Chapter Text

The Disciple

Part 1

 John the Baptist

(7) ¶And as they departed, Jesus began to say unto the multitudes concerning John, What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind? (8) But what went ye out for to see? A man clothed in soft raiment? behold, they that wear soft clothing are in kings’ houses. (9) But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet.

Matthew 11

I

 In those days came John the Baptist, preaching in the wilderness of Judæa, 2 And saying, Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. 5 Then went out to him Jerusalem, and all Judæa, and all the region round about Jordan,

Matthew 3

Around the time he turned fourteen, Dean Winchester crafted the “48 hour rule.”

It went like this. He could tolerate being in any town, anywhere, for any reason, for 48 hours. If, however, by the end of that time he had run out of girls to nail, jerks to hustle, and/or monsters to kill, each additional minute there was only slightly less torturous than the fires of hell.  

The rule had been tested hundreds of times by hundreds of one-light towns in 48 States over the course of thirteen years, and it held true every time.

For example, Little Missouri was a no-name, po-dunk, dead-end town stuck in the south-west end of Montana within shooting distance of Wyoming and South Dakota. However, within the first 48 hours Dean successfully hooked up with a waitress at the diner, tried all the other restaurants in town, relieved a couple of truckers of their money and their pride, ensured that no there was no signs of supernatural activity, and saw the latest Spiderman remake.

Forty-eight hours . . . not too bad.

Except for the three and a half years that followed it.

Dean glowered at the dust-colored, one-story ranch house as he turned off the highway and onto the gravel path up to the driveway. Some days, he could pretend he did not hate every civilian inch of the place. Other days, not so much.

He knew, at least John constantly reminded him, that they were damned lucky to have the stupid thing. Once John finally got out of the hospital, they were facing life trapped as quasi-civilians, quasi-hunters, which seemed to leave them the entirely unappealing option of camping in Bobby Singer’s living room for the foreseeable future. Despite his previous, nearly violent, falling out with John, Bobby immediately responded to Dean’s desperate call once John had been wheeled into an operating room with a mangled chest and leg and looking like he was not coming back out. Then, once they learned that John would live, if crippled, Bobby spent several weeks handling doctors, cajoling John through physical therapy, and pressing coffee, fast food, and beer into Dean’s hands. Once John was finally released, they’d crashed at Bobby’s, but the truce would have ended quickly, and badly, if they had stayed more than—of course—forty-eight hours.

So it was lucky, it was god-damned miraculous, actually, that Bobby’s old partner Rufus had a place ten miles outside of Little Missouri, Montana, that was quiet, easily navigable for someone with a mangled leg, and had certain . . . features . . . that allowed Dean and Dad to still stay --somewhat-- in the game.

In fact, Dean thought he and John might be the first hunters in all of history to turn a profit. It turned out hunters—newbies and veterans alike—were willing to pay, and pay well, for the expertise of the famed John Winchester and the . . . emerging research . . . of his son, Dean. That combined with the barter/pawn/trade of weapons, amulets, and books on lore based from their living room actually gave them something the closest thing to sustainable income they had enjoyed since before the fire.

That did not change the fact that, aside from the occasional hunt, Dean was trapped in a house in the middle of nowhere with only his Dad, and sometimes, their guests, for company.

Speaking of . . .

John’s truck was missing from the driveway, so Dean parked, pulled his duffle bag out of the back seat, let himself in, tossed the bag blindly in the living room, then walked through the kitchen without bothering to turn on any of the lights. He unlocked a door leading to a cement set of stairs, carefully locked that door behind him, descended the steps, used a different key to unlock another door at the bottom of the stairs, locked that behind him before turning and addressing the room at large.

“Darling!” he called, “I’m hooome!”

He was met by the faint clinking of chains and a hissed expletive. Dean chuckled at the noise, and pulled yet another key out of his keyring, “Yep, girl. I missed you too.”

He unlocked the door, steeling his face against the onslaught of blood, filth, and misery that met him on the other side.

A shifter, in the form of a blonde-haired, middle-aged woman (and yea, she did remind Dean of someone) glared up at him. She was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, but both articles of clothing were bloody and torn to the point of uselessness, revealing dozens of shallow cuts. It hung in heavy, silver manacles from the ceiling, while similar silver shackles—added by Dean to curb the shifter’s kicking habit—bound its feet together.

“I’m sorry I don’t have dinner ready for you,” it said, managing to sound pissed to hell, despite its rasp from screaming and dehydration.

Dean did not bother holding back a laugh, “Me too. I’m going to have to microwave my frozen burritos on my own.”

The shifter’s eyes widened. Dean could practically hear its stomach growl. Dad said he had not fed it in three days. Dean pretended to consider the shifter for a few seconds, “I could heat up a couple more, if you could happen to remember the answer to the question we were discussing before I went away.”

It took a couple of seconds, but the shifter finally worked its face up into something resembling a leer, “My last meal sure as hell’d better be more than frozen burritos.”

“That’s entirely up to you,” Dean said, “I could be talked into arranging something nicer, if I like what I hear.”

“And I don’t suppose you’d like to hear that I have absolutely no idea what the hell an Alpha is?” it said, shooting him a simpering smile.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” Dean shut the door to the shifter’s cell, “But I’ll be sure to let you enjoy the smell of my humble meal.”

He turned and left the basement, careful to relock each door behind him.

John was pulling off his boots and sagging onto the couch when Dean reemerged into the kitchen.

“Hey Dad!” he called, grabbing two beers from the fridge and setting them down on the coffee table before sitting on the couch and wrapping his father in a bear hug. John returned the embrace, giving Dean a couple, final claps on the shoulder before pulling away and popping open his beer.

“How’s it going, kid?” he asked, leaning against the couch with a grunt as he stretched his bad leg. Dean averted his eyes from the mass of muscle and scar tissue by habit, even if it was hidden under a pair of the athletic pants John now favored over jeans.

“Not bad,” Dean said, opening his own beer, “Wrapped up that hunt in Idaho easily enough.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Poltergeist,” he shrugged, “Pretty straightforward.”

“Glad to hear it. And our visitor?”

“Same as before. Sassy pain in my ass, but not inclined to give up anything soon. I was planning on waving some frozen burritos in front of its nose in a few.”

“That’s what always worked on you,” John agreed with a small smile that quickly descended back into his usual grimace, “When are you thinking of pulling the cord on it?”

“I’m still willing to give it a couple weeks more. S’not like we’ve got anything better to do.”

“Would like to know more about that Alpha thing the last vamp let slip.”

“Yea, but that’s still curiosity more than anything. We’re a long way from being able to publish that for the hunting community, ‘specially since most of their focus is still on demons.”

“As it should be,” John growled with half a glance at his bum leg.

They drank in the nearest thing to companionable silence that John’s perpetual brooding allowed before Dean finally went and stuck a couple of those damn burritos in the microwave. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but after three-and-a-half years of interrogating things that go bump in the night, he knew hunger and sleep deprivation were two of the most effective tortures out there.

He grunted. Dean Winchester. Monster torturer. Sure, he was only torturing things that he would have killed without a question on a hunt, and the knowledge he extracted had saved dozens of lives . . .

Still, he was a messed-up bastard.

Thankfully, his cellphone interrupted the pity party, so Dean only scowled a little when he saw the caller id.

“Yes, Walker,” he said without preamble.

“Hey Dean,” Gordon said, clearly unperturbed by the less-than-friendly greeting. Dean figured that Gordon was used to it, or at least too caught up in blood-lust to care. “Heard you just cleaned up a nasty poltergeist in Boise.”

“Wasn’t much trouble,” he replied curtly.

“It’s nice to hear you can get back in the game every once in a while.”

Dean gritted his teeth against the condescension in the Gordon’s voice, “I’m assuming you wanted more than to shoot the breeze, Walker.”

“That I do,” Gordon agreed, “I’m at your local motel. Got something I thought you might be interested in purchasing.”

“Depends what it is.” A strange economy centered around Dean’s hell house. At first, just Dean, Bobby, and Rufus had brought the odd monster or demon in for interrogation, but now, hunters across the country sold their shifters, vamps, gouls, and even the occasional demon to Dean in exchange for a couple hundred bucks and insider’s scoop on whatever information he extracted.

“This is something I guarantee you’ve never seen before. It’s demonic.”

“We don’t take demons unless we know the host is dead.” They’d only made that rule after they’d killed yellow-eyes, but still, Dean needed to pretend there were limits.

“I didn’t say it was a demon. I said it was demonic. There’s no host, but this thing’s straight out of hell. Trust me, you want to come.”

Dean hesitated, flicking his eyes over to Dad, who had undoubtedly overheard the entire exchange. Sure enough, after a moment’s hesitation, Dad nodded, and Dean said, “I’ll be right over.”

“Bring a little extra cash. I expect more than a couple measly Ben Franklin’s for this one.”

Dean didn’t bother to answer.

II

(29) The next day John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world. (30) This is he of whom I said, After me cometh a man which is preferred before me: for he was before me.

 John 1

Gordon answered before Dean had a chance to knock, “Winchester,” he smiled, “Glad you came.”

“What you got for me?”

“I’ll be honest, Dean-o, I’m not sure it’s got a name yet”. Gordon pulled the door open just wide enough for Dean slip through before closing and locking it behind him.

Dean blinked in the dim light before his eyes focused on the figure kneeling on the floor, between the single bed and old radiator. Its hands and ankles were chained behind its with shackles inscribed with anti-demon wards one of Dean’s—guests—had told him about just a few months after settling in Little Missouri. Whatever demonic powers this thing had, the cuffs shut them down. A short length of chain connected the chains at the things wrists and ankles, pulling its arms uncomfortably close to the floor and making it impossible for it to stand. A metal collar hung around its neck and a chain extended from it to the radiator. That precaution seemed a little redundant seeing as it was kneeling on a tarp with a devil’s trap painted on it, surrounded by a salt line, but Dean could not blame Gordon for being cautious.

Satisfied that Gordon secured it well enough, Dean turned his attention to the thing itself. It looked like (was?) a young man, twenty-four, twenty-five at the most, with long features, shaggy brown hair, hazel eyes and a wide nose. Gordon had removed everything excepts the thing’s jeans, so Dean could tell its body was fit, even looked a little bit like out of a magazine, with well-defined muscles and tanned skin. However, the scars that riddled the things arms, chest, and back marred the movie-star image, as well as the handful of bruises, cuts, and welts the thing had accumulated during (and undoubtedly after) its encounter with Gordon.

The thing was gagged, but it turned its head at Dean and Gordon’s appearance and surveyed them calmly. It scanned Dean up and down with cold, appraising eyes before returning its attention to the wall, leaving Dean with the distinct impression that he had been judged and found wanting.

He had seen dozens of tough-guy acts from nearly every sentient monster out there, but this was the first time Dean honestly believed the monster was not afraid.

“Well, there you go,” Gordon said, “What do you think?”

“I think it looks a hell of a lot like a demon.”

“That’s what I thought too, until I tried every exorcism I knew, including some from you and your Daddy, and none of them did more than make this thing blink.”

“I’m listening,” Dean said slowly. He stepped closer to the creature. It looked vaguely bored.

“Here’s something else I found interesting,” Gordon opened a flask of what Dean instantly recognized as holy water and splashed it in the thing’s face. It flinched at the contact, but the whole sizzling, steaming, screaming effect holy water usually had was notably absent.

“Now I know holy water didn’t bother yellow-eyes,” Gordon said, “But have you ever seen anything else react like that? Like it was just an nuisance?”

“No,” Dean admitted.

“You’ll be glad to know, though, that dumping this stuff,” Gordon shook the flask, “down its gullet or injecting it with a syringe produces much more satisfying results. Might not scream quite like a demon, but it’s still mighty painful.”

“Seems like you’re doing my job for me,” Dean’s stomach clenched uncomfortably at the unabashed pleasure in Gordon’s eyes. However, the thing seemed unperturbed by the discussion of its own torture.

“Maybe someday,” Gordon said, “For now, the open road still calls. Now come here. There’s something else I want to show you.”

He crossed over the devil’s trap and salt line to the creature and, reluctantly, Dean followed.

“Make sure to hold it down,” Gordon instructed, turning to unlock the chain from the radiator. Sure enough, the thing, started squirming immediately, but settled down relatively quickly once Dean locked his arm around its neck.

“That’s right, buddy,” Gordon said, “You be good, and this shouldn’t hurt too badly.” He unlocked the chain connecting the thing’s wrist and ankle shackles, but only on the wrist end, allowing the end of the chain to fall around its ankles. Then Gordon stood, wrapping the collar chain around his wrist a couple times, he said, “You know the drill you demonic bitch. Hands and knees.”

The thing glared up at Gordon. Where they were bored before, the things eyes were now ferocious, and it bared its teeth through the gag. Dean wondered if those anti-demon wards were actually as good as the lore said.

Gordon didn’t seem to mind the thing’s fury. Instead, he swiftly kicked its chest, ass, and side, sending it face-forward to the floor.

“That’s a good doggie” he cooed, as the thing slowly rose to its hands and knees, “Now come with your master.”

He tugged on the chain, and the thing growled, but followed, crawling as quickly as its shackles allowed. Dean raised his eyebrows as it crawled out of the devil’s trap and through the salt line, shuddering both times, but otherwise without hesitation.

“Interesting, right?” Gordon said, “Come on, boy,” he tugged at the chain, “Time for dinner.” He glanced back at Dean, “There’s one more thing.”

Dean obliged, following Gordon and the thing across the room to the far corner where there was a plastic bowl holding a small amount of what looked like . . .

“It’s blood alright,” Gordon confirmed, stopping a few feet from the bowl “Demon blood, actually. My informant told me that’s the only stuff this thing can stomach. Says that’s where it gets its power from. Seems true, too, I shoved soup and booze down its throat and it threw it up almost immediately, sick as a dog.” Gordon chuckled and ruffled a hand through the thing’s hair, “Ain’t that right, boy?”

The thing closed its eyes, as if trying to pretend Gordon’s hand was not there before opening them again and fixing all its attention on the plastic bowl. It was only then Dean noticed it had started trembling, and its back and face suddenly glistened with sweat.

“It hasn’t eaten for thirty-six hours,” Gordon explained. Dean watched as it pulled as hard as it could against the chain in Gordon’s hand, reaching for the bowl and falling only a few inches short.

“The blood’s more than water and food to this bastard,” Gordan sneered at it as it still strained and panted for the bowl, “Take blood away from a vampire and it’s like taking food and water from a human. But this thing? This thing feels a lot more than stomach cramps without its demon juice.”

“So it’s basically a demon blood junkie,” Dean said.

“Exactly. A junkie with the withdrawal from hell. And that, my friend, is your way in.” Gordon returned his attention to the thing at his feet, “Alright, doggie, are you hungry?”

The thing froze, closed its eyes, and, after a second, nodded.

“Good doggie,” Gordon’s eyes glittered with pleasure, “If you want to eat, then I want you to beg.”

The thing kept its eyes closed.

“Common doggie, beg!”

Once again, the thing ignored him.

Dean raised an eyebrow and glanced at Gordon, but he did not seem perturbed. “Guess I was wrong, Dean,” he said, “It’s not hungry after all. Would you mind washing out the bowl for me?”

Dean decided to follow the play, “No problem.” He walked to the corner and picked up the bowl.

The thing’s eyes snapped open and it shot a wild, almost frantic, glance at Dean before turning, falling on its face in front of Gordon, sticking its butt in the air, and whimpering . . . like a dog.

“Well look at that,” Gordon jeered, “Guess it’s decided to change its mind. Would you mind bringing us the bowl, Dean?”

“Will do,” Dean said, setting the bowl at Gordon’s feet. Gordon removed the gag, and the next second, the thing launched for the bowl, desperately licking the blood out. Within a few seconds, the bowl was spotless.

“I never give it more than a couple of tablespoons,” Gordon said, handing Dean the collar chain and retying the gag. He took the chain back, jostled the things neck a couple of times and said, “Keeping it starved keeps it docile, and, like I said, it gets its power from this crap, and my informant assures me that, charged up, this thing can do some batshit crazy stuff.

“And your informant is?”

“Demon by the name of Ruby.”

Dean narrowed his eyes, “And you’re taking the word of a demon.”

“Demons have politics just like the rest of us,” Gordon jerked on the chain again, “This puppy was a hot-shot. His faction was ready to take over the throne in hell from a bitch named Lilith.”

Dean nodded, “A couple of demons have mentioned her, yea.”

“Like I said,” Gordon nodded, “Apparently this Ruby chick wormed his way into this thing’s inner circle, even into its pants. Then, right when it was ready to take a shot at Lilith, she turned on him, trussed it up like a Christmas present for the Queen of hell.”

“So how did you get him?”

“I noticed some omens. Standard lightning strikes, cow mutilation type stuff, tracked them down to the motel they were staying at. Overpowered the Ruby bitch, found out what I needed to know, and sent her back to the pit. Then I ran my own tests on the bastard, and decided to turn it over to you.”

The thing was on its hands and knees again. It stared stoically ahead, as if the last ten minutes of humiliation never happened.

“I see,” Dean said slowly.

“Best I can figure, this thing’s some sort of demon/human/vampire hybrid,” Gordon continued, “Don’t know how they hell they made it, but it’s obviously a major player.”

“Not arguing with you there,” Dean said, circling the thing slowly to get a better look. He adopted a Gordon like jeer, “I think the two of us will have lots of fun together.”

The thing did not react.

“I thought you might,” Gordon flashed him a sadistic smile, “I figure you give me a cool thousand, and we will both be on our merry way.”

“A thousand,” Dean shook his head, “You’re right, this things a treasure trove of new info, but I never pay more than three hundred for a monster.”

“This is hardly just a monster.”

Dean considered the thing at Gordon’s feet, “Which is why I’m willing to take it up to five.”

“Now Dean, you can see how much fun me and this thing have been having together,” Gordon said, running his fingers through the thing’s hair, “For a measly five hundred, I might as well set up shop and interrogate it myself.”

Dean set his jaw, “I won’t pay more than six. After that, go ahead and have your own fun.”

