with Cas off in Heaven trying to get his grace healed Dean didn’t have to hold back on how bad it felt. Yeah, Cas had seen him at his worst already, but that didn’t mean Dean had any fondness for replays.
Sam checked the spell-hardened ropes—Dean had only allowed them because he was a little worried he was going to kill Sam purely by accident with his thrashing, and also because he got to make bondage jokes—and squatted so that they were eye to eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Peachy,” Dean said.
Sam frowned, the worry lines that Dean couldn’t help wanting to erase furrowing his gigantic brow. “We’re getting to the point where I think you’re going to have to want to change back. I don’t think it will work without that.”
“That,” Dean told him, “was not part of the sales pitch.”
“Suck it up,” Sam counseled. “If you don’t want Crowley pulling your strings, then you need to cooperate.”
“Speaking of Crowley—”
“No trace; I think we’ve given him enough to worry about for now,” Sam said. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Sam—” Dean paused and gave some real thought to how he was going to say this. “I don’t want to be Crowley’s butt-boy. But being a demon, it’s not all bad. Even tied to this fucking chair, my back doesn’t hurt. I fell asleep last night and slept for six hours. I don’t need to see the bottom of a bottle before I can even think about my next move. I’m not still mad at you for things you did five years ago; I don’t care. I’m not saying it’s good. It’s just—hard to stop wanting.”
Sam sighed. His hair was lank—boy wasn’t spending enough time taking care of himself, and Dean would bet a thousand dollars that neither Sam nor Cas had put any new food in the refrigerator even after Dean’s extensive lecture on the subject—and his eyes were burning. “Believe me, I know all about how good that power can feel. But it’s not right. If you give in to Crowley, you won’t care about your car, or your burgers, or even your porn. You won’t care about anything but killing. You gotta want to come back, man.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Dean admitted.
“Dean,” Sam said, then paused because even his gigantic intellect was clearly having a hard time coming up with something hopeful. “You know, we’ve known three people to throw off demonic possession. Dad, Bobby, and me, because otherwise they’d have kept hurting you.” He reached out and grabbed Dean’s shoulder, and even in the middle of everything Dean was so happy that Sam’s grip was bruising. Sam’s health was like sunlight and the open road. “You gave us the strength to fight, to do what you need to do now, because we loved you, Dean.”
Dean laughed, choked-off in his throat, and looked over Sam’s shoulder so he didn’t have to meet his brother’s eyes. “That so, Sammy? Then I got some bad news for you.”
“Believe it or not,” Sam told him, “your low self-esteem is not a state secret. I guess you’re just going to have to do it for me, then.”
Sam left him alone, then, so Dean could chew on that in peace.
It was just—he didn’t get it. How could Sam want him saved, after all Dean had done? Not just done to Sam, even though that alone was enough. Yeah, of course Sam didn’t want him following Crowley’s orders, but that was just good tactics. Sam was talking like Dean had something to offer as a human, instead of as a weapon.
Part 3
There had to be meaning in the fact that Dean’s human name still summoned him.
Castiel looked over at Sam, apparently willing to take Sam’s cues.
“Dean,” Sam said. He’d spent a full day after their preparations were complete talking himself up for this, and he felt flayed regardless.
As always, having Sam to brace himself against seemed to make Dean stronger, and angrier. Dean spun, and Sam got a look at just how well being a Knight of Hell suited him. He was dressed in head-to-toe black—leather jacket, black jeans, black shitkicker boots, even an unfaded black t-shirt. Sam was willing to bet his guns and knives would be black as well. His jewelry was gone, though of course what Sam still missed the most was the amulet, which hadn’t been a casualty of this change. The absence of color washed his skin out and took away some of Dean’s golden gleam, but the bags under his eyes were barely visible. Sam had the unwelcome thought that in a lot of ways being a demon agreed with Dean.
“You gonna get this party started any time soon?” Dean said, not anywhere near as cool as he thought he was.
“Why?” Sam challenged, like he was supposed to. “You have somewhere to be?”
Dean sneered, like Sam had just suggested splitting the salad plate. That was Dean trying to prod him into their standard pattern, and Sam couldn’t let that happen. “You know Crowley’s gonna be heading right here to get me out.”
“I doubt we’re that lucky,” Castiel said, almost making Sam jump. Dean seemed surprised too, his eyebrows lifting as if he were just now noticing the angel. “We could likely recapture Crowley in a direct assault.” (Sam had to be impressed at Castiel’s ability to bluff, given Castiel’s privately expressed opinion on the matter.)