“Oh Dean,” Gordon chuckled, “I don’t think you mean that. You see, Ruby told me one more thing before I sent her ass back to the pit.”

“And that is?”

Gordon’s smile widened, “Before this boy was looking to overthrow hell, he had a mentor, almost like a father. He was the bastard’s second-in-command until he was killed, a few years ago, by you.”

It took several seconds for Dean to process Gordon’s words, but finally, he said, “Are you saying that this bastard’s yellow-eyes’ kid?”

“Son and heir-apparent,” Gordon agreed, “Now tell me, Dean, are you really going to let a few hundred dollars stand in the way of one hundred percent access to the right-hand man of the bastard who killed your mother . . . and baby Sammy?”

Gordon was kind enough to, as part of his thousand-dollar deal, help Dean get the creature home and into the basement using all of Gordon’s chains, placing a black bag over its head, and frog marching it under the cover of night into the house. Dean went ahead, unlocking and locking doors as Gordon led the creature into through the house and down the stairs into the basement, kicking it down the last couple of steps once Dean had opened the second door.

“That’s not a burrito,” the shifter called after hearing the thunk of the thing’s body hitting the concrete.

“You break it, you buy it,” Dean growled.

“Just having a bit of fun,” Gordon said, “It’s my way of saying goodbye.”

Deciding not to deign that with a response, Dean grabbed the things arms and pulled it to its feet. It thrashed a little, but settled surprisingly quickly after Dean said, “Alright buddy, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. The choice is yours.”

He led the thing to the second cell, eyeing a pair of iron manacles, also inscribed with demon wards, hanging from the ceiling. Rufus had been disturbingly thorough while planning his dungeon, installing shackles with adjustable chains at ever side in of the room that could be vaguely useful.

“Grab me those stools,” Dean said, nodding at the corner farthest from the shifter’s cell, where a large supply shelf, a small foldable table, and a couple of short stools surrounded a large, old-fashioned, wood-burning furnace.

“I like the way you think,” Gordon said, glancing at the manacles. He quickly grabbed the stools, setting one in front of Dean and the creature, respectively.

“Up!” Dean barked, slapping the thing’s stool and climbing on his own. It obeyed and raised its arms at Dean’s command. Dean waited until Gordon had a blade pressed against the creature’s throat before unlocking its left shackle and relocking it’s wrist into one of the manacles before repeating the process with the right wrist. He left the ankle shackles be and unlocked the chain connected to the collar, but, after a moment’s hesitation, left the collar itself on. He could always use the extra warding.

After double-checking all the creature’s locks, Dean hopped off his stool and kicked the thing’s stool away. It fell with a grunt, its toes barely brushing the cement.

“Looks good to me,” Gordon smiled, “So I’ll be off.”

It took Dean five minutes to see Gordon out then return to the basement. “Keep the chains,” Gordon said, “I’ve also got three gallons of demon blood in my trunk. I’ll leave them on the porch before I head out . . . should be enough for you, I think.”

“More than enough, if it only needs feeding every thirty-six hours.”

“In that case,” Gordon said. “Good doing business with you, Winchester.”

“Gordon,” Dean replied tacitly. He didn’t bother watching Gordon leave, but was careful to lock the door behind him.

“Do I have a new roommate!” the shifter squealed, as much as its parched throat would allow, as Dean headed back down the stairs.

“Looks like,” Dean agreed, “’fraid I still don’t have those burritos for you, by the way.”

“Maybe next time.”

He unlocked the shifter’s cell door, “Not for a while,” he said, drawing a length of cloth from his pocket and gagging it. He felt the shifter tense as he approached. Good. Maybe he was finally drilling the fear of God, or at least of Dean Winchester, in it. “No need to become prison buddies just yet,” he muttered before locking the cell door behind him.

Quickly pushing any lingering thoughts of the shifter behind, he focused his attention on the thing swinging slowly in the next cell. It was only now, as Dean saw it extended to its full body weight, that he realized how tall the thing was—well over six feet—with muscle mass that doubled his bulk. Beaten, half-naked, blindfolded, and hanging from the ceiling, the thing still exuded an air of danger far deeper than the petty power plays Gordon found so titillating.

“Name’s Dean Winchester,” Dean finally said, after a couple more minutes of contemplation, “I figure you picked up on that. You’re on my turf, and you will remain here for the rest of your life. How long and peaceful that life is, is entirely up to you.”

He drew a small knife from his pocket and approached the thing, laying a hand on its back to steady it a little. Without another word, he cut through the creature’s jeans from its waistband to its ankle and pulled the denim off. He did the same to the thing’s boxers, leaving it completely exposed, except for the hood over its head.

“I’m not going to lie,” he said, tracing the knife gently up the thing’s back, around it’s chest, and up its neck, “This is going to hurt. You’re going to be in pain. You’re going to be starving, or freezing, or burning, or bleeding, or screaming until the day I finally decide I’m bored and put you out of your misery. The only choice you have left, is deciding how easy this is for you. Me? I’m going to be having fun no matter what.”

Dean drew a shot glass and a small flask from his pocket and poured a little over a teaspoon of the red, viscous liquid into the glass and setting it in the far corner of the cell.

“I won’t have time for a proper chat for a few days,” he said, “So I’ll leave you here for a bit to ponder what tone you think our new relationship should take.”

He shoved the thing so that it was swinging again, exited the cell and locked the door behind him, and heaped several logs of wood into the furnace next to the supply shelf in the far corner of the room.

“Enjoy the sauna, you two!” he shouted before finally heading upstairs.

Dad was waiting for him when Dean came back upstairs, eyes fixed to the camera feed from the basement streaming to his laptop.

“So, what the hell is it?” he asked without preamble as Dean poured himself a generous glass of scotch and seated himself next to his father.

“Well, Gordon was right when he said it was something new,” Dean said, “Seems to be some sort of demon-human hybrid. Not sure how or why it was created, but it sounds like the real deal.”

“And your great plan to break it is take its clothes off?” John said drily.

Biting back a harsh retort, Dean shrugged, “That thing’s got scars all over its body, I don’t think pain by itself will get us far, but from what I saw with Gordon, humiliation seems to rattle it . . . just not nearly as much as Gordon liked to think.”

“That man is one sadistic son-of-a-bitch,” John growled.

“He hasn’t tortured half as many monsters as I have.” Dean looked away from the screen in favor of pouring himself another shot of whiskey.

He felt his father’s gaze bearing down on him, “Don’t be a moody teenager, Dean. You’re not Gordon. That bastard gets off on pain. You just do what needs to be done, and you’ve saved a hell of a lot of lives doing it too.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” Dead said dryly and drained his glass, “I’m gonna grab a few hours shut-eye before I put some more wood in the stove.”

“Sweat ‘em out,” John chuckled humorlessly, “I’ll keep an eye on things,” he nodded at the screen, “Let you know if anything changes.”

Nodding, Dean stood. He opened his mouth, hesitated, closed it again, and headed toward the hall, “Goodnight Dad,”

“Goodnight son,” came the reply.

Not bothering to brush his teeth or change, Dean flipped on the light on his nightstand and sank onto his bed. This was not how the evening was supposed to go.

He had planned on getting a lot drunker, for one thing.

Dean closed his eyes and ran a hand down his face, then shook his head, trying to dislodge the image of that thing . . . whatever it whatever it was . . . bound and gagged on the floor of Gordon’s motel room.

His first thought had been that this thing looked exactly Sammy’s age.

Except Sammy died. Yellow-eyes burned him alive. Dad tried to save him, grabbed him out of the crib and shoving him into your arms while shouting for you to get outside, but it was too late. When you reached the lawn and unwrapped the blankets, you only found a burned corpse.

Dean swallowed back a mouthful of bile and whiskey and opened his eyes, reaching for the small, framed photograph on his nightstand. He brushed his fingers over the glass, tracing the outline of his mother and the small bundle she held in her arms.

Closing his eyes again, he brushed his forehead against the glass for a moment before setting the frame back down on the table and switching the lamp off. He swung his legs onto the bed, not bothering with the covers and stared up at the ceiling.

Three and a half years ago, Dean Winchester shot and killed the yellow-eyed demon that murdered his mother and brother with the last bullet of an invincible gun, and it didn't change a fucking thing.

“Happy Birthday, Sammy,” he said to the blackness.

III

 (5)Then went out to [John] Jerusalem, and all Judæa, and all the region round about Jordan, (6) And were baptized of him in Jordan, confessing their sins. . . . (13) Then cometh Jesus from Galilee to Jordan unto John, to be baptized of him. (14) But John forbad him, saying, I have need to be baptized of thee, and comest thou to me? (15) And Jesus answering said unto him, Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness. Then he suffered him.

Matthew 3

After several hours making half-hearted attempts at sleep, Dean emerged from his room. John Winchester had not moved; only the near-empty whiskey bottle on the table indicated any time had passed.

 Dean almost regretted not telling his father about the thing’s connection to yellow-eyes yet, but he could not risk driving the man berserk, not tonight.

“I’ll take over,” he said quietly, clapping John on the shoulder.

John nodded and stood, a little unsteadily, “He would have been twenty-four today.”

“I know, Dad,” Dean forced a smile, “And probably a total dweeb.”

John attempted a chuckle that came out a littler closer to a sob then glanced back at the screen, “You really think this thing is the holy grail of demon lore?”

“Might be, yea.”

John nodded, “Then I want you to break the son-of-a-bitch.”

After John stumbled to his room, Dean headed back down to the basement. Once there, he immediately crossed to the supply shelf and turned on the CD player, cranking the volume all the way up as “Heat of the Moment” blasted through the room. Then he shoved a few more logs into the furnace. The basement was already heating up nicely; beads of sweat were collecting at his neck and brow, and the air had lost its dank, wet basement smell.

Once done stoking the furnace, he switched off the radio, grabbed a whip from the shelf, and unlocked the thing’s cell door, “Rise and shine sleeping beauty!” he called, snapping the whip across the creature’s chest. It jerked a little, probably from surprise, mostly.

At this point, Dean usually would start spouting macho crap like “I didn’t want you to get bored, so I thought I’d drop by,” but he cheap tricks would not work on this beast, so he stayed silent, snapping the whip a couple times on its legs and back before exiting the cell again.

On his way out, he dropped by the shifter’s cell. It glared at him, but he also noticed its trembling limbs and slightly hysterical edge to its eyes as dripping sweat trickled into its open wounds.

He drew near it and said quietly, “I’m gonna be honest, sweetheart. I’m about to recreate hell for the son-of-a-bitch next to you. Now, it’s easy for me to take your sorry hide along for the ride. Or, you can tell me what you know and get off this train.”

He snapped the whip in front of the shifter, and sure enough, it flinched violently.

“Think about it,” he said, and left without a second glance.

He repeated the process a few hours later: blasting “Heat of the Moment,” loading wood in the furnace (by now his face and chest were drenched with sweat after a couple minutes), greeting the creature with “Rise and shine sleeping beauty!,” whipping it a couple times on its chest and back, and visiting the shifter. Although this time, he brought a bottle of ice water into the shifter’s cell with him.

“Thought you might be thirsty,” he said by way of greeting. He opened the bottle, and sure enough, the shifter’s eyes widened, fixating on the liquid.

“I’ve got plenty,” he said, “And I’d be happy to share, if you had anything to offer in return.”

The shifter’s eyes lingered on the bottle, but when it did not respond immediately, Dean shrugged, “suit yourself,” opened the bottle, dumped its contents on the floor, and walked away.

The third time, instead of using a whip, Dean jabbed the thing in the chest with a cattle prod. It trembled a little, but no sound escaped the gag.

He did not visit the shifter.

The fourth time, heat waves assaulted Dean the moment he opened the second door into the room. He used the cattle prod again, this time pressing it against the back of the creature’s thighs. He skipped the shifter again.

The fifth time, Deean returned to the whip, slapping it across the front and back of the thing’s knees. Its legs did not crumple like he hoped they would, and Dean noticed that the welts from the first beating had nearly disappeared.

“So I’m interrogating wolverine,” he said, “Good to know.” Yet another thing that made the monster less human.

Afterwards, he finally returned to the shifter, this time bearing a bottle of luck-warm water and the whip.

“I decided not to let you die of dehydration,” he said, “But for every sip I give you, “I’m also going to give you five lashes, unless you can make my generosity worth my while.”

The shifter shook its head fiercely.

“Suit yourself.”

By the time he was done, he had forced three sips of water down the shifter’s throat and whipped the rest of the shirt off its back.

The sixth time, he used the whip on the beast’s shoulders. Then he noticed angry burns on its ankles, wrists, and neck, under the shackles.

“Not a fan of iron,” he said, “Alright.”

He didn’t bother speaking to the shifter, choosing just to beat it again instead.

The room was hot enough after the sixth time that Dean actually had time for some uninterrupted sleep.

“How’s it going?” John asked as Dean stumbled to the kitchen.

“Too early to say with the demonic bastard,” Dean tried unsuccessfully to rub the sleep from his eyes, reminding himself bizarrely of the times he’d wake in the middle of the night at Bobby’s as a kid and asked where his daddy had gone. He shook the memory away, forced his mind on the monsters in the basement, “But I think I’ve finally got the shifter rattled.”

“Good,” John nodded, “Bobby called. Heard about our new project, told me to ask how you’re holding up.”

Dean shrugged, “Hot. Tired. Tell the old man not to get his boxers in a twist. I’m fine.”

“He always was a mother hen,” Dad agreed, “But let me know if you need any help . . . I can actually make it down those steps on one good leg.”

Choosing to ignore the rebuke in those words, Dean chuckled, “Sure thing, Dad. Maybe you should dress up as Captain Hook, threaten them with a parrot to throw them off the plank.”

John smiled a little, “Thought Hook had a bum arm.”.

“Arm, leg, what’s the difference? Monsters eat ‘em both up.”

John laughed, actually laughed, at that. “Get some sleep you insolent bastard!”

Chuckling, Dean was still happy to oblige.

He fell asleep with “Heat of the Moment” ringing through his head.

The seventh time, after giving the thing another few lashes, Dean brought the small table into the shifter’s cell then deliberately laid out a whip, a flog, and an array of gleaming knives on it.

“Alright sweetheart,” he said, taking of his shirt and folding it neatly before setting it on the table and picking up a knife, “I’m getting a little tired of waiting, so do you want to do this the long way, or the short way?”

He cut away the gag, and the shifter sneered at him, “You don’t give a shit about what I know, you just want to scare him!” She nodded at the other cell.

Dean drew his knife across the shifter’s collarbone, just hard enough to draw blood. Its breath quickened, and its eyes widened as it stared down at the knife.

Stubbornly pushing away thoughts of the photo on his nightstand, Dean traced the knife again under the shifter’s collarbone, “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted. “Maybe this is all for show. But you know what sucks for you? It changes absolutely nothing at all.”

Forty-five minutes later, Dad walked into the kitchen as Dean stood at the sink, scrubbing blood from underneath his fingernails.

“Walt and Roy stopped by,” Dad said by way of greeting, “Sold them a couple of machetes.”

“Going after vamps?”

“Probably. Said they were meeting up with Gordon in Nebraska.”

“Because the world needs more Gordons,” Dean said viciously.

He saw Dad nod out of the corner of his eye, “Any news from your end?”

“Shifter opened up.”

“That was faster than you were guessing,” John said.

Dean shrugged. “Its cellmate ratcheted the volume up. The shifter was just along for the ride. Info’s not as good as I’d normally like, but it’s good enough.”

“What’d you learn?”

“Apparently it’s not just vamps that got an Alpha, all monsters the shifter’s heard of have one. They’re immortal, from what I can tell, and more powerful than most demons. Not sure we’re equipped to hold one.”

“Anything else?”

“Shifter was very loyal, almost seemed to think of this Alpha as a Father, even though it’d never met the thing.”

“Explains why it held out so long,” John nodded, “How’d you finally break it?”

Dean stared at the water tumbling over his hands and into the drain. It was not pink anymore, but there were still flecks of red under his fingernails, “Heat and thirst with a couple of whippings weakened it,” he said finally, “Then, when I pulled out the knives, it broke  fast.”

“Like that?” Dean heard John’s frown.

“Started spilling almost immediately.” He squirted a glob of dish soap into his palm and started scrubbing beneath his nails, “I broke a couple fingers to make sure it was telling me everything it knew, then I ganked it.”

“Should have tortured it to death.”

Dean remembered the shifter’s fingers, small and bent and crusted with blood. “I’m sure it gave us almost all it knew.”

Shaking his head, John said, “I’m don’t give a damn about what the shifter might have known. I’m talking about the demon. You should have shown it what you were capable of.”

He could not see his hands under the froth of the soap, but Dean felt the rawness of his wrinkled fingers. He might draw blood (again) soon. “It needs to think giving up info will do it any good.” When John did not respond, he said, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure it knows how far I’m willing to go.”

“Either way,” John’s voice went hard as flint, “That shifter got off lucky. The same’s not going to be said of that demonic bastard.”

Dean thought of the body burning in the furnace downstairs, erasing the broken bones, the bruises, the cuts, and the emaciated body forever. He thought of his hands and the blood he washed down the drain.

The shifter had killed three people when Bobby caught it, and was gunning for more. It did not stop Dean from wondering where monsters went after they died.

Then again, he did not really know where Mom and Sammy had went either, and they’d never killed a damned thing. 

“Don’t worry,” Dean finally said, “It won’t.”

Chapter Text

Part II

Nathanael of Cana

(45) Philip findeth Nathanael, and saith unto him, We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph. (46) And Nathanael said unto him, Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth? Philip saith unto him, Come and see.

John 1

I

Then was Jesus led up of the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted of the devil. (2) And when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward an hungered. (3) And when the tempter came to him, he said, If thou be the Son of God, command that these stones be made bread. (4) But he answered and said, It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.

Matthew 4 

Dean visited the beast three more times. He’d already cleaned up after the shifter by hosing down the blood and waste into a drain in the center of its cell (Rufus was nothing if not thorough, and in this case, Dean was grateful). So he simply resumed his previous routine: blasting “Heat of the Moment” (God he hated that song), adding more wood to the furnace (the fire was hot enough that the shifter was already just ash and bits of bone), greeting the thing with “Rise and shine sleeping beauty!” and using the whip or prod, before leaving it alone for another few hours.

Finally, thirty-six hours after first bringing the creature here, he went downstairs (sans shirt, there was no way he could look intimidating with his shirt sticking to him with sweat), blasted the music, added wood to the fire, switched off the song, grabbed the cattle prod, and opened the cell door.

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty!” he shouted, and prodded the beast in the groin. It spasmed and yelped through the gag. Laughing, Dean finally took the hood off.

Unfortunately, the thing was laughing too.

Dean ripped off the gag and prodded it again. It yelped and spasmed, but still kept laughing. Its face was beet-red with rivers of sweat washing down it, slicking its long hair to its head, and running down every inch of skin. Although it seemed to heal more quickly than a human did, angry red welts and burns still covered its naked body, glistening under the light and sweat.

And the goddamned thing was laughing like it was watching The Three fucking Stooges.

Although he was tempted to keep jabbing the beast with the prod until it shut the hell up, Dean crossed his arms and leaned against the cell wall until the thing’s chortles finally died down.

“Glad I could keep you entertained,” he said drily.

The beast chuckled again, “You’re very kind, Dean Winchester. It lowered its voice in mock-gravelly tones, “The man who is going to see out my final days.”

“You don’t seem concerned.”

The thing rolled its eyes, and it took Dean a considerable amount of discipline not to stab it in the heart, “Forgive me if I’m not quaking in the presence of the great Dean Winchester, armed with a heater, a rubber band, and a vibrator.”

Dean pressed the prod against its groin again, leaving it there for a full fifteen seconds as the beast struggled and, finally, screamed. “Just a vibrator, eh?”

Breathing heavily, it glared at Dean, “I thought you were going to break me Dean Winchester. I thought you were going to make me pay for everything my kind has done to you. I thought you were going to leave me crying on the floor, drenched in my own blood, begging to tell you everything I know. I thought you were going to avenge your brother and mother’s deaths . . .” it frowned, lowering its lip like a pouting child and blinking its large, hazel eyes in false sympathy, “Or are you too busy crying about how wittle Sammy could have grown up to be all big and strong like me?”

Clenching his fists and smiling tightly, Dean turned and walked back to the supply shelf. Setting the prod down, he picked up the whip and crossed back to the beast.

“If you all you want are screams and petty power plays, like Gordon,” it growled, “Then do whatever the hell you want.” It blinked, and its eyes went jet black, just like a demon’s did, “But if you want to break me you better get a hell of a lot more creative!”

Dean took a deep breath and snapped the whip, “Maybe you’re right, but for now, I’m fine starting with the screams. It’s like a get-to-know-you game. I beat your skin off, or you tell me what the fuck you are.”

The beast smiled sweetly, “Didn’t you hear Gordon? I’m a human-demon-vampire hybrid. What more could you possibly want?”

It didn’t bother to try containing its screams as Dean beat it until angry welts and lazily bleeding cuts covered every inch of its skin, and as Dean slammed the cell door shut and headed back upstairs, that was the thing that worried him the most.

“Its fucking eyes go black!” John roared as Dean reached the top of the stairs, “Why the fuck are we saying this thing’s remotely human!”

“We don’t know what the fuck it is!” Dean shot back, “It doesn’t use a host, it heals quicker than a human, and yea! It’s got fucking demon eyes! Who knew?”

John took a deep breathe, “You’re right,” he sighed, “I’m sorry son. I was letting it get to me.” He gestured at the computer screen, where the beast was hanging its head on its chest and breathing deeply, but otherwise seemingly unaffected by the torture.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Dean nodded, “Yea, me too. It’s a nasty bastard, and it knew just where to push.”

“You still managed to get a rise out of it, though.”

“Yea, because I wasn’t torturing it enough,” Dean rolled his eyes, “Masochist, much?”

“It’s about respect, and power,” John said, “I think it meant it when it said it expected more out of you than Walker. I think that’s the only way you’ll begin to slowly wear it down.”

“So we need a show of force, a fuckton of time, and the self-discipline not to shoot and stab it with everything we’ve got and see what sticks. Awesome.” Dean rubbed his eyes, “I need a beer.”

Three hours and four beers later, Dean sat staring at the laptop screen as the beast hung with in-human stillness from the ceiling like a morbid impersonation of the crucifix.

“It hasn’t shifted once,” he said, gesturing angrily at the screen as John entered, bearing bags from the hamburger joint down the road. “Never rustled its legs or shifted its arms or stretched its neck. Nothing.”

“Probably knows that’ll just hurt more,” John said as he handed Dean his burger.

Dean accepted it with a nod of thanks, “Everyone knows that, but no one actually does it. They can’t help but move.”

“I don’t understand why you keep looking for the humanity in this thing. From where I sit, this seems like the evilest bastard we’ve come across since yellow eyes.”

“I need a chink in the armor, something I can exploit to work my way in.”

“What about the blood?” John said around a bite of his hamburger, “You said Gordon got it to do whatever he wanted with that.”

“This thing was playing Gordon like a fiddle the entire time. I’m pretty sure he faked his reaction to the blood in the motel,” Dean shook his head, “Maybe the blood’s our way in, but I’m not going to play that card until it looks like he’s actually Jonesing for a fix.”

That moment came six hours later when the beast finally shifted in its manacles.

“Dean!” John called from the kitchen, immediately pulling Dean away from his copy of AutoLife.

“What is it?” he asked as he entered the kitchen.

“It shifted, a minute or two ago,” John rewound the footage a little, and sure enough, the creature rustled slightly in its manacles and grunted at the movement. He then returned the feed to real time and they watched as, a few minutes later, it shifted again.

“Maybe it’s faking,” John said.

“Maybe,” Dean conceded, “But everything’s gotta eat at some point. Let’s give it awhile as see what happens.”

An hour later, the beast was shifting, jerking, spasmming, and, occasionally, moaning.

“Those are not happy moans,” Dean noted as the thing’s legs jerked out as if they were electrocuted, or electrocuted by something that actually hurt.

He gave it another half hour before heading back to the basement, bearing a large thermos and a shot glass. Before entering the thing’s cell, he decided to still blast “Heat of the Moment” and load more would into the furnace.

“Need a pick me up before another hard day of torturing,” the beast jeered, eying the thermos as Dean opened the cell.

“Technically, no,” Dean said, carefully opening the lid of the thermos and pouring a shot glass of boiling blood without looking at it. He felt a glimmer of satisfaction as he felt the creature’s eyes bore into his back the entire time.

Setting the glass on the floor at the far end of the cell—directly in the thing’s field of vision—Dean turned and faced it, “You’re making enough of a racket. I feel like you must be hungry.”

The beast did not answer, but it kept its eyes fixed on the glass.

“Here,” Dean said, splashing the rest of the thermos on the beast’s chest and back. It flexed and grunted at the contact.

“Boiled it before you came, I presume,” it gasped, “Nice touch.”

“Glad you approve.” Dean set the thermos on the floor before returning his attention to the thing.

It was covered in blood: its own and the demon blood now caking its chest and back. Both types dripped down its body and onto the floor, mingling with the fumes of sweat and urine.

The beast, however, decided to ignore its physical discomforts in favor of staring, transfixed, at the glass in front of it, licking its lips and only looking away occasionally to make a half-hearted attempt at licking the blood off its chest.

“I’m afraid that’s not going to work,” Dean shook his head in false sympathy.

The thing shuddered, clanking the chains and flinching at the pain jolting through its body, but it did not look away from the shot glass when it said, “Alright. What do you want to know?”

“I figure we start small for now,” Dean said, “What are you?”

Without moving its eyes from the glass, it said, “Not human.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean folded his arms, “You need to do better than that.”

Its eyes flicked black again, and it glanced at Dean before returning to its study of the glass, “I’m the thing that’s going to cut the meat from your Father’s bones, hang you in chains, and show you the proper way to torture.”

“Wrong again,” Dean went to the supply shelf and returned bearing a wooden board about two feet long and a foot wide imbedded with six-inch iron nails.

“Made it myself a few years back,” he said as he slid the board under the thing’s feet, “Might not be your idea of agonizing torture, but it broke more than a few demons enough to lead us to yellow-eyes, if you’ve heard of him.”

The creature remained silent, choosing to focus on its feet as they slid over the nails, trying to find a gap where it could rest its legs without having to put weight on sharp iron. It would not succeed. Especially with those enormous feet. It might be able to use its arms and legs to hold itself over the brunt of the nails, but, Dean knew, it would eventually wear itself out, and it would be forced to rest its feet on the nails as they burned and pierced its skin.

Dean had not lied when he said the plank had broken more than one demon.

“I filed them so they’re a shade sharper than normal nails,” he said, glancing at the nails, “Won’t pierce you at first, but give them time.”

“Invented it yourself, eh?” the thing smirked, “Well that’s at least one intelligent idea.”

“Call me when you’ve decided not to be a smart-ass, and we can talk about that,” Dean nodded at the shot glass. The thing said nothing as Dean turned and left the room.

“Nice touch with the boards,” John congratulated him as he returned to the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee. He’d long since lost any real track of time: sleeping, eating, showering, and alternating between coffee and beer as the mood struck him.

In some messed-up way, he found the erratic routine soothing. It was much closer to his hunting life.

“I thought they might come in handy,” Dean said, crossing to kitchen and bending over his father’s shoulder to watch the creature. Sure enough, it jerked involuntarily, forcing its feet against the nails. It closed its eyes and let out a muted cry.

“Not so cocky now,” John growled.

Even with the boards, it took another three hours of increasingly frequent jerking, jolting, twisting, and screaming before the thing finally shouted, “Alright! Alright! I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you what you want to know!”

“What do you think?” John asked as the beast jolted and screamed.

“Give it time,” Dean said as the thing let out a piercing howl, “It’ll give us what we want without me going down there.”

Sure enough, after another twenty minutes of writhing and screaming, the creature cried, “Boy king! I’m called the boy king!”

“There we go,” Dean said, striding from the kitchen.

The thing was still screaming “Boy king! Boy king! Boy king” as Dean entered, blasted the music awhile, grabbed the cattle prod, and opened its cell door.

He touched the rod to the beast’s thigh and it jolted and howled in pain, pushing its feet into the nail board. Blood coated both the board and the thing’s feet.

“Alright,” he said, “You call yourself the boy king. What does that mean?”

The creature took several, gasping breathes before panting, “It means I am stronger than you will ever be. I am smarter than you ever will be. I can run farther and faster than you ever will,” it paused and screamed as another jolt of—withdrawal, Dean supposed—wracked its body before continuing hoarsely, “I see better, shoot farther, learn quicker, and heal faster than any human ever will. But I still know how you humans think, how you feel, your strengths and weakness and strategies and faults. I can walk through your demon traps and salt circles and because of all of that, I will become the king of hell. Then I will crush your sculls beneath my feet.”

“Huh,” Dean said, glancing down at the beast’s bloody, torn, feet, “You’re going to crush me with those?” He pressed his boot down on one of the thing’s feet, than the other and laughed as it screamed, “Good to know.”

He removed his foot, and stepped back as the thing gasped for air, tears mingling with the sweat streaming down its face, “We . . . had . . . a . . . deal.”

Dean considered the bloody, heaving, twitching thing, “You’re right,” he said after a few seconds, “We did.” He picked up the shot glass, twirling it between two of his fingers, “I suppose you have earned this.”

He approached the beast, and it opened its mouth greedily. After a moment’s hesitation, Dean poured the blood down its throat. It closed its eyes and sighed, stilling immediately.

“And since I’m feeling generous,” Dean said, he kicked the nail board away. The creature’s feet fell back to their original position, barely brushing the concrete and forcing all its weight back on its shoulders. Its feet slid a little, leaving streaks of blood on the concrete.

Dean threw the hood back over the thing’s face, “Don’t get too comfortable, that was just the practice round. Next time you want to eat, you won’t get off nearly so easy.”

Without waiting for a reply, Dean locked the beast’s cell door again, threw more wood into the furnace, and trudged back upstairs.

II

(18) The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives, and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty them that are bruised,

Luke 4

“Good work,” Dad said, handing him a beer as Dean sank into a chair at the table.

“Thanks,” he sighed, popping open the can and draining half of it in one gulp, “So the boy king, huh?”

“Guess so,” Dad drawled, “Thing’s got one hell of a power complex if you ask me.”

“Yep,” Dean rubbed his eyes, “Pretty sure this is going to be a one step forward, two steps back kind of deal.”

“You got the wherewithal for that?” Dad pushed down the laptop screen to meet Dean’s eyes, “This looks like it’s going to last for weeks, so now isn’t the time to refuse help just because of your pride. This is too big.”

“I know, Dad,” Dean sighed, “And yea, I’m worried about burning out, of course, but the worst is hopefully behind us. It’s injured and already given up one piece of info. I can work with that.”

Dad clapped a hand on his shoulder, “I’m glad to hear that, and I’m proud of you, son. You’ll beat this son-of-a-bitch.”

Dean didn’t answer. He waited for the other shoe to drop.

“But I just finished getting off the phone with Rufus. Since this thing is going to take so long to break, he offered to help vet the info we give. It’s already sounding like some of it’s time sensitive. Said he could really use my help.”

Biting down a furious No! Dean nodded, “Makes sense.”

“I don’t want to leave you here, though,” John said, “Not if you need me.”

“I’ll be fine. The place is warded with every anti-demon trap, charm, and trick we know. On top of that, Mr. Boy King,” Dean gestured at the laptop, “Isn’t going anywhere soon. So you’re right, we should double check its info so we can kill it as soon as possible.”

John gave him an honest-to-God smile, “That bastard won’t know what hit him. Give me a call if you need me, and I’ll head straight back. I can send a few other hunters your way, if you’d like.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“Alright,” John stood and turned towards the hall, “I’ll get packed then, head out within the hour.”

“Dad.”

John turned, frowning, “What is it, son?”

Dean fingered the tab on his beer can, keeping his eyes fixed on the scratched table, “Gordon said when he sold me the thing that it was yellow-eyes’ second-in-command, almost like a son, back in the day. Said he took over when we killed the bastard and he’s fighting some demonic civil war against some bitch named Lilith.”

When John did not respond, Dean swallowed and pressed on, “I have no clue if any of it’s true, or if Gordon or the thing, or both, is baiting us . . . which is why I didn’t tell you before. I didn’t want to mention anything until I knew before . . . but if you’re heading out you should . . .” he bit his lip, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Neither of them spoke for several, long seconds, long enough that Dean began wondering if he would feel more comfortable talking to the bastard downstairs. Finally, John said, “I figured Gordon must have told you something like that.”

The words startled Dean enough that he looked up and stared at his father, whose features, strangely enough, looked gentler than usual, “Really?”

“It was the only way I could think of you’d ever be willing to pay Gordon Walker a thousand dollars for anything,” John smiled, “And it makes sense. We knew the demon was mighty powerful, that there were lots of questions we never got answers to.”

“So you’re not mad?” Dean could not keep the incredulity out of his voice.

John shook his head, still wearing that small, strangely soft smile, “No, I’m not mad. Sure, I wish you’d told me sooner, but I understand your reasons. For now, let’s just focus on our job.”

Dean smiled, “Sounds like a plan to me.”

Dean let the beast rot for a full twelve hours before visiting it again, stopping in a couple of times to load more wood in the furnace, then leaving without so much as blasting the music. In the meantime, he got a full six hours of sleep, showered, ate a real meal, spent an hour or so watching something mindless on the TV, chatted with Ellen Harvelle for a while under the pretense of checking in on some hunting contacts, and altogether felt better than he had since Gordon had first called him about the monster.

He even whistled as he entered the basement, blasted the music, and, instead of stoking the stove again, filled two five-gallon buckets with a mixture of ice, holy water, and rock salt.

“Rise and shine sleeping beauty!” he roared, opening the cell door and pouring the first bucket over the beast. It jerked and gave a satisfying yelp.

Dean ripped off the hood again, “Cleaning time!” he announced brightly.

“I’m enthused,” the thing responded drily, all signs of its pain and desperation from the previous day gone. In fact, Dean ran a hand experimentally down its body and found that most of the welts and cuts, even most of the nail holes in its feet, had scabbed over.

“Well someone’s had their ovaltine,” he said.

“I told you,” the beast said, “I’m simply better than you.”

“Doesn’t change who’s the one in chains, and those are getting nasty,” Dean pressed against the burns under the thing’s collar where angry blisters had started to form.

“Annoyances, at best,” it sniffed.

“Well that’s great news for me,” Dean said, and mostly meant it, “I’m forced to go easy on most of the bastards here to keep them from dying too soon, but you . . . I have no limits with you.”

“Then you haven’t taken advantage of your opportunity at all.”

“We’ve got plenty of time, your highness,” Dean grabbed a stool and snapped a pair of regular shackles onto the beast’s wrists then removed the manacles hanging it from the ceiling. It fell in a heap onto the floor, and Dean kicked it in the head and groin before it could get up.

Dean connected a length of chain from the beast’s collar to a ring about a third of a way up one of the cell walls, which gave it just enough length to crawl to every part of the cell. Then, Dean grabbed the second five gallon bucket, a toothbrush, and a flog from the supply shelf and crossed back to the thing.

It was trying to pull itself on its hands and knees, but every time it put pressure on its trembling arms, they shuddered and folded beneath him, sending it, once again, to the ground.

Dean waited until it finally pulled itself to something that vaguely resembled a crawling position when he kicked it in the chest again and sent it back to the floor.

“Alright,” he said, “Here’s how it’s going to work. You’ve made one hell of a mess since you’ve been here,” he gestured at around at the cell, which reeked of blood, sweat, and what little urine its starved body had produced over the past few days, “So you’re going to clean this shit up.” He tossed it the toothbrush, “And whenever you miss a spot, or I think you’re taking too long, or I get bored, I’m going to give you this,” he snapped the flog on the beast’s back.