“Yeah?” Dean let his eyes go black. Sam had seen the sight too many times already in his memories. It had lost some of its ability to shock, if not any measure of its horror. “You can’t even keep me in here.” He clenched his fists, and the room began to shake. Dust drifted from the ceiling, and fine cracks started to appear on the concrete floor, reaching for the lines of the Devil’s Trap.
Sam reared back and slapped the switch they’d set up. Dean had been the one to sketch out the plans in the first place, which Sam had found tucked into a corner in the library. Dean could’ve gotten it running a ton faster, but he and Castiel had eventually figured out the projectors. Red light lanced out, painting the floor and the ceiling with lines of light in the familiar pattern, so that any physical break in the lines would be irrelevant.
Dean stopped and stared, his mouth open in frank admiration. “Not bad, Sammy,” he admitted. He’d probably notice that if he generated enough debris some of it would break the beams of light, but for the moment he seemed to be done testing his confinement. “But if you really want me here, you need to shoot me with a couple of those Devil’s Trap bullets.”
Sam exchanged a look with Castiel. It might be a good idea, if it became necessary.
“I’m gonna cure you,” Sam said. “Not sure I want a bullet in your brain when that happens.” He withdrew the case from his jacket pocket and let Dean see the syringe.
“Yeah, that worked so well last time!” Dean shifted his weight from heel to heel, back to fight-or-fight mode (even human Dean hadn’t been good at the ‘flight’ option).
“The theory is sound,” Castiel weighed in, stepping closer but still well out of Dean’s reach. “We can restore your humanity.”
“And who fucking says I want it!” Dean snapped. “Dump five tons of cement in here and I’ll be stuck, that’s a fuckton safer.”
“I don’t care what you want,” Sam told him, irony bitter in his mouth.
He could tell by the twist of Dean’s lips that Dean was following his thoughts. “Sam, this ain’t me being tired of life. If I get out—”
“Yeah, and it was so safe to interrupt the Trials and stuff a random angel into my body,” Sam shot back. “The body count on that one hardly broke the dozens, right? If we’re not counting leaving the gates of Hell open.”
Dean’s hands opened and closed on empty air. “You were the one who said we had to stop hurting other people to save each other!”
“Curing you isn’t hurting other people,” Sam said, relentless. “I was just dying. You’re a demon, and even if we do wrap you in every sigil and rune we can find in the Bunker, someday Crowley or one of his minions is going to figure out how to free you, and Cas and I aren’t always gonna be around to stop it.”
That stung, he could tell. Dean looked away, eyes still black. Sam wondered whether it would be better if Dean had them under control, or if that would mean that the evil was settling even deeper into his bones.
“You down with this, Cas?” Dean appealed.
“I’ve rarely found your plans probable in any respect,” Castiel said. “And their success tends to trigger unforeseen consquences. However, they do tend to succeed in their immediate aims at an astonishing rate. I don’t think having you as an active Knight of Hell in Crowley’s service is advisable, especially with Heaven in such a state of disorganization. And I know it’s not what you want. As a result, I’ve decided to follow Sam’s lead for the time being, despite the evident risk of further disaster.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Sam told him dryly. “So, Dean, are you going to sit down and let me inject you, or do we need the chains?”
“You’re kidding me, right?” Dean’s eyes flickered back to human green. “Demons don’t cooperate. Demons fuck shit up. You step into this circle, I’m gonna hurt you, just like Crowley said.”
Sam was so done with this. “Then maybe you should’ve thought of that before you took the fucking Mark of Cain! It wasn’t like it was called the Cutie Mark!”
“Dude,” Dean said, sounding equal parts disgusted and impressed, “how do you even know about that?”
“How do you?” Sam asked.
Dean scoffed and mumbled something about bronies.
“If I could return the conversation to the subject of Dean’s demonic essence,” Castiel interjected.
“You’re no fun,” Dean grumbled. But he turned and righted the chair that was in the trap with him. When he sat, he spread his legs like his balls were the size of grapefruits and folded his arms, staring up at Sam defiantly. “So you’re gonna inject me with your purified human blood, hunh. And I’m just gonna sit still for that?”
“Yeah, you are,” Sam agreed. “I listened to what you said about Cain. He got his bloodlust under control, after thousands of years as a demon. He did it for love. And you will too.”
Dean’s eyes went wide and human, the bottle-green of his irises more striking now for how Sam had missed it. His lips parted and his cheeks colored, as if even saying the word ‘love’ in his presence embarrassed him. “Come on, Dean,” Sam taunted. “You care about me so much, you don’t want me to leave you? Then step up. A demon can’t be my brother.”