It fell to the ground with a whelp. “Does that make you my evil stepsister?” it sneered as it slowly forced itself back on all fours.

Dean dumped the second bucket of water over the creature’s body, sending water through the entire cell. It shuddered and closed its eyes against the contact, but did not fall, “Whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”

The thing immediately picked up the toothbrush and crawled to the nearest patch of blood. Dean snapped the flog across its back, “Oh hell no. There’s not spot cleaning here. You’re scrubbing the entire room.”

“Clean freak,” the thing muttered, but crawled to the furthest corner of the cell and started scrubbing with the tiny brush.

Once it became clear the beast had submitted to the task, Dean grabbed a stool and an auto magazine from the shelf and set it just outside the cell. He half read, half watched the thing, snapping the flog against its back about fifteen minutes later when it paused and hung its head.

“There’s no resting here,” he snarled.

“Forgive me,” the thing said drily, but continued scrubbing. It was comical—or sickening—to watch the huge naked thing huddled on the floor, scrubbing with the tiny brush as blood dribbled slowly down its back.

Another fifteen minutes later, Dean said idly, “So, what does one exactly do as the future king of hell?”

“Aside from cleaning floors?” it snorted.

“Aside from that.”

The beast hesitated for a second, running its tongue along a cracked lip. Dean slowly raised the flog, but it finally said, “Administration, mostly. There’s more paperwork in hell than you would think.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, “What a drag.”

“It is,” the creature said and resumed its scrubbing.

“When you talk,” Dean said, “You don’t have to clean.”

It smirked, “Well then, the job will never get done, will it?”

“Suit yourself,” Dean said, flicking the flog at the thing’s feet.

They continued in silence for another twenty minutes or so, Dean reading his magazine, the beast crawling slowly along the back wall with the toothbrush until Dean stood, filled one of the buckets with water from the hose, added a generous helping of salt, and dumped it over the thing’s back. It let out a strangled “agghh!” but remained on its hands and knees, barely.

“Floor was getting dry,” Dean said, “You need water to clean.”

“Even your hose water is holy,” it spat, “Did you really just build this house for torture?”

“Pretty much,” Dean said, even as the words made his stomach clench uncomfortably, “And yea, we keep a cross in the water tank.”

“Elegant,” the beast conceded with a grudging respect that set Dean’s teeth on edge.

The thing returned to its task, but now, it mouth was set in a pained grimace as it worked. Grains of salt clung to the wounds on its back, and it was careful to scrub without moving anything other than its arm, hissing whenever it accidentally jostled its back. It was barely ten minutes before it paused and hung its head, “What else do you want to know?”

Dean lowered the magazine, “How about you tell me exactly what it is you administer.”

“Troop movements, orders, supplies, that sort of thing,” the thing shrugged then hissed at the movement, “I keep a careful record of who is under my command. I decide who to promote, and who to punish when I am disobeyed.”

“Really?” Dean smirked, “How’s it feel to be on the other end of the knife?”

The beast snorted, “You’re hardly the first thing to torture me. You’re not even the most creative.”

“Alright,” Dean filed that little fact for later, “What else do you do as a demonic paper pusher?”

“I collect souls,” it said, “I need souls to add to my army.”

“You collect souls,” Dean said sharply, “How?”

“How does any demon collect souls?” the beast asked. It glanced at Dean and flicked its eyes black, “I make deals. I made my first demon deal when I was six, and by now, dozens of people have sold their souls to me.”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean growled. He hand twitched for the flog.

The creature laughed, “You self-righteous bastard. Are you really so different from me? I kill and torture and make deals to get what I need, to do what I think is right. Are you going to sit there and lecture me on morality when you have my chained, naked, and bleeding in your torture chamber until you get bored and kill me? Stick me in that furnace like you have so many others?”

Without thinking, Dean leapt to his feet and slashed the flog as hard as he could against the thing’s ass, then kicked it to the ground and beat long, bloody lashes onto its chest. The beast managed to laugh even as it screamed, and when Dean finally stepped back, it thing kept laughing, even as it trembled in apin.

“That felt good, didn’t it?” it panted.

“Get back to work,” Dean growled.

It obeyed, if more slowly than before. Its whole body trembled violently now, and once or twice it simply collapsed beneath the strain.

“Up!” Dean commanded each time, emphasizing the order with a slap of the flog. The thing’s back was bleeding freely now, leaving small puddles of blood on the ground as it worked. Soon it started falling on its face every few minutes, and Dean eventually stopped returning to the stool, choosing instead to stand over the beast as it worked to beat it when in faltered. Each time, it took a little longer for the thing to rise, and it took a little less time for it to fall again.

Finally, it collapsed, rolling to its side and shuddering each time Dean snapped the flog without attempting to rise.

“Sorry, you highness,” Dean sneered, as it closed its eyes, “I’m afraid you’ve still got a long way to go.”

The beast slowly opened its eyes and stared at the floor of the cell. For the couple of feet it had cleaned, the rest of the floor was coated in blood. It was streaming off its body now, mixing with the water and streaking across the floor like macabre tie-dye.

“What . . .” it gasped, “Do I . . . have  . . . to give . . . you to . . . not . . . finish.”

 Dean folded his arms, “Start talking, and I’ll let you know once you’ve given me enough.”

The thing nodded and closed its eyes, gritting its teeth against the pain, “I’m fighting . . . a war . . . against the demon . . . Lilith.”

“Old news,” Dean snapped, “Keep talking.”

“Lilith is . . . apostate . . . doesn’t believe . . . wants . . . power . . . for herself . . .”

“Eyes open,” Dean kicked the thing in the chest and it obeyed, hazel eyes blinking slowly up at him like an oversized puppy.

Dean swallowed a surge of sympathy, “What do you mean, Lilith is apostate?”

“Doesn’t . . . believe . . .”

“In what!” Dean barked.

“In . . . me,” the thing groaned, “In . . . prophesy . . . I’ve come . . .to . . . to . . .”

“To what!” Dean kicked it again as its eyes started to close.

“Save hell!” it shuddered, “I . . . am here . . . to save . . . hell . . .”

“How!”

“Destroy!” it writhed a little on the floor, “I . . . will . . . destroy . . . the world . . . kill you all . . . hell . . . will rise . . . forever . . .”

“How!” Dean slapped the flog across the beast’s face, cutting an ugly slash down its cheek, “How are you going to destroy the Earth!”

But the thing only shook its head and curled in on itself, closing its eyes as Dean kicked and flogged it.

“Alright,” Dean said finally as the beast’s eyes glazed over and started blinking slowly towards unconsciousness, “We’ll pause this conversation. But until then, I want you to reconsider how difficult you want to make this for yourself.”

He crossed back to the supply shelf, opened a new ten pound bag of rock salt, and dumped it over the beast’s body. It howled in agony, jerking and writhing as the salt settled in its opened wounds. As it struggled, it tried to roll out of the worst of the salt, so Dean fetched a second bag and poured it around the rest of the cell until the whole room looked like a glittering sheet of ice.

“I’ll leave you there to think for a while,” Dean said. “Call if you feel like saying anything.”

The thing stopped struggling long enough to stare up at Dean. Inexplicably, it grinned, “Good . . . job.”

Dean grabbed a handful of salt and stuffed it down the thing’s throat before turning and locking the cell door behind him.

Chapter Text

Nathaniel of Cana

(45) Philip findeth Nathanael, and saith unto him, We have found him, of whom Moses in the law, and the prophets, did write, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph. (46) And Nathanael said unto him, Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth? Philip saith unto him, Come and see.

John 1

III

“(38) For I have come down from heaven, not to do My own will, but the will of Him who sent Me . . . (40) And this is the will of him that sent me, that every one which seeth the Son, and believeth on him, may have everlasting life: and I will raise him up at the last day”

John 6 

Bobby picked up after the first ring, “’bout time you called, boy."

“Hey Bobby,” Dean said. The words sounded weak and strangled even in his ears.

“How you doin’ son?”

“I . . .” Dean watched on the laptop screen as the thing lay on its side, coughing up salt and blood. “I’ve been better.”

“I would think so,” Bobby said, “It’s a hell of a thing you’re trying to do. How’s it been goin’”

“Well, it’s talking,” Dean rubbed his eyes, “Some, anyway.”

“But . . .” Bobby said slowly.

“But the things I’ve been doing to it . . .” Dean watched as the beast tried to use one of the hooks to pull itself to its feet and could not stop his stab of disappointment as it fell with a cry back to the ground. He took a deep breathe, “I don’t care what this thing is, what I’m doing . . . it makes me . . .”

“Makes you what?”

“Not much better than it,” Dean sighed.

For a long moment, Bobby did not answer, and Dean was about to check if the call had dropped when Bobby finally said, “Let me guess, the thing you’ve got trussed up down there’s the one that told you that.”

“Doesn’t mean it ain’t so,” Dean looked away as the creature screamed again and, from what Dean could tell, tried find a position where the least injured side of its body was pressed against the floor. It was not succeeding.

Bobby sighed, “Well tell me this, then. You said the thing’s opened up some, what’s it told you? I’m supposed to be vetting your info anyway.”

Dean rubbed a hand down his face, “Um, guess this thing’s supposed to be the demonic Messiah. Sounds like it believes it’s going to lead a demon army to destroy mankind and take Earth for itself.”

“Well shit, boy, don’t you think that’s a little bit important?”

“’Course, Bobby, but . . .”

“But what? Your conscious is itching a little bit? You feel a little nasty that you’re doing this and that every once in a while, you enjoy it?”

Dean didn’t answer, watching instead as the beast coughed up another mouthful of blood.

“I’ll take your silence as a yes,” Bobby said, “And to that I say get over yourself, princess! You’ve got a job, and yes it sucks, and frankly, I’m glad to hear it’s making you uncomfortable. That alone proves you’re nothing like the monster you’ve got chained up in your basement. Would it hesitate half a second to skin you alive?”

“No,” Dean said, “Not even a little.”

“I think I’ve made my point,” Bobby said, “And I know it’s a lonely, thankless, shitty job, and I’m not too excited to hear your Daddy left you to do it yourself.”

“He needed to meet up with Rufus,” Dean said weakly.

“Right. Anyway, you need to see the bigger picture here. You’ve done a lot of good in the past few years, but what you’re doing now, this is game changing. Hell, from what you’ve said so far, it might even be world changing. You got that?”

Dean took a deep breath and nodded, “Yea Bobby, I’ve got it.”

“Good,” Bobby hesitated, “And for what it’s worth, I’m damn proud of you, son. Both for what you’re doin’, and because we needed to have this conversation.”

Dean forced a chuckle, “Ah gee, Bobby, now I’m blushing!”

“Shut up idjit.” Dean could practically hear his eyes roll.

“Well, I better go,” he said, “Gotta get some grub.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” Bobby agreed. He paused, “But Dean, there’s one more thing.”

“What is it, Bobby?”

“This thing’s tryin’ to screw with your mind. It’s what they do. Now it’s already tried guilt, and sooner or later, it’s gonna start playing the sympathy card, and that can be even worse.”

“I understand.”

“No, son, I don’t think you do, which is why I need you to listen very closely to me. You need to remember that whatever that thing looks like, whatever it says or does, it is not your brother. It actually probably knows why your brother and Momma died.”

Dean glanced at the screen again. The beast had apparently given up any attempts at movement, choosing instead to lay, curled on its side on the bed of salt. It coughed again, bloody drool clinging to its lips.

“I know, Bobby,” he said finally.

“I know you know it,” Bobby replied tersely, “But I want you to remember it. Go over it frontwards, backwards, and upside down until it’s branded in your mind, and every time it tries to use your mother and brother against you, you give it double. You understand me?”

The monster coughed again, but this time it sounded much more like a sob.

The last time Dean heard Sammy cry, he was burning alive in his crib.

“I understand Bobby,” he said, “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Bobby said, “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. And tell me if your old man calls.”

“Will do.”

Dean hung up, stood, walked to the fridge in search of left-over take-out, and consciously ignored the muted cries coming from the screen.

After eating, Dean called Dad and updated him on his progress—minus the whining.

“Glad to hear it’s going well,” Dad said, “Rufus and I have heard a couple mentions of Lilith and the ‘Boy king’ as they call it. We’ll focus more on doomsday intel.”

“Sounds good,” Dean agreed, “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“Another few days,” Dad said, “Want to make sure Rufus gets the support he needs. You okay there?”

“Dandy,” Dean said, wrapping his knuckles against the kitchen table, and biting back a bitter retort. Who is actually doing the harder job here, Dad? “Take as much time as you need.”

“I appreciate it, son. Good luck.”

“You too,” Dean said and hung up the phone. He shook his head, forcing the conversation away as he headed back downstairs.

It had been less than two hours since the last interrogation, and Dean intended to use the lack of recovery time to his advantage.

Sure enough, the beast looked a little startled when, after blasting the music, Dean opened the cell door. At least, Dean wanted to think it looked startled.

“Alright,” he said, “First off, I’ve got a gift for you.”

The thing raised its head of the ground and raised an eyebrow, “For me?” it rasped, voice raw and ragged from blood, salt, and screaming, “But you’ve already been such a generous host!”

“I’m the soul of hospitality,” Dean said. He brought the small table from beside the supply shelf to the cell. Then, on another trip, brought back a short iron knife, the taser, the whip, three shot glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and a gallon milk carton filled to the brim with demon blood. The beast eyes immediately latched onto the blood, running its tongue over chapped lips.

Dean grabbed the thing by the arm and pulled it to its knees, “I’d recommend not falling,” he said, and the thing seemed to decide it was best to obey; Dean could see its fists clench and its neck tighten as it forced itself to remain upright. Once content the beast was still, Dean returned to the table, poured half a shot of blood into the glass and approached the thing. It narrowed its eyes and glared suspiciously at the dark liquid.

“It’s real, Scout’s honor,” Dean promised.

“I know,” the thing said, but did not relax.

“Bottom’s up,” he ordered, pressing the glass to its mouth.

With what Dean did not doubt was a herculean effort, the beast tightened its lips and shook its head.

“Yea, that wasn’t exactly a request. You can drink this now, or you can wait for me to cut off your lips and force it down your throat. Up to you.”

The beast hesitated, but finally cracked open its mouth.

Dean poured the liquid down its gullet, and it coughed and sputtered a little, but its shoulders relaxed slightly.

“See. What did I tell you? Completely harmless.”

“The whole ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing doesn’t work super well without a partner.”

“Oh, believe me, that’s not what this is.” Dean trailed the knife across the beast’s collarbone, “You see, I’ve been thinking, and I figure you’ve been getting some elaborate privileges during your stay here.” He trailed the blade up its throat and around its nose. It shuddered—so slightly Dean barely saw it. He pretended not to have noticed, “You’ve been getting so many perks you simply didn’t earn.” Dean traced the blade around one of the beast’s ears. “So I figure, since I just gave you a generous—a beyond generous—gift, it’s only fair we balance the scales a little.”

“After all, I only need one ear to hear your questions,” the beast completed icily, “I’ve used that line.”

“Not there quite yet, princess,” Dean said. He grabbed a clump of hair next to the thing’s ear in his left hand and cut through it with knife, close enough to nick its scalp.

“You beat my skin off, shove rock salt down my throat, and find out I am destined to destroy the world, and you think that giving me a haircut will tell you what you want to know?” It rasped as Dean cut through another clump of hair. Then it started laughing as the fine, brown strands fell sprinkled down its shoulder. By the time Dean cut off the third clump of hair, the thing was keeling over in mirth, tears streaming down its cheeks as it laughed and gasped for air in turn. 

Dean jerked it up by its chain, “You’re right,” he said evenly, “This isn’t torture. I’m not trying to break you. I just realized I didn’t like your hair much and I figured well . . . hell, I own you, even paid a hefty price for you, so if I want to cut off your hair,” another clump fell down the beast’s back, “That’s well within my rights.”

“If you own me,” it said coolly without a trace of humor, “Then why haven’t you raped me?”

Dean hesitated for half a second before he continued cutting, “Is that an invitation?”

“If I invite you, it’s not rape,” it snapped, “Didn’t you learn anything in your high school health class?”

“Never went,” Dean said evenly, “I was too busy hunting bastards like you.”

“And I was too busy torturing bitches like you,” the beast replied, “But that doesn’t change the fact that I’ve never seen an interrogator wait so long to take his pants off.”

The words left Dean stunned for a moment, “Not my style,” he finally said as he cut through the thing’s bangs.

“And that’s your problem,” the beast said, “You act tough and say you’re willing to do whatever it takes, but when that bitch next door to me was screaming and cussing at you, you never once touched her with anything other than a knife. You didn’t even threaten to.”

“Sounds like you’re just pissed that I don’t want a piece of your filthy monster asses.” Dean’s hand jerked, cutting the thing’s scalp as another clump of hair fell to the floor.

“I’m pissed that you’re letting you’re too goddamned self-righteous to do what the job demands!” the thing shouted, as much as its shredded vocal cords will allow, “I’m pissed that you’re too proud to admit that if you want to know everything you want to know, you’ve got to join our monster asses in the filth!”

“You’re a messed up son of a bitch,” Dean said evenly as he cut the last clump of hair off the beast’s head. He surveyed his work. The thing’s scalp was an ugly patchwork of uneven buzz and cuts, and its long hair now littered the floor and its body, some of the strands even sticking to its wounds.

“At least I’m willing to admit what I am,” it growled.

“You know what else you are?” Dean said, “Feeling much better! Your little sermon there proves that.” He bent down and unlocked the shackles on the beasts ankles and tossed them to the other end of the cell. “Up!” he barked, dragging the thing to its feet and pulling it to the center of the room, fully extending the chain connecting its collar to the wall.

“What now, my master?” it sneered.

“Now you prove to me you’re not completely full of shit,” Dean said, “You told me that you were better at everything, but all I’ve seen so far is that you get hopped up on demon juice and heal fast, so I’ve given you a little strength back, and I want you to run.”

The thing raised its eyebrows. It looked a lot less menacing with its uneven buzz cut. “You want me to run?”