Dean was terrified, of course. The trick was having him off balance enough to ignore his own fears. Barking orders like Dad would’ve wasn’t ideal, but Sam wasn’t going to leave any tool unused. Sure enough, Dean had stiffened in his seat.
After a moment, Dean bit his lip and lowered his eyes. “I won’t fight you. But it’s not gonna work, Sam. Crowley’s gonna be on your ass twenty-four seven.”
That was as much consent as Sam expected. He didn’t gloat about how fast Dean had caved, mostly because he didn’t want Dean himself to notice. “Give up the Blade,” he said. “Once you do that, we can get started.”
Dean’s reflexive snarl would’ve made a lesser man quail.
“Dean,” Sam said.
“I can call it to me whenever I want to,” Dean said, like a surly little kid.
“Then you shouldn’t have a problem with letting us lock it up,” Sam said logically. “Just so there won’t be any accidents. I don’t want to end up like Abel—or Tessa.”
To his credit, Dean did look guilty when Sam said that. “Fine,” he said, pouting. Between one breath and the next, the Blade was on the floor in front of him. Castiel approached, careful as if he were dismantling a bomb, and scooped it up. They didn’t know if the box they’d covered in Enochian sigils would do any good against the bond between Dean and the Blade, but distance might help a little.
As soon as Castiel had left the room and wouldn’t see Dean’s suffering, Sam stepped forward, into the Devil’s Trap, and put his hand on Dean’s neck. The skin was warm, human-standard.
He pressed more firmly, and Dean tilted his head, exposing his neck. Sam could’ve used another injection site, but this would circulate through Dean’s system faster than the arm, and frankly he wanted to see Dean submit, needed the reassurance.
Murmuring prayers that made Dean’s eyes go black, he began.
****
Dean had probably forgotten more about Hell than he remembered. Memory was kind in the way that life was not. Still, the pain of the rehumanization treatment had to rank in the top three of his torture experiences, at least. Sam and Cas ended up chaining him to the chair, with sigils sharpied onto the backs of his hands, after he’d shoved Sam halfway across the room without even meaning to.
It wasn’t only physical, not even mostly. Taking Sam’s blood was like getting injected with raw knowledge of his own failures, again and again. It felt like the essence of every time he hadn’t been fast enough, strong enough, good enough. Every shitty thing he’d done, aboveground and below, coming back to bubble through his bones and sizzle through his nerves. Dean thought maybe being a demon was forgiving yourself your infinite crimes, which meant that this was the opposite. He cried like a little kid each time. The tears seemed the same as ever, not taking any of the blackness with them.
From Sam’s worried examinations after each dose, Crowley hadn’t taken nearly as badly to the treatment. The low point was when he had to demand new clothes because he’d pissed himself, which wouldn’t have been fun to admit to a stranger. Sam unchained him and brought him a bucket, ignoring Dean’s snarking until he broke and suggested that the alternative was a hose, and then watched Dean to make sure he didn’t wash away any of the lines on the Devil’s Trap. Dean didn’t mention how he didn’t think that would matter at all if he got serious about escaping—which he would the moment he heard that Crowley was within range—and just made fun of Sam’s voyeurism. Afterwards, Sam gave him faded jeans and plaid to wear.
“Aw, come on,” Dean cajoled. “I know you washed my stuff.” No way would Sam let piss-stinking clothes just sit around.
“Sorry,” Sam said, not sorry. “I guess I don’t like seeing you dressed like a Hot Topic vampire.”
“Dude,” Dean said, genuinely offended. “Plenty of bad guys wear black. Oh hey, did I tell you, I iced the alpha vamp? Whole bunch of alphas, actually. Crowley’s got kind of a thing.”
Sam blinked a couple of times. “Congratulations, I guess.” He didn’t sound convinced. They were never going to get anywhere on the subject of ‘good you can do by going evil,’ and Dean had been on both ends of that conversation too many times to count, so he didn’t push.
And then it was time for the next injection. Sam paced while Dean went through the sweats and the shakes and the crying. Sam did push-ups and sit-ups, and Dean didn’t have the energy to make fun of the yoga mat he’d put down at the edge of their demon containment chamber.
“Sam,” Dean said after watching Sam do a complicated jumprope routine with what had to be the world’s longest jumprope to accommodate his freakish size, “you need to stop. Go have something more than Gatorade, okay? I’m starving just watching you, and I don’t need to eat.”