“That’s right,” Dean set down the knife, picked up the whip, and flicked it against the thing’s ass, “You can run faster for longer, right? Well, prove it.” Dean glanced at his watch. It read 3:10 in the afternoon. “I’m timing you, starting . . . now!”

He flicked the whip again, and the thing started slowly shuffling its feet in place.

“Come on!” Dean went for the Taser this time, flicked it to its lowest setting, and pressed it against a laceration on the beast’s back. It jerked and grunted, “Surely you can do better than that!”

Sure enough, the thing sped up, running away from the wall so that the collar was pulling against neck.

“That’s more like it,” Dean said, seating himself on the stool and pouring himself a shot of whiskey. “Now keep it up!”

It was a full half hour before the creature faltered, keeping a steady pace despite the awkwardness of the heavy shackles on its hands, the chain pulling at its neck, and the salt pressing into its wounded feet. Finally, it coughed, slowing down just enough to relieve the collar’s pressure against its windpipe and fighting for huge gulps of air that Dean could tell were barely reaching its lungs.

“Uh-uh!” he snarled, snapping the whip again, “Keep going!”

The beast obeyed, running in silence as Dean stoked the furnace and poured himself another shot of whiskey. It finally slowed again forty-five minutes later, so Dean used the Taser to jolt it back to action.

“Now,” he said as he watched sweat pour like waves down the thing’s wounded body and its entire head redden, “I’ll let you take a break if you can tell me how you plan to destroy the world.”

Panting, the thing shook its head.

“Suit yourself,” Dean said, “But you’re not stopping until I’m satisfied.”

They continued for another hour, and Dean did not know whether to be impressed or disturbed at the beast’s endurance. Its feet left bloody footprints now, and Dean guessed only every third breathe of air was reaching its lungs, but it gritted its teeth and continued.

Finally, it tripped, slamming to its knees.

“Up!” he ordered, slapping the whip against its shredded shoulders. It shuddered but did not react.

“I said up!” Dean pressed the Tazer against the beast’s abs.

It jerked and slowly pulled itself to its feet, trembling like a newborn colt, blood and sweat running in rivers down every inch of its body. But it started moving, stumbling every other step, head down almost to its chest, breath whistling as air struggled to enter and leave its lungs.

“Any time you want to stop, princess!” Dean reminded it, choosing to focus on his whiskey instead of the pathetic sight in front of him.

Only ten minutes passed before the thing was on the floor again, puking blood and bile. Dean wondered vaguely if the blood was the beast’s, or the demon blood it drank. Probably both.

“Get up you lazy animal,” he said with another snap of the whip.

The thing only lasted another five minutes before slipping on its own blood and falling to the floor. Dean whipped it’s face, cutting large welts into its cheeks.

“Dean . . .” it gasped and coughed.

“Don’t Dean me!” Dean snarled, “Are you gonna talk?”

It jerked its head to the side, the closest thing it could approach to a refusal.

“Alrighty,” Dean reached up and dragged it back to its feet, “Then move!”

But the beast only managed a few steps before collapsing with a cry to the ground.

“Come on!” Dean roared, snapping the whip against the beast’s thigh. “Come on!” He whipped it again, “There’s only one way to end this! What is your plan? How are you going to end the world?”

He raised a whip again, but paused when he saw the thing’s lips move. He knelt beside it, straining to catch its words.

“Dean,” it croaked, it’s rasping voice barely above a sigh, “Dean . . . please . . . please . . .”

Grabbing the Taser, Dean pressed it against a particularly deep gash on the beast’s collarbone. It jerked and roared in agony. Its screams were wild, raw, desperate, nothing like its jeers, or its cool sarcasm, or even its normal cries of pain.

“Dean!” it screamed, “Oh God! Dean! Please! Dean! Stop!”

Jerking back, Dean surveyed the thing as it begged and bled and cried on the salt-coated floor, howling and writhing like a child . . .

Dean’s eyes hardened. This thing was not a child. It was not a victim. It was not his brother. It was a murderer. A torturer. A monster set out to destroy the world.

It deserved everything Dean was giving it. And more.

He pressed the Taser against the beast’s ass. It howled and jolted, “No! Dean! God! Please! Please! Stop!”

“You want it to stop!” Dean roared. “You want it to be over! TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!”

He pressed the Taser to its groin and it screamed in agony, “Lucifer!” it finally screamed, “Lucifer!”

Dean dropped the Taser, grabbed the thing by its collar and pulled it up, “Lucifer! What’s Lucifer got to do with this?”

“Lucifer’s . . . the plan . . .” it breathed, and Dean had to strain his ears to here. Its eyes flickered up to Dean, but were fluttering too much for Dean to make out any kind of emotion, “Lucifer . . . trapped . . . in cage . . . by God . . . in hell.”

“So God trapped Lucifer, and what? You’re trying to free him?”

The beast jerked its chin forward in the closest thing it could attempt to a nod. “66  . . . seals . . . I’m . . . the last one . . .”

“What do you mean? The last one!”

“I’m . . . last seal . . . must . . . kill Lilith . . . set Lucifer . . . free. . .”

“So you’re gonna set Lucifer free, and?”

“He takes . . . my body . . . his vessel.”

“His vessel, so he’s gonna what? Possess you?”

It jerked its head again in confirmation as its eyes rolled back in their sockets.

“Then what?” Dean shook it, “Then what!”

“Don’t . . . know . . .” it gasped, “I  . . . swear. . . Please . . . Dean . . .”

“You’re not getting anything from me, you son of a bitch,” Dean growled.

“Please . . .” Its eyes were wide open now, staring up at Dean with child-like desperation, “Kill me . . . Dean . . . kill me . . . kill me . . .”

Dean dropped the beast. It landed with a rasping cry of pain then closed its eyes, mouthing the same words over and over as tears joined the sweat and blood rolling down its face.

Kill me. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.

Staring down at the twitching, weeping thing, the stench of the room suddenly assaulted Dean. The foul scents of blood, sweat, salt, bile, and urine overwhelmed his nose, and when he breathed, their tastes coated the inside of his mouth. The whiskey soured in his stomach, the heat of the blasting furnace sending sweat rolling down his back. He licked his lips.

And tasted the thing’s blood.

He turned and fled, barely remembering to bring the whip and Taser with him. He shut and locked the thing’s cell door and rushed up the staircase without bothering to close the doors behind him as bile and whiskey climbed up his throat.

He almost made it to the sink in time.

IV

(54) And when he was come into his own country, he taught them in their synagogue, insomuch that they were astonished, and said, Whence hath this man this wisdom, and these mighty works? (55) Is not this the carpenter’s son? Is not his mother called Mary?

Matthew 13

“Dean?” Bobby sounded worried before Dean even opened his mouth.

“Hey, Bobby,” he said.

“You okay, son?” Dean could practically see Bobby’s frown, “You sound terrible.”

“I sound a hell of a lot better than the thing downstairs,” Dean glanced at himself in the bathroom mirror. Blood coated him; there were even splashes of red in his hair, and brushing his teeth and rinsing with mouthwash twice had not rid him of the iron taste in his mouth.

“What happened?”

“Well . . . I got some pretty important info,” Dean sagged onto the toilet seat and rubbed his forehead. He felt flecks of dried blood come off in his hand.

“And that is?”

“He . . . it plans to release Lucifer.”

“Lucifer’s real?”

“Apparently, or, at least it seems to think so. It mentioned something about sixty-six seals . . . I guess breaking them springs Lucifer.”

“Okay . . . how do we find these seals?”

“I don’t know yet,” the thought of trying to find out sent bile rising back up Dean’s throat, “But it said it was the last one. I guess it has to kill Lilith, and that’s when Lucifer goes free.”

“And then?”

“Then Lucifer possesses its body. Doesn’t seem to know anything after that.”

“Other than Lucifer wants to end the world and create paradise on Earth for demons,” Bobby said drily, “It’s not like it’s going into this thing blind, Dean.”

“Yea, I know,” Dean sighed.

“Sounds to me like you did good, son.”

“Yea.”

“So why do you sound like a kicked puppy?”

“I . . . uh . . . I don’t know, Bobby, honestly.”

“Right,” Bobby said drily, “Son, what you’re doin’ is too important for you to bail out. So talk to me, what’s goin’ on?”

“It asked me to kill him.” Dean closed his eyes against the memory of the blood-coated thing begging and writhing on the ground.

“Forgive me for bein’ insensitive,” Bobby said carefully, “But my guess is you get that a lot.”

“Yea,” Dean admitted, “But this . . . this is different. What I did . . . it’s way beyond holy water and knives, way beyond anything I’ve done before.”

“You’ve never interrogated anything like this before. What you’re learning’ seems like it could literally save the world, boy!”

“You don’t think I know that!” Dean demanded.

Bobby sighed, “I know you do, but . . .”

“But I literally flogged that thing’s skin off, covered it in rock salt, shaved its head, whipped it, electrocuted it, and forced it to run until it started puking, slipping in its own blood, and begging me to kill it!”

Silence fell heavily between them for several, long seconds until Bobby said, “And it’s . . . alive?”

“Yea,” Dean lurched to his feet and stumbled to the kitchen, doing his best to ignore the smell of boozy vomit as he checked the laptop video feed to make sure the thing was, in fact, breathing. After a moment, he finally saw the beast’s head twitch and its chest rise and fall weakly.

“Yea,” he repeated, “It’s alive.”

“Good,” Bobby said, “And you probably want to make sure it stays that way until we know if we can actually kill it.”

“Seems close enough to human to be able to.”

“Yea, but we don’t know what happens after it dies. Could be that killing it now just lets the demons bring it back, good as new to start Armageddon.”

Dean let out a breath, “Right, so what are we supposed to do? Keep it locked up forever?”

“At least until we can think of something better.”

Dean knocked his forehead against the table, “Great.”

“It wouldn’t be the same Dean. You won’t have to interrogate it forever, wouldn’t even necessarily keep it down there. I’m just laying out all the possibilities.”

“Right. Right, yea, I know.” Dean hesitated, “Bobby. . .”

“Yea?”

“If this thing’s specially fitted to be possessed by Lucifer, that means it’s still human . . . at least a little. Demons can’t possess anything other than humans, not even shifters and vamps.”

“But it’s just like you said, Dean, this thing was specially fitted for Lucifer. I don’t think the demons did that just for fun. Whatever Lucifer is, I don’t think a human by himself could hold him.”

“But it still stands to reason that this thing started out . . .”

“Vampires start out as human too,” Bobby said gently, “You think we shouldn’t kill them?”

“No.”

“And this thing has way bigger plans than just eatin’ and changin’ a few folk. We’re literally talkin’ about the Apocalypse here!”

Dean turned away from the screen again, “Right. Right. I know.”

“I know what you’re thinkin’ Dean,” Bobby said gently, “You’re thinkin’ whatever happened to this thing is connected to what happened to your Mom and your brother. I’ve thought of it too, and I sure as hell know that’s why your Dad’s still a no-show to this little party.”

“Well, what if it’s true?”

“The only way to know is to ask, Dean, and no matter the answer, it doesn’t change the fact that your brother’s dead, and no matter what demons did to this thing, it doesn’t change that it’s evil, and that, given half a chance, it’d kill you, your Daddy, and the whole world alongside.”

“Right,” Dean nodded to himself, “Right, right. Of course, Bobby. Thanks.”

“Take a shower,” Bobby said, “Eat some food. Get some sleep, and you’ll feel much better.”

Dean did exactly what Bobby said. He cleaned up his puke, showered, and went downstairs. Then he entered the thing’s cell and took out the table, the stool, the whiskey, the carton of blood, and the two shot glasses, and put them by the supply shelf. After a moment’s hesitation, he returned to the cell and shackled the thing’s ankles together again. It felt more than unnecessary, given that the beast had only lifted its head a centimeter or two, staring at Dean with uncomprehending eyes before its head fell back to the ground, but Dean reminded himself that he still didn’t quite know what this thing was capable of, and it healed fast. Once finished, he surveyed the beast again and, after a moment’s contemplation, reached down and picked it up. It was lighter than he imagined, and Dean wondered how much weight it had lost since its capture. It groaned and jerked at the contact, but made no move to stop him. Dean doubted it understood what was happening. Crossing to the far end of the cell, right beneath the hook holding the chain around the beast’s collar in place, Dean kicked away most of the salt out of a roughly human-shaped patch of floor and set it down. It grunted and hissed at the contact, but some of the tension seemed to ease out of its body as it finally touched more concrete than salt.

Glancing at the beast one last time, Dean exited the cell, stripped completely and shoved his blood-soaked clothes into the furnace. The flames were almost dead, but flared up briefly once Dean put his clothes in. Dean watched, stark naked, as the flames burned back down. He hesitated again, but picked up a shovel and stirred the ashes around, smothering the remains of the fire. Finally, he picked up his blood-stained boots, went back upstairs, carefully shutting and locking the doors behind him. Once in the kitchen, he washed the blood off the boots in the sink and left them on the counter to dry, showered, dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, and collapsed on the bed. He only had to fight back visions of the thing, coated in blood and begging for death, for a few minutes before finally falling into a dreamless sleep.

Dean slept for nearly eight hours and somehow woke with a plan for the thing in the basement. He changed into jeans and a t-shirt, made a cup of coffee and drank it as he watched the beast on the laptop screen.

Itss eyes were closed, and Dean guessed it was resting, rather than asleep. In the intervening hours, it had pulled itself to a sitting position, resting its back against the wall and pulling its legs up enough that its shackled wrists wrapped around its knees, so only its ass and feet touched the floor directly.

It looked painful enough, but Dean supposed it was better than lying directly on salt, even if Dean had kicked most of it away.

Sipping at his coffee, Dean watched as the beast stretched its neck, grimaced a little at the movement, and returned to its statue-like pose. The begging, screaming, and weeping had disappeared, and it did not seem perturbed that its body was died in blood.

That being said, it did not seem interested in trying to stand, and Dean was sure its head hung a shade lower, and its shoulders sagged in a way they had not two days ago.

Something had changed. At least, Dean hoped so. He did not want to repeat yesterday.

Pouring himself another cup of coffee, Dean headed casually down the stairs to the basement, grabbed the stool, and opened the thing’s cell door.

“No music,” the thing said, quirking an eyebrow as Dean set the stool just inside the cell and sat down. Its shredded voice barely reached a whisper.

“Today’s my day off,” Dean said. He tilted his coffee cup towards the thing, “Which is good news for you.”

“Lucky me,” it rolled its eyes.

“Is that one of your special demon powers?” Dean asked, “Bitchiness.”

“You got me,” it said, “That’s the plan. Lucifer and I are going to bitch the world to death.”

“Well I’ve been stuck with you for a week, and I have to admit, it’s working.”

The beast smirked and Dean bit back a smile. Instead, he sipped his coffee again.

“So,” the beast said, “No music, jokes, coffee . . . is this a social call?”

“Maybe, and I make damn good coffee, by the way. Sure you can’t have any?”

It gave him another small smile, “I’m sure.”

Dean took a breath, focused on the blood, salt, and hair strewing the cell, the stenches assaulting him, and Bobby’s reminders, not the mischievous face in front of him. The devil was always supposed to be a charmer.

“That’s too bad,” he said, “Coffee fuels the world.”

“Your world,” the beast said, “Not mine.”

 “Right,” Dean nodded, “Which brings me to my first question.” The beast raised its eyebrows again, and Dean continued, “You asked me –begged me--to kill you.”

The thing did not answer, and Dean surveyed it again. Blood literally coated its body, with only its semi-white teeth and hazel eyes indicating it was originally anything other than different shades of red.

It looked nearly as inhuman as it was.

“I thought about that,” Dean said, “You asking me to kill you, after I went upstairs. Because I believed you. I believed you wanted me to kill you. Am I wrong?”

“No.” All trace of humor had disappeared, and the beast considered Dean warily.

“I see,” Dean sipped his coffee again, “And how would I go about doing that?”

The thing cocked its head, “Well, you’ve gotten pretty close, haven’t you?”

“Have I? Because I have to admit, I’m not really in the business of torturing humans, but doing what I’ve done to you? I think I would’ve killed one or two.”

“Probably,” it conceded.

“Which begs the question,” Dean said, “I know you’re at least part demon—you’ve got the whole eye-thing going—you’re fast, you’ve got endurance, you heal quickly, and you’re on a strict demon-blood diet. You’re miles away from being human, so how do I know what will kill you?”

“What? You want me to tell you?” it asked incredulously.

“Depends,” Dean shrugged, “Depends how much you want to die.”

It snorted. “Not enough to give you tips on how to do it, that’s for sure.”

“Is that so?”

The beast raised its eyebrows, “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes,” Dean said, “Like I said, I believed you. You wanted me to kill you. I reckon there’s a decent part of you that still wants me to kill you. What I want to know is why.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“No, I’m not,” Dean leaned forward, “And you know why? Because you and I are sitting here shooting the breeze. You’re not trying to goad me anymore, and I’m not shredding your vocal cords again. And you know why that is? Because I don’t want to torture you, and you don’t want to be tortured.”

“Brilliant deduction, Sherlock,” it said drily.

“But you’ve still got some kind of plan,” Dean continued, “You’re too smart to not have one. You’re the goddamned demonic Messiah. You’re not put down by a couple of hunters and one traitorous demon.”

“How would you know? Even your Jesus was taken down by twenty pieces of silver.”

“And he designed it that way,” Dean said, “So how do I know that the moment I shoot or stab or strangle you, you won’t pop back up as the new and improved Savior of hell, ready to bust Lucifer out? How do I know this wasn’t your plan from the get go?”

“You think I asked for this!” it snarled, shaking its shackled hands, “You think I wanted to spend the rest of my life chained and starving in this godforsaken hell hole while you ripped my skin off one piece at a time!”

“Since the moment you’ve gotten here you’ve never once said that you will be rescued, you’ve barely threatened me, you haven’t thought about trying to escape, and now you’re too weak to even crawl to the cell door!” Dean snapped. He leaned forward, eyes boring into the creature’s. It gazed calmly back at him. “You’re only options are getting rescued, rotting here forever, or dying, and that doesn’t sound like a Catch 22 the boy king would put himself in. There’s something you’re not telling me!”