Sam glared at him. His hair was plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat, his clothes sopping with it too, and he was breathing too hard to speak. Which was exactly Dean’s point: This wasn’t exercise. This was punishment.
“You won’t do anyone any good if you’re fainting,” Dean coaxed.
“I’m not interested in ‘anyone,’” Sam said. He rested his weight against the wall and leaned over, bracing his hands on his upper thighs.
“Sammy,” Dean said, pained. He hated to see Sam like this, all that anger sharpened to a blade that could cut you from across the room. “Don’t, you know, don’t destroy yourself for me.”
“What, that’s your job?”
Dean didn’t know exactly which one of them he was supposed to be destroying in Sam’s version, but maybe that was the point. “I’m just saying. It’s not worth it if you burn yourself out to save me. If you look at the last couple years, you gotta ask if we learned anything from my deal, and your year hunting Lilith.”
“I learned,” Sam said, and if Dean had been human the tone would’ve been enough to make him run out of the room and get dead drunk. “I learned that lying and destroying your relationship with your brother isn’t worth what you think it is.”
Dean winced. Sam’s focus on saving him had made it easy to forget just how mad Sam still was. Probably had made it easy for Sam, too.
Sam’s eyes narrowed and he nearly spat the next words out. “Crowley can’t have you. That’s it.”
“Careful, Sammy. You sound like a jealous boyfriend.”
“Well, you sound like a bitchy one,” Sam tossed back, and Dean was impressed into silence.
****
Dean swore and yelled throughout his morning injection, subsiding to scattered curses and mumbling about fucking drain cleaner. Sam mostly didn’t have trouble tuning it out. This wasn’t Dean, not really. This was an infection.
“Don’t think you’re making me better,” Dean said, which made Sam start guiltily. Dean knew him so well, there was a good chance he’d roughly figured out what Sam was thinking.
“I’m going for ‘human,’” Sam said. “Pretty sure that’s better by definition.”
Dean snorted. “You know, Sammy, the worst thing I ever did to you, I did before the Mark. And if you change me back, I’m still not gonna be sorry I saved you. Sorry I didn’t find a way to tell you, yeah, and sorry as hell about Kevin. But wanting you to live—no.”
Sam sighed. “Yeah, Dean, I get it. You’re never going to let me choose for myself.”
“Ah, fuck you,” Dean snapped, which was at least different. “You’re mad I didn’t leave you to die. News flash: I tried that with Lucifer, and did that end the shitshow? No, it opened up a whole new chapter with Cas gone wild and you soulless. We got the Mother of All and the Leviathans with a new and exciting way to end the world bloody! Sacrifice doesn’t work for us. Maybe God doesn’t find it pleasing when it comes from a Winchester. So yeah, I dragged you out of that chapel and I called on an angel. You can get pissed about what happened next and how I didn’t tell you as soon as I could. You should. But not about saving you, Sam. Not that.”
Sam blinked at him a couple of times, then swallowed. “Okay. You’re still wrong. But that’s ten times more of a reason than you ever gave me before.”
Dean snorted. “Yeah, well, funny thing about being a demon: I don’t feel like such a piece of shit. Being a fuckup’s not so bad, this side of the line. Helps me use my words, you know?”
“No,” Sam said, considering, “I’m pretty sure that’s pure Dean Winchester logic, not demonic. Sadly, I’ve known enough demons to tell the difference.”
“Look at you,” Dean said, grinning. “All enlightened and not stereotyping.”
He had to hope that this was Dean’s last-ditch attempt to throw off the cure. If that was true, there were some things he needed to say, just in case it didn’t work. “When this is over, when you’re back to you, things have to change. I get that I can’t stop you from making decisions I won’t like. But shutting me out, trying to keep me from taking my own risks—it always makes things worse. And I know I did my part. No more, for either of us. We share everything or we share nothing.”
Dean looked away, drawing his shoulders in. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Sam.”
“I’m not,” Sam said, and realized with some surprise that he was certain of himself all the way through. None of the niggling suspicion and guilt that had made him defensive back when he was drinking demon blood; none of the resentment that had tainted earlier vows, even when they were the right thing to do. Equality between them was something he needed for himself. And if Dean couldn’t give it as a human, then that would be the end, and it would hurt, and he’d still love Dean even if he couldn’t live with him.
Dean glanced at him, then away again, frowning. His eyes were black mirrors, as if he were too distracted by his own thoughts to keep up the façade. Sam had to believe that was a good sign.
****
Crowley’s “Winchester!” made Dean jump—he landed in a fighting crouch, whipping his head around. Crowley was standing behind him. They were back in the bordello room, except a whole bunch of beaver shots had been added to the walls, including one that was a close-up painting of a chick who’d obviously never heard of Brazilians.
“Really?” Crowley’s disgusted voice broke through Dean’s reflexive lust. “Ahem.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and the walls were back to their pink-and-red stripes.
Wait. Could he even do that?
Dean called the Blade to himself, but when it appeared in his hand it was and wasn’t itself, flickering like a spirit.
“Crowley,” Dean growled.
“You don’t call, you don’t write.” Crowley spread his hands like he was trying to convince an invisible audience just how reasonable he was. “I had to do something to check on your well-being.”
Demons didn’t dream. A job perk, or something. He could close his eyes and not see blood if he didn’t want to. Crowley must’ve overridden that protection and invaded his sleep, which meant Dean hadn’t been grabbed out of the Bunker.
There was a pattern to this, and it started with Dean asking Crowley what he wanted.
Dean stared at him, chin down. He’d had a pretty good stone killer face before the Mark, and he doubted it’d gotten any less scary; Crowley swallowed. Still, he was the King of Hell. Tugging self-importantly at the bottom of his jacket, Crowley somehow managed to look down his nose at Dean. “You have to know that this game of keepaway just puts Sam at the top of my to-do list.”
“But here you are,” Dean told him, glancing dismissively around the dream-room. “Why is that, exactly? Can’t remember the address? Get a pencil, you can write it down.”
“Tell me, Dean-O, how much do you think the Moose resents that he can’t get free of you, no matter how hard he tries? You pant after him like a bitch in heat. You’re the bad penny who just keeps turning up.” Every sentence brought Crowley closer. “You’re the ghost in the house, haunting what you should’ve left behind. You’re a curse and you. Just. Won’t. Leave.” He was inches away, and Dean could feel phantom spittle hitting his face. “You should inflict yourself on someone more deserving than poor suffering Sammy.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dean said, and brought up the dream-Blade. Dream-Crowley’s mouth went slack with surprise as Dean lifted him up, yellow-white lightning crackling around him. The dream dissolved before Dean could get the pleasure of watching him die.
Dean opened his eyes and he was back in the world, strapped into his chair because demons didn’t need no stinking beds. All he could see was the faint outline of the door from the hallway lights. Someone who’d spent less time in Purgatory might’ve feared that anything could be hiding in the blackness around him, but Dean would’ve heard even a held breath. The room they were keeping him in wasn’t warm, and some of the smell from the archives leaked in. Dean never had liked the scent of research; that was Sam’s turn-on.
What an idiot he was. Even if he pulled this off, Sam would never—Sam was never going to approve of him, much less forgive him.
But—
He hadn’t lied, after Metatron had stabbed him. For all that the Blade made things red and simple, he didn’t want to be in that haze. Yeah, the high was great, but he was going to run out of supernatural trash faster than he was going to run out of killing joy. Or suppose Crowley got him back and found that Antichrist kid, or that kitsune who’d sworn to grow up and kill Dean back—right now, he’d take them out without even meaning to. And if some little hunter like Krissy got in his way—
He’d even take Sam out. That was no ‘if,’ because Sam would get in the way of the rest of them, standing up to Dean because of his stupid fucking hero complex.
Kind of funny, how he’d spent so much time saying ‘no’ to Dickariah and Michael, and ended up saying ‘yes’ to something even bloodier.
Being a demon hadn’t changed a godforsaken thing. He was ruined one way or another. Maybe the nausea he felt at the thought of striking Sam down was proof that, like Sam said, how he felt for his brother was the worst part of him and not the best. That’d explain how his obsession outlived his humanity, anyhow.
If he gutted Sam with the Blade in a rage blackout, it’d be like God and destiny won, making him into some pathetic photocopy of Cain, pissing on Dean for all the times he’d saved Sam.
Where the fuck was Sam, anyway? He had too much time to think, tied up in here.
Dean stared at the darkness and the blank stone walls beyond and waited for the next dose.
****
“What’s that smell?” Castiel said, tilting his head as he sniffed, which made him look really weird.
Sam hadn’t noticed anything. Reading ancient languages in a desperate search for more information about speeding up demon cures tended to require all his focus. “Hunh?”
He looked around the library and didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Maybe there was something in the air, like old pennies—
“Sam!” He followed Castiel’s pointing finger to the entrance stairs, where black smoke was oozing down towards them.
“It’s not a demon,” Castiel said grimly. Sam was already running for the security cameras.