The beast scowled. “That is the point of torture.”

Dean nodded. “That’s exactly right. It is, and I think we both know now that I can make you tell me whatever the fuck I want, so here’s how it’s going to be. You are not going to die. You are going to rot here, and I am going to torture you. I am going to keep you in pain until you tell me whatever it is you’re hiding, even if I have to wait years.” He stood, “We’ll talk later,” Dean said before exiting the cell and closing the door.

“Dean . . .”

Dean hesitated at the meekness in the thing’s voice, and then opened the cell door.

“This had better be good. My coffee’s cold.”

“You said you didn’t want to torture me,” the thing said slowly, “Did you mean it?”

The beast’s expression was inscrutable, and Dean tried to pretend to not be freaked out by it, “You mean if I meant it if I’m not a sadist? Then, yea.”

The beast considered that for a moment then said, “You’re right. I want you to kill me.”

“Alright,” Dean crossed his arms, “Why?”

“Because I’m not hell’s Messiah.”

“Excuse me!” Dean crossed the cell and towered over the thing, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“I mean. . . to some demons I am,” the beast’s face twisted and it coughed, “But there aren’t many that believe that anymore.”

Dean pulled the stool closer to the beast and sat so their knees were only a few inches apart. “Alright, I’m following. Jesus wasn’t the most popular dude in his day. Are you saying demons aren’t too thrilled to see Lucifer?”

“Hell has been waiting for redemption since the beginning of the world,” the thing shrugged, “Most of them have given up by now. They figured, if Lucifer really was going to return, it would have happened already. Demons aren’t exactly known for their patience or piety.”

“And Lilith’s probably trying to help those rumors along because she doesn’t want to be iced by you. Am I right?”

“And she’s doing a very good job of it, too,” the thing agreed, “I’m young, even by human standards, and I’m not fully demon. It’s hard to gain trust.”

“So your whole army building thing was not going as well as you were letting on.”

“It was going very well until a few years ago, but even then, most recruits weren’t following me out of faith, but opportunity.”

“Okay,” Dean nodded, “I can buy that. So what happened a few years ago?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” the beast said, “You killed my father.”

“Yellow eyes,” Dean felt his body go numb, “So Gordon wasn’t just yanking my chain. Yellow eyes is your father?”

“Well, most people call him Azazel, but yea.” The chains clanked as the beast shifted, and it grimaced, “He was the general. I was the commander. He was supposed to teach me everything he knew and help build my . . . notoriety . . . until demons trusted, and feared, me enough to follow.” It sighed, “Then you killed him.”

“I’m not going to apologize for that one,” Dean growled, “So, if he was your . . . father . . . how did he create you?”

The beast looked at him, and its green eyes blazed with intensity, “I think you know the answer to that question, Dean.”

“He . . . he . . .” Dean cleared his throat, “He kidnapped you as a baby.”

“And fed me demon blood, yes,” it nodded, “Just like he did with little Sammy.”

“Sam’s dead.” Everything felt far away, the stench of blood, bile, and filth, the clank of the chains, the monster in front of him. This beast could have been Sam. It was as if Dean was watching something else interrogate it, as if this was a nightmare, and he needed to fight his way out.

“Yes, Sam’s dead,” the beast agreed, “But he didn’t die in that nursery.”

“There was a body!” Dean shouted, “I held it!”

“You think one of the most powerful demons of all time couldn’t create a fake body?” the thing scoffed, “He took Sam alive. He took all of us alive. Faked all our deaths: fires, sudden infant death syndrome, smothering, pneumonia, heart defects, you name it.”

“What about my mother?” Dean said hoarsely.

It shrugged, “She just got in the way. Saw too much. It happened sometimes.”

“Just happened . . .” Dean swung his fist at the beast’s jaw. Its head jerked back, hitting the wall, “That was my mother, you son-of-a-bitch!”

“You think Azazel cared about that? You think I care about that?” it snarled, “People’s mothers die every day. People’s families are torn apart every day!”

“You . . . you . . .” Dean took several, deep breathes. “You better keep talking. What happened to my brother?”

Azazel and a couple of his lackeys took us all. Raised us on demon blood, and trained us.”

“How many were there?”

“Sixty-six,” the beast said, “Azazel’s idea of humor. Sixty-six in the beginning, anyway. It wasn’t long until children started dying off.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means some kids didn’t take well to a demon blood diet. Then, as we got older, some couldn’t make it through training. Some Azazel killed himself because they were lazy or disobedient or stupid. Then, when those of us who survived were twenty-two, he took us, small groups at a time, to an old ghost town, and he told us only one of us would come out alive.”

“So it was what, some fucked-up gladiator fight?”

“Exactly. Except between siblings. It was a bloody battle.”

Dean clenched his fists, “And Sam?”

“Sam was always a little weird,” it said with a small laugh, “A little too pure, a little too human. He was never as enthusiastic as the rest of us, had a nasty rebellious streak, even tried to run off and warn you humans a couple times.” It chuckled again, “If any of the rest of us had pulled the crap he did, Azazel would have killed us slowly, but Sam . . . Sam was his favorite. He was fast, strong, smart . . . even for us. I think Azazel thought he was going to win.”

“But . . .” Dean’s heart was pounding. He didn’t want to hear any of this. He always thought Sam had died in the worst possible way.

He had been wrong.

“But Sam’s goodness got the better of him,” the beast said, “He and I were part of the last group Azazel sent, and in the end, he and I were the last two survivors. He tried to talk me down, said he didn’t want to fight me. Said it didn’t have to end this way, that we could go after Azazel together. I pretended to agree, and when he let his guard down,” it grinned, “I slit his throat and watched him choke on his own blood.”

For a long moment, Dean could not speak, could not think over the sound of his pounding heart and the blood roaring in his ears. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” It laughed, “And you know what sucks for you? You know I’m not. Your brother’s dead, Dean-o, and I’m the one who killed him.”

It started laughing again, and suddenly, Dean calmed. He stood, kicked the stool away, and punched the beast in the throat.

It coughed and fell silent. Before it could open its mouth again, Dean rammed its fist into its jaw.

Then Dean’s fist flew, punching and kicking every inch of the thing he could reach. He felt the crunch of its ribs and nose, felt blood spurting out of its reopened wounds, and it wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough, wasn’t enough . . .

Until, suddenly, he pulled back. The thing hung limply from its chains, and it was a full thirty seconds until Dean saw its chest slowly rise and fall.

“You’re right,” he growled, “I am going to kill you. But I’m not going to give you the luxury of slitting your throat. I am going to go upstairs, and think long and hard about the best way to cut the skin from your bones, slowly, so that you feel every moment while you scream, begging for the hell I know you’re going to.”

Without another word, he turned and slammed the door shut behind him.

Chapter Text

Part III

Simon Peter

(18)And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

Matthew 18

I

(13)When Jesus came into the coasts of Cæsarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, saying, Whom do men say that I the Son of man am? (14) And they said, Some say that thou art John the Baptist: some, Elias; and others, Jeremias, or one of the prophets. (15) He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am? (16) And Simon Peter answered and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.

 Matthew 16

“Dean,” a cool, crisp British accent greeted Dean after the first ring.

“Who the hell is this,” Dean said, “Where’s Bobby?”

“Name’s Crowley,” the voice replied, “And Bobby’s with me. Don’t worry, he’s fine.”

“You’d better be able to prove that,” Dean growled.

“Happily,” the voice said. There was the muffled sound of footsteps and the man’s faint voice saying, “Speak up. Dean’s worried.”

“Dean!”

Dean released an unconscious breath.

“Bobby, are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” Bobby said, “Tied up s’all. But Dean, don’t give ‘em any. . .”

“I think you’ve gotten the idea,” the voice said, “I have no interest in Bobby. I have no interest in hurting Bobby so long as you I understand each other.”

Dean closed his eyes, “What do you want?”

“I believe you and I have a mutual acquaintance. Calls himself the boy king. You may have heard of him.”

“What’s it to you?” Dean could not quite make the words sound intimidating.

“He and I have a history. Shared some happy memories together with a demon named Lilith. I take it you’ve heard of her?”

“Maybe. You work with her?”

“Second-in-command, actually, and she and I are both very keen to see the boy king again.”

“What do you want with him?”

“We want to torture him,” Crowley said, “Plain and simple. He is a thorn in our sides. My guess is you’ve found him just as bothersome, but we are much better equipped to contain and . . . amuse ourselves with him.”

“So I give this thing up to you, and Bobby . . .”

“Returns to you, safe and sound. Like I said, I have no interest in him.”

Dean gripped the phone, “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t for sure, but we demons lie a lot less than you hunters pretend. The trade is simple. We both get what we want. We both walk away.”

“Alright,” Dean hesitated. He couldn’t just hand this monster back to the demons. Sure, this Crowley bastard he wanted to torture the thing, but he could just as easily be trying to free him.

But it was also Bobby.

“Alright,” he said finally, “Alight, you bastard. I’ll be there.”

“Good. I estimate it takes you roughly ten hours to drive here. Be here in eight, or Bobby starts losing fingers. I catch wind of anyone or anything coming except you and my prize, he loses a lot more than that.”

“I understand.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Crowley said and hung up the phone.

Dean sprinted down the basement and threw open the cell door.

The thing blinked, “That was quicker than I thought,” it rasped.

“Change of plans, buck-o.”

The thing tensed, “What happened?”

“Shut up!” Dean snapped, unlocking the chain connected to its collar from the wall and wrapping it around his wrist several times so there was only a foot or so of slack. He tugged at the chain, “Get up!”

It grunted and managed to half-lift itself on trembling feet before falling again.

“Don’t have time for this,” Dean growled, and heaved the thing up in a fireman’s carry.

“Dean. What the hell?”

“Shut up!” Dean repeated as he carried the thing up the stairs. It twisted and squirmed a little, but with less success than a newborn as Dean raced outside and to the Impala.

“Who is it?” it asked finally, as Dean laid it on the floor in the back, “Who are you giving me to?”

“I told you to shut up,” Dean stuffed a bandana in its mouth. He could barely stand to look at the thing, much less listen to it.

They made the trip in a little over seven hours, pulling into the driveway just before sunset. Dean could see lights in the living room, and as he went to the back seat and yanked the thing out of the car, he saw a man in a tailored suit step out onto the porch.

“Dean Winchester,” he said by way of greeting, “Early, I see. Excellent. Come on in.” Its eyes lingered on the thing Dean held by the chain around its neck before turning and walking back into the house.

The beast’s eyes widened, and it began to struggle in the Dean’s grip, twisting and moving enough that Dean punched it in the chest.

“Nuh, uh,” he said as it hunched into itself from pain, “You’re not getting out of this.”

He forced it inside, pulling and shoving it forward in turns until they finally reached living room.

“Dean?” Bobby said from his usual chair by the fireplace. His hands and legs were tied to it, but otherwise, he looked unharmed, “You alright, son?”

“I’m fine, Bobby,” he said, holding the thing’s chain tightly as it started struggling again. Dean kicked its feet out from under it, and it fell to its knees with a grunt, “You?”

“Everyone’s dandy,” Crowley said from beside Bobby. He twirled a knife absently in his hand as he looked the thing at Dean’s feet up and down greedily, “Well, most of us, anyway.”

“Can we just do this, please?” Dean said tersely. He hated the approval in the demon’s eyes.

“Of course,” Crowley said, “But first, let me satisfy my curiosity. It’s hard to see exactly what you did to him beneath all the blood.”

He snapped his fingers, and the blood coating the thing’s body disappeared, revealing the tapestry of burns, bruises, welts, and bloody cuts covering its body. The beast was a mass of twisted, ragged skin in a patchwork of red, black, and blue. Dean looked away and stole at glance at Bobby, whose mouth was open speechlessly.

“My, my,” Crowley said, “Not bad, for a human. You have promise, Dean Winchester. Shame we won’t have a chance to hone your skills in hell.”

The thing looked up at Crowley and growled through its gag.

“Now, now, no need to get nasty.” Crowley bent over and cut through the ropes binding Bobby’s legs, then the ones around his wrists, and pulled him to his feet. “Now, in good faith, I’ll send Bobby over first. Once you’re content that he’s safe, you give me the boy king. Everyone’s happy.”

“Fine,” Dean jerked a nod.

“Off you go,” Crowley said, giving Bobby a light push. He stumbled a little, but crossed the room in a few strides.

“You okay, Bobby?” Dean said, looking him up and down for any hidden injuries.

“Fine,” Bobby said, “Even the goose egg that bastard gave me mostly’s gone down.”

“I keep my bargains,” Crowley said coolly, “Now fill your end of the deal.”

Dean pulled the thing to its feet and shoved it at Crowley, “Sayonara you bastard,” he said. It stumbled a couple of steps before slamming to its knees again.

Crowley stepped forward, grasping the thing’s chain in one hand and ripping out its gag with the other, “Sam Winchester,” he said, “Been a long time.”

“Excuse me . . .” Bobby began as Dean snarled, “Sam’s dead!”

“No,” Crowley said, looking down at the thing, “You self-righteous bastard,” he said to it mildly before raising is eyes back to Dean and Bobby. “At first, I couldn’t believe how willing you were to give him up, but then I realized, somehow, in the midst of the screaming and the begging and the torture, he hasn’t told you!”

“It told me plenty,” Dean growled, “It told me about Lucifer, about Azazel’s plan, about the children. It told me that it killed Sam, that it slit his throat!”

“Sam told you anything he could think of to convince you to kill him,” Crowley said, “And by the looks of him, it nearly worked.”

“Why you . . .” Dean began, approaching Crowley. The demon raised a hand, slamming Dean and Bobby across the room and into the wall.

For the first time, the thing raised its head and glared at Crowley, “You can’t,” it rasped. Its voice barely traveled across the room.

“Don’t worry, Sammy,” Crowley said, patting its head, “I won’t hurt a hair on his head.” He flicked his wrist again, sending Dean and Bobby across the room and onto the couch. Dean squirmed a little, but couldn’t budge against the invisible weight pressing down on him.

“I brought you both here,” Crowley said, “To tell you a story,” he glanced from Dean to the thing at his feet, “Feel free to stop me when it starts sounding familiar.”

He flicked his finger at the chair that recently held Bobby, and it scooted forward. Crowley seated himself, crossed his legs, and started stroking the thing –not Sam, not Sam, it wasn’t Sam—on the head like a dog.

“It started in Lawrence, Kansas,” Crowley began, “Little Sammy had just turned six months old when his mother, Mary Winchester, heard him crying. She ran to his bedroom and saw Azazel dripping blood into poor Sammy’s mouth. Azazel pinned her to the ceiling and set the room on fire. John Winchester rushed in, saw his wife burning, and grabbed his baby, but it was too late. By the time everyone was outside, Dean was only holding what everyone assumed was Sammy’s corpse. Nearly maddened by grief, John started seeking revenge against the thing that killed his wife and baby while raising his other son, Dean,” Crowley nodded at him, “To be a hunter, always on the search for the thing that destroyed their perfect little lives.”

“Meanwhile, Azazel took the real Sam,” Crowley jerked Sam’s—the thing’s—chain again, “To a hidden location where he had already gathered dozens of children. On a strict regimen of demon blood and training since they could walk, by the time the brats were six years old, they each started displaying supernatural . . . talents.”

Crowley ran his finger along the thing’s collar, “You haven’t seen any of them yet, thanks to this clever spell work, but over the years Sam developed all of them: forcing people to do what he wanted simply by talking to them, telekinesis, electrocution . . . but he started out with visions.”

“What do you mean, visions?” Dean asked.

“Visions of the future . . . the near future, anyway, and do you know who he first saw?” Crowley said, running his fingers down Sam’s –oh God, it couldn’t be him—cheek and trailing across his—its—collar bone. “You,” he said fixing his eyes directly on Dean.

Sam—oh, God, please no—closed his eyes, and Crowley chuckled and traced the cuts on his—its-- head.

“Apparently, Sammy saw his older brother playing in a motel room. For reasons that defy all logic, Sam was enamored. He learned to hone his abilities much more quickly than the other children, and soon enough, he was able to see what his brother and father were doing whenever he felt like.”

Sam was breathing heavily now, and Dean swore he saw a tear travel down his cheek. It was becoming difficult to breathe against the lump in his own throat.

“And so the millennia-old plan of Lucifer and Azazel suddenly went horribly wrong,” Crowley continued, “Instead of being indoctrinated in demonic Sunday school, Sammy began to learn about his other family, his other father who, despite being the furthest thing from a Hallmark parent, was infinitely more loving than what Sam experienced under Azazel’s . . . firm hand. Then there was his brother, Dean Winchester, and well, if Sam was amazed by his father, he was in awe of his older brother. This older brother who was smart, funny, strong, good . . . cool. This brother who talked about him, cared about him, cried for him on his birthday, even though Dean barely remembered him.”

Crowley chuckled, “Sam eventually realized that, if Azazel had his way, his real family would die, so he decided to rebel. But Sam was smart, even for one of Azazel’s children. He didn’t attack his demonic family head-on. Instead, he planned.”

“Get your hands off of him,” Dean finally growled as Crowley stoked Sam’s—fuck, this was Sam—back.

“Why?” Crowley raised his eyebrows, “He belongs to me now, doesn’t he?”

Dean gulped, unable to avert his eyes as Sam shuddered under Crowley’s touch.

“When Sam learned Azazel only wanted one of his children alive, he killed all of his siblings to save a brother and father he’d only seen in vision. By the end of Azazel’s little game, he was the last one standing, second-in-command to the demon who was determined to set Lucifer free.”

Crowley started tracing the cuts on Sam’s abdomen, “Meanwhile, John and Dean Winchester had spent twenty-two years running in circles when finally, signs of demonic activity started cropping up everywhere. They realized they had stumbled on something big but were still grasping at straws. Then suddenly, they captured a demon possessing a girl called Meg Masters. After some enhanced interrogation, Meg admitted she had been ordered by a yellow-eyed demon to track them because they had a history, because old yellow-eyes was the murderer they’d been hunting for so long.”