There was a huge tanker trunk backed up to the entrance, and an airlock-sized plastic tunnel pumping its contents through the cracks in the door. Sam didn’t need the sleazy wink one worker turned to give the security camera to know that these were demons.
“I’ll do my best to keep it contained,” Castiel said.
“I’ll—figure out how to get them out,” Sam agreed, hurrying for the tunnels. When this was over, he was going to help Dean install the holy water sprinklers and automated gunports that Dean had fantasized about.
He swung by the dungeon, because Dean might have some useful ideas. He’d no sooner rushed out an explanation then the chains around Dean burst, every link exploded like a popcorn kernel.
“No!” Sam said. “You’ve got to stay there. Crowley hasn’t been able to reach you.”
“I’m not gonna stand here while—” Dean stopped. He blinked rapidly. “Positive pressure.”
“What?”
“This place was designed—no, you know what, just listen. The AC’s in the control room, left side, third console. There’s a switch on the far right, with a dial underneath. Dial as far up as it goes, hit the switch. And cover your mouth!” he yelled at Sam’s already retreating back.
Sam jogged to the control room and followed instructions. The noise was amazing—powerful fans, he realized. The Men of Letters didn’t build small.
He inspected the stairs to the main level carefully and saw no traces of the black cloud. Nostrils flaring—Dean would’ve had a field day with the dog jokes if he’d seen—he inched up the stairs. “Castiel!” he yelled, hardly hearing himself over the jetlike noise of the fans.
“Sam!” Castiel was suddenly in front of him. “There are ten demons outside.” When Sam checked the cameras, he saw two tangled in the plastic tubing they’d used to pump whatever this gas was, while the others were fanning out, ready to fight.
This was an exploratory push, more a tap at the door than an assault. Crowley could do so much more.
The garage had an elevator to get the vehicles out, but Sam was worried the noise and vibration would be noticeable even with the fans going. He gestured for Castiel to follow him, and headed towards the entrance to the hidden airshaft.
He was glad he’d kept up his fitness regime. Climbing roughly three stories on an ancient metal ladder bolted to the inside of a concrete tube would’ve been a workout even if demons hadn’t been waiting for them topside.
Sam let Castiel go first after he popped the hatch, on the theory that the angel could weather a blow to the head better than Sam could. But they were still unobserved—Crowley had apparently never gotten a look at the schematics for the Bunker, a small favor. Sam nodded at Castiel, and they split up, approaching the demons from both sides.
Dean had to be going nuts down there. Sam figured he had five minutes, max, before Dean said fuck it and broke out, fully exposing himself to Crowley as soon as he crossed the boundary of the Bunker.
The first demon died easily; the second less so, and then he was facing four pissed-off demons with his knife in one hand and his gun in the other.
He fired six Devil’s Trap bullets, putting two of them down before the gun clicked empty and he was bowled over. He managed to get his knife between his body and the demon’s—a guy wearing a plumber’s uniform with a patch that said ‘Dave’—and turned the fall into a setup for a kick, flinging the body from on top of him with his feet and managing to hit the next demon as it used its mind to shove him back against a tree. The demon’s concentration broke and Sam slammed his knife into the join of shoulder and chest, pulling it free even before the fire-crackle of demon death burned out.
“Sam!”
Sam took Castiel’s yell as a warning and ducked. A demon crashed into the ground behind him, and Sam whirled to stab it in the back before it could rise again.
“I believe that’s the last,” Castiel said. There was a spray of blood across his chin and part of his cheek, and his hands were gloved in blood. Sam’s stomach lurched. Yes, he’d heard Castiel say his powers were diminished, but to see him reduced to physically ripping demons apart was still a shock.
What couldn’t be helped had to be dealt with. “Thanks,” Sam said. “Got any ideas about how we get rid of a tanker truck full of poison gas?” Dean would’ve wanted to blow it up, he thought, and the realization made him start jogging back to the airshaft, the quickest way back given all the locks on the main door.
“I’ll take care of it,” Castiel called out, and Sam made a mental note to spend more time being grateful for their remaining friend.
As he slid down the ladder fireman-style, praying that Dean hadn’t done anything too stupid, he considered the implications of this assault. Crowley had definitely sent the second string. He was making a point: I’m coming for you.
****
Dean had only pointed the gun at Sam for five seconds, tops, and now Sam was all pissed at him even though Dean had consented to being disarmed, including the knife that Sam never would’ve guessed about. Blah blah ‘you have to stay safe’ blah. Like Dean would’ve gained anything from staying inside the Bunker if Sam was outside getting himself killed. Also, somebody had gotten to ice a bunch of demons and it wasn’t him, which got on his nerves.