“Now,” Crowley jerked the chain and Sam—oh God—gagged and coughed, “Who ordered Meg to follow the Winchesters? Who told the waitress at the restaurant to mention to the Winchesters that a blonde girl had been watching them the entire time they ate? Who watched, just out of sight, as Dean and John tortured one of the demons who raised him, making sure they got the information they needed?” He smirked at Dean, “What do you think?”

“Alright,” Dean said, glancing down at—his brother?—you’ve had your Hercule Poirot moment, now let him go!”

Crowley just laughed and jerked Sam closer until the back of his head was pressed up against Crowley’s crotch. Sam closed his eyes as Crowley continued, “From there, John and Dean caught the trail, tracking, hunting, and torturing their way closer and closer to yellow eyes. But, they still hadn’t found a way to kill the bastard when, out of the blue, John got a call from an old mentor who told him that he owned a special gun, a gun that, this friend said, could kill anything.”

“Now,” Crowley asked, now scratching behind Sam’s ears. Sam kept his eyes clenched shut, “Who could have possibly forced this man to turn over one of the rarest objects in the world to the Winchesters, just when they needed it?”

Crowley smirked and continued, “So the day of the big show-down came. The demon tracked Dean and John down because he needed that gun to open a gate to hell. There was a struggle. Dean and Johnny were hopelessly outmatched. Azazel tossed John around like a rag doll, stabbed him in the chest and ran his knife down John’s leg while Dean looked helplessly on. But then, when all hope was lost, the Dean Winchester found the gun suddenly in his reach. Dean didn’t question where it came from, guessed one of Azazel’s lackies kicked it by accident. He shot Azazel in the heart and killed three of his followers before the rest smoked out.”

“Hmm . . .” Crowley mused, trailing a finger down Sam’s chest “I wonder where that gun could have possibly come from.” He shrugged, “Anyway, Dean called an ambulance which rushed John to the hospital and into surgery, but he lost too much blood, too fast. Nothing could be done.”

Crowley sighed dramatically, “A tragic end for the heroic hunter. Until, while John’s body cooled on the operating table, I got a call.” He reached around and tilted Sam’s head up far enough that he was laying on Crowley’s crotch and forced to meet his eyes, “You want to fill us in on what happened, Sammy?”

Sam—holy fucking shit, Sam—clenched his lips together, and it was only then Dean noticed that he was trembling and heaving in what looked a hell of a lot like blind panic. Crowley chuckled and released his grip. Sam stared fixedly at the ground, apparently oblivious to Dean’s desperate attempts to meet his eyes.

“Well, someone,” Crowley shook the chain again, “Gave me a call. Said he was willing to sell his soul in exchange for John’s life and the promise that Dean, John, their Impala, and any other home they may have are safe from all demonic intervention. As if that wasn’t enough, he wanted a guarantee that their souls would be granted passage to heaven.”

“It was by far the most complicated contract I’ve ever written,” Crowley said, “Whoever made the deal,” he trailed his fingers across Sam’s lips, “Should’ve been a lawyer, but in the end, my manager, the one who holds all the contracts I sign, decided to intervene personally.”

He grinned, “Lilith argued that she had little interested in a soul as tainted as the seller’s, particularly given the enormity of his demands, so they settled on an unusual bargain. The seller’s soul, to be turned over to Lilith at the time of his death, which we all assumed would occur long before a ten-year contract came due. And,” Crowley chuckled again, “Two years of the seller, as a living, breathing, somewhat human being, serving as Lilith’s personal slave.”

Sam blushed crimson, and Dean felt bile rush up his throat, “You son-of-a-bitch,” he growled.

“I was barely involved,” Crowley grinned, “It was all the seller’s idea, and his little deal is what’s landed us all right here.”

“Lilith got what she wanted,” Sam muttered, still vibrating under Crowley’s touch, “My soul was just a technicality.”

“So you assumed, and so I assumed until very recently, but Sam Winchester, you got it the wrong way around. Lilith desperately wanted your soul. The rest was just . . . fun.”

“That’s insane,” Sam hissed, “My soul already belonged to hell.”

“And that’s where you and I got it all wrong,” Crowley jerked Sam around so they were facing each other. Dean looked away from Sam’s ravaged back, forcing down another mouthful of bile.

“Shit,” Bobby muttered next to him.

“Listen to me, Sam Winchester,” Crowley said, all trace of humor gone, “You, somehow, despite everything you’ve experienced, everything you’ve done, are still a righteous man. Hell had no claim on your soul until you sold it to us!”

“You’re lying,” Sam said, meeting Crowley’s eyes, “You said it yourself. I’ve murdered, I’ve tortured, I’ve bought men’s souls. I’ve served the cause of hell.”

“All to save humanity!” Crowley spat. “All of it! And you know as well as I that you avoided torture and murder every chance you got. You bought only the souls of killers, rapists, and politicians, the souls of those who already damned themselves. Everything, everything you’ve done since you were little more than a blood-sucking vampire, you’ve done in the name of saving the world, in the name of saving your father and brother! And that is why, if you really want to save everything you’ve fought for, you must not die!”

“You’re nothing more than Lilith’s bitch!” Sam hissed, “You’re lying. She sent you here because she doesn’t want to me to set Lucifer free.”

“That’s exactly what she wants you to do you idiot!” Crowley violently shook Sam’s chain again, “She is just as devoted to Lucifer as Azazel, and she is more than willing to die! Do you really think that after two years of constant humiliation, slavery, and torture, that she doesn’t know every inch of your sanctimonious mind? Do you really think she didn’t know, just as Azazel knew, that you would do everything within your power to stop the apocalypse!”

“I won’t,” Sam met Crowley’s gaze with blazing eyes, “No matter what you do to me, I won’t kill her. I won’t set Lucifer free!”

“There are sixty-five seals before that, you fool. And Lilith can’t break any of them until the first one is broken, and you are the only one who can do that.”

Finally, Dean managed to find his voice, “What the hell does that mean?”

“Dean, he’s lying,” Sam said, shooting him half a glance before resuming his staring match with his Crowley.

“The first seal breaks when a righteous man breaks in hell!” Crowley roared, “Lilith knows this! Originally, John or Dean Winchester was supposed to sell his soul for the other, but then Sam came and threw himself at Lilith’s feet.”

Crowley lifted Sam by the collar until they were eye-to-eye, “Ruby betrayed you, Sam. She was working with Lilith all along.”

“Impossible,” Sam spat, “Lilith’s dogs have been following us the whole time. Alastair nearly cut her to shreds.”

“Everyone thought she was loyal to you, even I did, until recently, but she’s been working for Lilith all along. Her job was to convince you to kill yourself, and she did it masterfully.”

“Hold on,” Dean said, “Ruby’s the one who sold you out to Gordon, wasn’t she?”

“Yes,” Crowley agreed, “Which was exactly what Sam wanted. Ruby fed Gordon just enough information to ensure he would sell Sam to you, and you, Dean Winchester, were supposed to torture and kill him.”

For a moment, Dean couldn’t breathe, “Why, Sam?” he finally said, “Why would you make me do that!”

“Your house is protected, Dean,” Sam said calmly, “Not even Lilith could get anywhere near it. You would be able to do what needed to be done without interference, and it gave me a chance to warn you about Lilith.”

“But what you’re saying makes no sense,” Sam continued, addressing Crowley, “Supposing I was righteous enough to break the first seal, I would still need to be alive to kill Lilith, and my soul’s too human to be resurrected without a demon deal, and no one would do that.” He hesitated, “Not even now.”

“No demon could raise you,” Crowley corrected, “Angels are perfectly capable, and they are just as eager to start judgment day.”

“Hold on,” Dean demanded, “Angels! Are you kidding me?”

“Yes, angels,” Crowley said, “Soldiers of God who are just as fanatically determined to ensure the devil rises so that he and the archangel Michael can duel it out at Armageddon!”

“You’re lying,” Sam repeated, “You’ve been devoted to Lilith for centuries. Why would you betray her now?”

“Because I’m a demon, Sam Winchester,” Crowley’s eyes flicked red, “We’re lying, backstabbing bastards, and I’m the only lying, backstabbing bastard who actually listened in Sunday School!” He shook Sam again, and Dean snarled.

“Everyone assumes that Lucifer will destroy humanity and create paradise on Earth for demons,” Crowley said, “They call Lucifer our father. Lucifer was a whining toddler who hated humanity for their corruption, so what do you think his opinion is of us? Either Michael wins, and he wipes demons from creation, or Lucifer wins, and he still wipes us from creation.”

Crowley trailed his hand down Sam’s heaving chest, “So here’s how it’s going to go, darling. You are not going to die. You are going to kill Lilith, now, before you go to hell, before you can break the first seal. If Lilith dies before she’s supposed to, the apocalypse short-circuits, we all go back to our day jobs. Are we clear?”

“You’re lying,” Sam growled.

“I knew you’d say that,” Crowley said and dropped Sam to the ground. He landed with yelp, closing his eyes and hissing in pain.

“You son-of-a-bitch!” Dean strained against his invisible bonds.

“Are you really going to say that to me?” Crowley said, “I’m not the one who nearly tortured him to death, this time.”

“That was a wonderful show,” Bobby said. Dean startled, having honestly forgotten he was there, “And you’ve understandably got Dean buying into your story hook, line, and sinker, but I’m with Sam, if that is Sam. You’re full of shit.”

“I understand you hesitation,” Crowley said, using the chain to pull Sam back to his knees, “Which is why I’m giving you twenty-four hours to choose to believe me. I’m going to convince Sammy here, and I’ll leave you two to decide.”

“You mean you’re going to torture him until he gives into anything you say!” Dean snarled.

“Have you been listening?” Crowley said, “Your brother’s been force fed this garbage about Lucifer since he could walk, has had it literally beaten into his skin. Then he sold his soul, spent two years bitching for Lilith, and turned himself over to you to be tortured and killed to save this godforsaken hunk of rock, and you think anything I can do in twenty-four hours will change his mind?” He sniffed, “I’d be flattered if you weren’t so idiotic.”

“He’s right, Dean,” Sam wheezed, and Dean was forcefully reminded of the ribs he cracked less than twelve hours ago, “Whatever . . . I say . . . it will . . . be me . . .”

“It’s settled then,” Crowley said, “I’ll return with Sam in twenty-four hours, at which point, he’ll be ready to kill Lilith. Whether you help him or not will be entirely up to you.”

With a final smirk, Crowley—and Sam—disappeared.

Chapter Text

Part III

Simon Peter

(18)And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

Matthew 18

II

(5)While [Christ] yet spake, behold, a bright cloud overshadowed them: and behold a voice out of the cloud, which said, This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased; hear ye him. Matthew 17

“Fuck!” Dean swore, leaping to his feet, “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

“Dean, get a hold of yourself,” Bobby said.

“No I’m not going to fucking get a hold of myself!” Dean roared, “Sam’s been alive this entire time! And I . . . I . . .” he couldn’t stop the tears welling in his eyes, “I tortured him Bobby . . . the things I did . . .” He turned away, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Now you wait a minute here, boy,” Bobby said, “You’re doing exactly what Crowley wants. You freaking out and losing your head. We don’t even know for sure that’s Sam.”

“It is,” Dean said, whirling around to face him, “It is. All that crap Crowley said about yellow-eyes, about finding Meg, and the gun, and Dad’s goddamned resurrection on the operating table. There ain’t no other explanation!”

“There’s the explanation you had two hours ago, that it all just happened. And Dean, you’re right, maybe that is your brother, and maybe he managed not to go completely dark side, but maybe he didn’t.”

“What are you saying Bobby!” Dean shouted.

“I’m saying that there’s a hell of a lot we don’t know,” Bobby said steadily, “For all we know one, or both of them, is yanking our chains. And we need to be prepared for whatever happens. You hear me?”

Dean took a breath, “I hear you Bobby. You’re right. I’m just . . . freaking out.”

“Understandably so,” Bobby said dryly, “Now, I haven’t pissed in ten hours and nature’s callin’. So I’m gonna hit the can. You call your Daddy and tell him . . . whatever you’re gonna tell him.”

“Right,” Dean said, running a hand through his hair, “Right.”

John listened in silence as Dean stumbled through the events of the past twelve hours.

“Well, Dad?” he said finally, “What do you think?”

“I think you and Singer are a pair of fucking idiots,” he growled, “You aren’t seriously considering the shit these two are feeding you, right?”

“You didn’t see him, Dad. It all makes . . .”

“If you say it all makes sense so help me Dean Winchester,” Dad interrupted, “I thought I trained you better than this, boy!”

“You taught me to consider every scenario!”

“I taught you to never trust demons, and I sure as hell taught you not to trust the demonic Messiah!”

“You don’t think it’s possible? You don’t think it’s possible that just maybe . . .”

“That just maybe you were holding a doll and not the corpse of my child that night,” John sneered, “That maybe my kid was kidnapped my demons but happened to be the only one that didn’t go dark side, but still drinks demon blood and has black eyes and freaky powers, of course. That someone followed us as we hunted yellow eyes, and neither of us noticed. That something that never met us traded its soul and two years of slavery to save our hides! And that, suddenly, this thing can’t die. Instead, we need to help it win the war it claimed to be fighting when this shit storm first started! Well fuck, Dean, I must be crazy for being a little suspicious!”

“You’re not even willing to consider . . .”

“No. Dean,” John said, “I’m sorry I left you alone with that thing. You got attached. It’s not your fault. These things are masters of manipulation, but you need to wake up and rejoin reality! Your brother’s dead! And that thing is playing you for a fucking fool, and it could cost the whole goddamned world!”

“And what if you’re wrong!” Dean demanded, “What if we do it your way, kill the thing, and it starts the Apocalypse? What then?”

“If you’re really so worried about that,” John said, “Then we keep it locked up, just like before. It can’t do anything if it can’t go anywhere.”

Dean bit his tongue, slamming his fist against the wall, “I’m not saying it’s Sam,” he said finally, “I’m not saying that it’s human, or that it’s good. I’m just saying we need to consider this.”

“Fine,” John said after a few seconds, “I’m on my way. Any idea how you’re going to vet this thing’s story? We can’t exactly torture any demons for info, because apparently no one else knows the truth about what’s supposedly going on here!”

“Give me the phone,” Bobby said from behind him. Dean jumped in surprise, but obeyed.

“John,” he said gruffly, “Yea, I know. Crowley did a good job of getting Dean’s hopes up.” He listened for a little while, “No, of course I’m not taking this all at face value, but there are parts of this demon’s story that are pretty compelling . . . Yes I understand the stakes . . . I was thinking of calling in Missouri. . . yes Missouri!. . . she was right there after the fire you idjit! . . .  Of course! I’m not half-assing this sorta thing! . . . Alright. We’ll see you in a few hours . . . Oh, and I’m fine, by the way, thanks for asking.”

He slammed the phone into the receiver, “You two hot-heads are gonna get the whole world killed,” he growled.

“So he’s coming up?”

“’Course he is,” Bobby replied, “In the meantime, I need you to head to Lawrence. Did your Daddy ever introduce you to a woman named . . .”

“Missouri, yea,” Dean said, “We worked with her when a poltergeist infested our old place, she’s . . . perceptive.”

“More than that,” Bobby said, “I’ve never met any psychic half as good at reading people in my life. If anyone can see what’s going on in that thing’s head, it’s her.”

It was only when Dean pulled up to Missouri’s driveway sometime around four in the morning that he realized the psychic was probably not even awake. He considered the house for a couple minutes, weighing his options. True, there was another fifteen hours or so before Crowley brought Sam—but maybe’s not Sam—back, and it was only a six hour drive to Sioux Falls. On the other hand, the idea of sitting here just waiting . . . at least at Bobby’s he could pretend to do something.

Fortunately, Missouri herself resolved the debate by emerging from her house, clutching a purple bathrobe around her.

Dean sprung out of the car, and ran to meet her on the sidewalk, “Missouri, I’m sorry. . .”

“Dean Winchester,” she said, grabbing his hand, “What’s wrong, honey?”

“I . . .” he could not begin to find the right words.

“Don’t worry,” she said, patting his hand, “I’ll come. Just let me put some clothes on.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester, over and over in your mind,” she said, “That’s what woke me up. You think you might have found your brother, but you’re afraid he’s actually something evil. You just can’t figure out which.”

“So you’ll come?” his words sounded pathetically weak.

“I already said I would,” Missouri smiled, “You wait out in the car, I won’t be ten minutes.”

Dad’s car was already in Bobby’s driveway when Dean and Missouri pulled up. Dean switched off the engine and stared motionlessly at the house without really seeing it.

“It’ll be okay, Dean,” Missouri said, patting his leg, “We’ll get this sorted out.”

“I honestly don’t know which is worse,” Dean said quietly, “Him still dead or gone dark or . . .”

“Or him having the horrific life it sounds like he’s had,” Missouri completed, “I understand, Dean, and in a few hours, we’ll know for sure, no matter what the answer is.”

“Right,” Dean took a deep breath and got out of the car, walking slowly up to the house while Missouri followed.

Bobby met them at the door, “Hey boy,” he said, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “How you holding up?”

“Alright,” Dean forced a smile, “You?”

“Fine,” Bobby nodded.

“Why you men always insist on lying to each other, I will never understand,” Missouri said, huffing up the stairs. “Both of you are scared to death, and you have every right to be.”

“I take it you filled her in,” Bobby said, extending a hand, “Good to see you again, Missouri.”

“You too, Bobby,” she said with a smile, “Now where’s John?”

“Took longer than I thought you would,” John said by way of greeting as Bobby led them into the kitchen.

“I had Dean pull over to wash the blood out of the back of the car,” Missouri said coolly, “And you watch your tone, John Winchester.”

“How sure do you think you’ll be able to be?” he said, as if she had not spoken, “When you see it?”

“Well not a hundred percent, of course,” she said, “But if he’s even somewhat human, I should be able to get a read on his mind.”

 “Well, we’re grateful for whatever you can do,” Bobby said.

“Whatever it is . . .  doesn’t mean it doesn’t deserve a knife through its heart,” John growled, taking a gulp of whiskey.