Whatever. Dean also didn’t see why Sam wanted him back in the Devil’s Trap now that it was obvious how little it mattered to him. (Okay, symbolism was important, but Dean didn’t have to admit that, especially when the alternative allowed him to make himself a sandwich in his own damn kitchen. But then it turned out that Sam had, as Dean should’ve expected, allowed mold to become the dominant food group in the fridge, which meant that staying out was hardly worth it.)
“I’m gonna kill that bastard extra for this,” he commented to no one in particular. Sam had talked him back into the Devil’s Trap, but no way was he accepting chains again.
Sam ignored him. The sight of the books piled around Sam made Dean feel warm and almost comfortable. Of course Sam had to sit on the floor because the dungeon wasn’t built for research like the library was, but it was the spirit of the thing.
“We’ve got to give him something else to worry about,” Sam finally said, slamming a cover closed in frustration.
“Heaven won’t help us,” Cas reminded them from the darkness at the edge of the room, where he was hanging out now. Dean thought that as a human he would’ve been more concerned about how the angel was looking like he’d lost most of his feathers. But everybody died, or should die. All the caring he had left was scraped together for Sam, and even that was at least half Dean not wanting anyone else—Death included—to fuck with his stuff.
Back to their present annoyance. “Garth and his hunter friends are out,” Dean admitted, and Sam gave him a look that said that he was disappointed without even needing to ask. “Pretty much the only things left that’ll fight Crowley are the monsters.”
Sam’s eyebrows rose. “Wait a second. You told me you took out a bunch of the alphas. But not all, right?”
Dean nodded, already not liking where this was going.
“That’s our play, then. Find the remaining alphas, point out that Crowley’s coming for them next as soon as he gets his Knight back, and tell them we’re the only ones who can take Dean off the table.”
“Right, because alphas have been so trustworthy this far.” Dean wanted to reach through the Devil’s Trap and smack some sense into Sam. Also now that he was thinking about the alphas he very strongly wanted to kill a dozen or so. Based on previous experience, they’d almost be a challenge.
“We don’t need to trust them,” Sam said relentlessly. “We just need to point out where their self-interest lies.”
“No way,” Dean said. “You are not negotiating with a bunch of alphas with just an angel with his batteries low to protect you.” Cas didn’t seem offended by the accurate description, just folded his arms and watched the two of them.
“Then we’ll let you out, and you can go back in when we’re done,” Sam said, like that was reasonable. “If you promise you’ll keep them on, you can wear the sigils that keep Crowley from summoning you. Your presence will make our claims a lot more credible.”
“Now you think you can trust me?” Sure, Sam would let Dean out when it suited Sam, but let Dean suggest a beer run and it was like Dean had asked to gut a puppy.
Sam looked at him. “For this, yeah, I do. You didn’t say yes to Michael. You let me fall into the Pit. You’ll come, and you’ll protect me, and then we’ll come back here and finish this.”
Sam had always had the faith, between them.
****
Finding the alphas proved both more difficult and easier than Sam expected. More difficult, because when they had a line on the alpha gremlin, Dean had to be dissuaded from killing his way into the gremlin’s presence, and Sam was pretty sure the struggle set Dean’s treatment back substantially. As it was, he slaughtered three of the monsters, and would’ve done more if Sam hadn’t wrapped his whole body around Dean’s and shook him back to a tenuous control.
Easier, because when Sam did get the alpha to listen, it agreed to reach out to the other alphas remaining. Not before suggesting that killing Dean would be simpler, and not before Dean got to posture about liking to see it try. But after a lot of inarticulate roaring—and speechifying on the gremlin’s side—they’d secured breathing room from Crowley. Castiel had even considered them safe enough to go pursue a lead on his own health, for which Sam was abstractly grateful.
“You know this is gonna bite us in the ass,” Dean grumbled as Sam opened the door to the Bunker.
Sam waved him further inside and started redrawing the sigils to keep him contained and unreachable. “What else is new,” he observed. “We didn’t make any promises.”
“’m just saying, with our luck they’re gonna get jazzed to be working together. It’s gonna be Axis and Allies, and we are way short on allies.”
Sam suppressed the smile that wanted to come from Dean’s use of ‘we.’ “Maybe. But if it didn’t happen when the Leviathans were here, odds are it isn’t going to.”
Dean’s pursed lips told Sam what he thought of that.
“Give me the anti-Crowley amulet and let’s get back to your treatment,” Sam said. There was a reason he hadn’t wanted Dean’s protection to be too portable; Dean had a tendency to wander.
Dean looked longingly at the kitchen. “Oh, come on. Not even time for a beer?”
Dean was so fucking charming, it was easy to forget what he was. “Dean,” he said, infusing it with all his conviction. Someone needed to be making the decisions here, and it wasn’t the demon.
“I’d kill for some shots and a blow job,” Dean grumbled, turning down the hallway towards the dungeon.
“Right now, you’d kill for a lot less than that. And there’ll be plenty of time to get your rocks off when you’re cured.”
“You offering, Sam? ‘Cause that’d be a better incentive than you’ve given me so far.”
Sam only kept moving because of years of training taking shocks. That wasn’t a thing they joked about, probably because so many other people did. At least, that’s what he always told himself. “Shut up and get in the Devil’s Trap,” he said, possibly his worst comeback ever.
“Fine,” Dean snapped, flashing black-eyes, as if that was any kind of rebuke.
And if Sam lingered a bit with his hand spread over Dean’s jaw and neck, tilting him into the right place for the injection, he was only reassuring himself that Dean was here, submitting, and not out wreaking havoc.
****
Dean understood that he was a moron for stepping right back into the Devil’s Trap and baring his neck for Sam’s needle. He’d had his skin peeled from his body with less pain. But Sam had said he trusted Dean to do what Sam asked, even after everything. Sam had even smiled at him. If being a demon was all about indulging your worst impulses, then it made sense that Dean couldn’t make himself give that up.
At least with Cas off in Heaven trying to get his grace healed Dean didn’t have to hold back on how bad it felt. Yeah, Cas had seen him at his worst already, but that didn’t mean Dean had any fondness for replays.
Sam checked the spell-hardened ropes—Dean had only allowed them because he was a little worried he was going to kill Sam purely by accident with his thrashing, and also because he got to make bondage jokes—and squatted so that they were eye to eye. “How are you feeling?”
“Peachy,” Dean said.
Sam frowned, the worry lines that Dean couldn’t help wanting to erase furrowing his gigantic brow. “We’re getting to the point where I think you’re going to have to want to change back. I don’t think it will work without that.”
“That,” Dean told him, “was not part of the sales pitch.”
“Suck it up,” Sam counseled. “If you don’t want Crowley pulling your strings, then you need to cooperate.”
“Speaking of Crowley—”
“No trace; I think we’ve given him enough to worry about for now,” Sam said. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Sam—” Dean paused and gave some real thought to how he was going to say this. “I don’t want to be Crowley’s butt-boy. But being a demon, it’s not all bad. Even tied to this fucking chair, my back doesn’t hurt. I fell asleep last night and slept for six hours. I don’t need to see the bottom of a bottle before I can even think about my next move. I’m not still mad at you for things you did five years ago; I don’t care. I’m not saying it’s good. It’s just—hard to stop wanting.”
Sam sighed. His hair was lank—boy wasn’t spending enough time taking care of himself, and Dean would bet a thousand dollars that neither Sam nor Cas had put any new food in the refrigerator even after Dean’s extensive lecture on the subject—and his eyes were burning. “Believe me, I know all about how good that power can feel. But it’s not right. If you give in to Crowley, you won’t care about your car, or your burgers, or even your porn. You won’t care about anything but killing. You gotta want to come back, man.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Dean admitted.
“Dean,” Sam said, then paused because even his gigantic intellect was clearly having a hard time coming up with something hopeful. “You know, we’ve known three people to throw off demonic possession. Dad, Bobby, and me, because otherwise they’d have kept hurting you.” He reached out and grabbed Dean’s shoulder, and even in the middle of everything Dean was so happy that Sam’s grip was bruising. Sam’s health was like sunlight and the open road. “You gave us the strength to fight, to do what you need to do now, because we loved you, Dean.”
Dean laughed, choked-off in his throat, and looked over Sam’s shoulder so he didn’t have to meet his brother’s eyes. “That so, Sammy? Then I got some bad news for you.”
“Believe it or not,” Sam told him, “your low self-esteem is not a state secret. I guess you’re just going to have to do it for me, then.”
Sam left him alone, then, so Dean could chew on that in peace.
It was just—he didn’t get it. How could Sam want him saved, after all Dean had done? Not just done to Sam, even though that alone was enough. Yeah, of course Sam didn’t want him following Crowley’s orders, but that was just good tactics. Sam was talking like Dean had something to offer as a human, instead of as a weapon.
Part 3
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