“John Winchester!” Missouri yelled, “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, playing God like that, but neither you nor I have ever spoken to this boy, so neither of us has any right to decide what it is!”

“I’m not having this conversation, Missouri.”

“Very well,” Missouri snapped, “Then in the meantime, Dean, you go up and go to sleep.”

“I can’t . . .”

“I’ll give you some herbs,” she said, “Help you sleep like a baby.” When Dean hesitated, she said, “You need to be ready for what happens Dean, and you’ll need more than coffee and whiskey running through your veins.”

Dean shot a glance at Bobby, who nodded, “You can use the spare bedroom.”

“Head up there, Dean,” she said, “I’ll follow in a few minutes.”

Dean almost said no, but the alternative was sitting and watching John Winchester glare knives at him. He nodded.

True to her word, Missouri was up fifteen minutes later holding a steaming cup of something that didn’t smell totally like vomit as Dean lay on the hard, musty bed in Bobby’s spare room.

“Don’t worry,” she said as she set the cup on the table next to him, “I won’t tell anyone you willingly drank tea.”

Dean smiled, “Willingly’s a strong word. I know better than to cross you.”

“That’s right dear,” she smiled, “This’ll guarantee you a good six hours rest, plenty of time to get ready for when that demon comes.”

“Thanks,” he said, sitting up and picking up the cup. Missouri just smiled and left.

For a moment, Dean considered just not drinking the stuff, but Missouri had been right when she said he needed to be ready for whatever came next, and he hadn’t gotten any real kind of rest in a hell of a long time. He drained the tea in one gulp, slid down on top of the covers and stared back up at the ceiling.

The last image in his mind before sleep claimed him was Crowley, sitting in Bobby’s chair with Sa–the man—pressed against his crotch, one hand clenched around the chain, the other stroking the man’s face possessively while the man clenched his teeth and closed his eyes and, Dean suddenly realized, tried so, so hard not to scream.

III

(66) From that time many of his disciples went back, and walked no more with him. (67) Then said Jesus unto the twelve, Will ye also go away? (68) Then Simon Peter answered him, Lord, to whom shall we go? thou hast the words of eternal life.

John 6

True to Missouri’s word, Dean awoke almost exactly six hours later. He got up, vaguely realized he didn’t have new clothes to change into, decided he didn’t care, and stumbled down the stairs.

Bobby and John were sitting at the table, glowering at each other over plates of eggs and coffee after an argument that Dean belatedly realized Missouri deliberately helped him avoid.

“Food’s on the stove,” Bobby said, and Dean obediently wandered to the stove, dishing himself a plate of cold eggs and pouring himself a cup of coffee. Glancing across the room, he saw Missouri seated on Bobby’s couch, reading a book and felt a sudden, inexplicable rush of gratitude towards her.

“I got you some clothes,” she said, “They’re in the bathroom. You’ve still got blood on yours.”

Dean glanced down at his shirt and realized that it was true: splotches of blood from where he had carried Sam out of the basement did blot his shirt and pants. How had he not noticed?

“There’s no time for that, dear,” Missouri said, “Just eat your breakfast and get dressed.”

“So,” John said, when Dean returned to the kitchen ten minutes later dressed in jeans, a t-shirt, and a flannel Missouri had apparently picked up from the local Walmart, “How exactly is this going to go down?”

“Well, from what I understand,” Bobby said, “Crowley’s gonna arrive. Sa—whoever it is, is supposedly gonna say that Crowley’s story is legit and, I guess, we say if we agree to help him.”

“And if we don’t, I’m assuming Crowley, and that thing, disappear for good,” John completed.

“I would guess,” Dean said.

“Well . . . fuck,” John glanced at Missouri, “How close do you need to get?”

“Well, closer is better, obviously,” she said, “Especially if I can touch him, but I should be able to get general auras almost immediately.”

“Alright,” John nodded, “Then let’s do . . .”

“My thoughts exactly,” Crowley’s voice echoed across the room. Dean whirled around, and sure enough, Crowley was standing in the middle of the living room, hand clenched around the chain leading to Sam’s—or not Sam’s—collar.

He, whoever he was, was kneeling, head bent low and still naked, at Crowley’s feet. Dean moved slowly from the kitchen to the center of the room and vaguely noticed Missouri doing the same.

“My, my, Sammy-boy,” Crowley said, patting the man’s head like a dog, “I do believe we are surrounded. Hello gentlemen, and lady,” he tilted his head in Missouri’s direction, “I’ve met Bobby and Dean-o yesterday, and I know Johnny boy by association, but I have yet to make your acquaintance.”

“Missouri Mosley,” she said evenly, “Psychic.”

“A psychic!” Crowley laughed, turning back to the three men gathered in the kitchen, “You boys have an apocalyptic decision on your hands, and you decide to get your palms read!”

“You just wanted our decision, right?” Bobby said, “What do you care how we make it?”

“Fair enough,” Crowley agreed, “And speaking off, Sammy,” he jerked the chain and forced the man’s head up, “Tell the nice people here what you just told me.”

Sam raised his head, and Dean finally noticed the blood running down his collarbone and onto his chest.

“You said you weren’t going to torture him!” he said furiously.

“No, I said torture wouldn’t convince him to do or say a single thing he didn’t want,” Crowley said, “Besides, this,” he ran a finger through the blood pooling below Sam’s collarbone, “Doesn’t even count as torture. And, I might add, you’re one to talk.”

“Enough of the chit-chat,” John growled, “Let’s get on with this.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Crowley jerked the chain again, “What do you want to say, Sammy?”

“He’s right,” Sam—please God let it be Sam—said in that same, awful rasp, “Lilith wants to kill me to break the first seal then bring me back, so I can break the final seal.”

“You’re sure, Sam?” Dean said, taking another step closer.

“Dean,” John warned.

“I’m sure,” Sam—fuck, this must be Sam-- breathed.

“Alright,” Bobby said, “Crowley and . . . him have shared their pieces, mind if Missouri takes a look?”

“No problem,” Crowley smiled, “Though let’s get on with it. I don’t have time to waste.”

Missouri drew near and knelt in front of the man chained at Crowley’s feet. Dean watched as she looked him up and down, taking in the web of welts and cuts crisscrossing his body. None of them had healed while Sam was with Crowley.

She glanced at Dean, “You did this?”

Dean gulped and nodded.

“I see,” she turned her attention back to the man at Crowley’s feet, “Now child,” she said gently, “I know you’re hurting, and I know you’re scared, but I need you to open yourself up to me, okay? I need to get a good look at your soul. I want to help you. I just need to know I can.”

The man took a couple of deep, shuddering breaths and nodded.

“Move it along,” Crowley muttered.

Missouri ignored him, “Close your eyes.”

S--he obeyed, and Missouri did the same, cupping her hands around his face and pressing her forehead against his.

“Missouri,” Dean breathed, stepping close enough that he was in touching distance of the trio in the center of the room.

“Ah ah,” Crowley raised a warning finger, “Stay back.”

“Oh Sam,” a tear fell down Missouri’s cheek, “Oh Sam, you poor child, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry!”

“Sam!” Dean yelled. He felt Bobby and John tense behind him.

“Back!” Crowley warned him, “You don’t touch him until I know I have your cooperation.”

“Yes Dean,” Missouri said, and tears were falling down her cheeks in earnest now, “It’s Sam. It’s Sam. He’s not quite human, technically, and there is darkness and pain and fear in here, but his soul is so pure.” She opened her eyes and pulled away, “Dean. This is your brother.”

“You sure?” Bobby asked.

“Almost certainly,” Missouri said, getting slowly to her feet.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Dean crossed his arms and looked at the man—Sam, his brother.

Holy fucking shit this was his brother.

His brother was trembling, naked, bald, bleeding, chained, panting and wheezing, covered in old scars and new wounds. This . . . this was his brother.

Dean would not let him suffer like this anymore.

“Give him back,” he said, looking up at Crowley.

“With pleasure,” Crowley said, “If you agree to help do whatever it takes to kill Lilith.”

“Yes. Yes, fine you bastard!” Dean growled, “Yes! Now let him go!”

“Happily,” Crowley said, holding out the chain to Dean who took it then stared down at it stupidly, as he did not know what it was.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Crowley said, “I’m sure you’re about to have a tearful reunion. In the meantime, my long absence will soon be noticed.”

“You’re not gonna do anything?” Bobby said, “Just going to leave this to us to figure out on our own?”

“What is there to figure out? The very foundations of hell’s religion depend on the fact that Sam is powerful enough to kill Lilith. Heal him up, don’t let anything kill him, and when the moment is right, I’ll let you know where to find Lilith. Then fill him with demon blood, set him on her and, poof,” he clapped his hands, “Apocalypse averted, we all go home in time for supper.”

“What if you’re lying?” Bobby crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes.

 “I think we’ve got it,” Missouri snapped, “Now get out of here!”

“Gladly,” Crowley said, and snapped his fingers.

The demon disappeared, and for several, long seconds, the room was silent except for the faint, wheezy sounds of Sam’s breathing.

“Holy shit!” Dean suddenly said, falling to his knees in front of his brother and ghosting his hands over his skin, “Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m sorry Sam. I’m so fucking sorry. Shit!” he dug in his pockets and pulled out his key ring. We’re gonna get you healed up, okay? We’re gonna get some clothes on you, and we’re gonna take these goddamned chains off.”

“No!” John limped over, eyes blazing as he stared at Dean sparing half a glance for Sam, “We are not letting this thing go free with its powers fully charged!”

“Are you fucking kidding!” Dean demanded, “This is Sam! This is your son!”

“This is not my son!” John roared, “I did not give birth to a demonic freak!”

The room fell still. Dean glanced at Sam; his head and shoulders were hunched so low, Dean could not see his eyes.

“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” John hissed, “But I remember when you brought this thing home barely a week ago, and you told me this was one of the biggest players in hell. I remember the way it looked at us, the way it talked, the way it laughed. There was nothing human about it.”

“Well I remember doing this,” Dean gestured at the wounds littering Sam’s body, “I remember torturing him until he was coated in blood and begging to die. But, that’s right, you don’t because you weren’t man enough to stay and watch it happen!”

“Why you . . .” John snarled.

“Now settle down, both of you!” Bobby put a hand on John’s shoulder and shot Dean a warning glare, “This isn’t the time for some family showdown like this is a fucking soap opera!”

For several seconds, Dean just glared at his father, heart pounding in rage, and Dad returned the gaze in kind until finally the clinking of Sam’s chains as he shifted on the floor distracted them both.

“Right,” John said, “You’re right Bobby. I’m sorry.”

“Now,” Bobby said, “Missouri, how confident are you that this is Sam?”

“Very,” Missouri said, “Maybe not the Sam you remember, John, but this is your son.”

John’s face darkened, but he did not answer.

“But you aren’t absolutely sure?” Bobby asked.

“No,” Missouri sighed, “I can never be absolutely sure.”

“Alright,” Bobby said, “Now Dean, do I remember correctly that this thing—that Sam can force us to do things just by suggesting them.”

“I can,” Sam said without lifting his head.

“Okay,” Bobby said slowly, “Then I have to admit, I don’t know how comfortable with having someone that powerful at full charge, no matter how good his intentions are. . . Just until we know more,” Bobby said, staring at Dean.

“These fucking things burn him, Bobby!” Dean said, pointing at Sam’s blistered wrists.

“We’ll put some cream on and bandage them, that way they don’t touch his skin,” Bobby said.

“And we keep it in the panic room,” John folded his arms.

“How exactly is he supposed to go fucking anywhere!” Dean demanded.

“It would be for his own protection,” Bobby said, “You heard Crowley. There’s a lot of demons gunning for him . . . on all sides, apparently. The panic room will hide him, keep him safe.”

Dean took a deep breathe, ready to argue again when Sam said quietly, “It’s okay, Dean.”

“No Sam! It’s not!”

“It is,” Sam said, “They’re right, I’m dangerous, and things are coming for me. What they’re suggesting is better for everyone.”

“Well that settles it,” Bobby said, “Dean, how about you help Sam downstairs. I’ll be down in a minute with some medical supplies.

“I think it’s time for me to go,” Missouri said, “I’ve done all the good I’ve can, and you all need some privacy to sort things out.” She turned, “John? You mind driving me back?”

John glared at Dean, “Only if these idiots promise not to do anything until I get back.”

“We won’t be able to do anything until Sam’s strong enough to lift his head,” Bobby said drily, “Don’t worry John.”

“Fine,” John said, “Missouri, I’ll be in the car,” and with that, he limped out of the room.

“I’m sorry,” Missouri said, turning to Sam and Dean, “He means well, he’s just scared. He doesn’t know what to do with what he’s heard.”

“Will he ever . . .” Dean began.

Missouri shook her head, “I just read people, Dean,” she said, “I don’t know the future.”

“Well, thank you for coming,” Bobby said, extending a hand.

“Of course,” Missouri said, shaking it, “You’ll look after these boys, won’t you?”

“Always have,” Bobby said with a smile.

“Good,” she knelt beside Dean and Sam, “You take care of Sam now, you hear?” she said, wrapping her arms around Dean, “He needs his big brother.”

“’course,” Dean returned the embrace awkwardly, “I’ll keep him safe.”

“I know you will,” she said as she pulled away and turned to Sam. She took his hands, “You’ll be okay, Sam. You’ve been taking care of these idiots for a long time, so now, give them a chance to help you.”

Sam did not answer, but Missouri did not seem to expect him to. Instead, she raised a hand and let Bobby help her to her feet. With a slight smile, she turned and followed John out the door.

“Alright,” Dean said, turning back to Sam (Oh God. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam.) “We can at least take this off,” he unhooked the chain from Sam’s collar and letting it fall to the floor. “Now, let’s get you up.” He reached for his brother’s arm, but Sam flinched, seemingly despite himself.

Shit. Of course Sam didn’t want his help. Dean was the one who fucking did this to him.

“Do you want Bobby to help you?” Dean asked, pulling away, “That’s totally fine, dude.”

Sam shot Bobby half a glance, seemingly weighing his options then shook his head, almost imperceptibly.

“Alright,” Dean could not hold back a sigh of relief, “Then let’s get you down stairs and fix you up.”

He pulled Sam to his feet, using as little pressure as possible, which did not stop Sam’s gasp of pain. He swayed a little, forcefully reminding Dean of the times he whipped the bottom of Sam’s feet, but eventually found his balance.

Dean realized as he placed a supporting arm around Sam’s back—trying to avoid the worst of the beating—that he had forgotten how tall his brother was. Even hunched over, Sam easily had a couple inches on him.

“Okay,” Dean said, “Let’s go. Nice and easy.”

It took fifteen minutes to guide Sam downstairs down the stairs and into Bobby’s panic room, stopping every couple of feet so Sam could catch his breath.

“You need me to carry you?” Dean had offered eyed Sam, already sweating from exertion, eyed the wooden staircase wearily.

Sam shook his head slightly, and they moved on.

“Here we go,” Dean said, opening the panic room door, “Home sweet home.”

He regretted the words almost immediately as Sam stumbled over the entrance, flinching as he crossed the devil’s traps. They crossed to the cot in the center of the room and Sam sank down on it with a sigh.

“I’ll be right back, if that’s okay,” Dean said, “Gonna help Bobby bring down some supplies. I can bring down a bucket of water, if you want, so you can take a sponge bath. No holy water, I promise.”

Sam nodded without looking at him.

“Great, great,” Dean backed out of the room, “I’ll be right back.”

“Better close the door,” Sam rasped.

Biting back a retort, Dean nodded and closed the door behind him.

He did not lock it.

IV

 (12) And it came to pass, when he was in a certain city, behold a man full of leprosy: who seeing Jesus fell on his face, and besought him, saying, Lord, if thou wilt, thou canst make me clean. (13) And he put forth his hand, and touched him, saying, I will: be thou clean. And immediately the leprosy departed from him.

Luke 5

“How’s he doin’” Bobby said as Dean filled up a five gallon bucket with water from the kitchen sink.

“Don’t know,” Dean said, “Not sayin’ much.”

“Guess that makes sense,” Bobby said, “He’s dropped the tough guy act.”

“You really think he isn’t Sam?” Dean said as he grabbed a washcloth and picked up the bucket.

“I’m not sure he’s sure he’s really Sam,” Bobby said, also picking up an armful of supplies, “Boy’s been kicked to hell and back, literally, and had his eggs scrambled by half a dozen different bad guys. I’m not sure some caution isn’t necessary.”

“He also can’t walk five feet by himself,” Dean muttered as he followed Bobby to the stairs.

“Look,” Bobby sighed, “You think you just got your brother back . . .”

“I did . . .”

“And you feel guilty as hell for hurtin’ him as bad as you did,” Bobby continued as they went down the stairs, “I get it. My insides are squirming too, seein’ as I’m the one who egged you on more than once, but that’s no reason not to be smart, even Sam sees that. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

Bobby opened the panic room door and Sam looked up briefly from his careful inspection of the floor before hanging his head again. “Hey there, kid,” Bobby said, voice gentler than Dean had heard in a long time. “Got some stuff here to help get you healed up.” He set a couple old towels on the cot around Sam, “Now first, Dean’s gonna take your collar off, just for a little while, so we can see to those wounds on your neck.”

Sam hesitated for a second, but nodded.

“Great,” Dean said, finding the correct key and unlocking the padlock holding the collar. He tried hard not to gag at the sight of Sam’s red, blistered neck. “Let’s wash this, put some burn cream on, and bandage it up.”

He dipped the rag in the bucket and rubbed it gently around the top of Sam’s neck, up to the top of the burn. Sam shuddered a little as some of the water dripped onto one of the blisters.

“You alright?” Dean asked, “Want me to stop?”

Sam shook his head slightly, “Feels good.”

“Alright then,” Dean said, dipping the rag back in the water but not wringing out as much this time, dripping the water over the worst of the burn. Sam shuddered again and closed his eyes.

“Okay,” Dean said, setting the rag down and picking up a large tube of burn cream. I’m gonna put some cream on your neck now,” he squeezed a large glob into his left hand, “It’s gonna sting like a mother, but it should help.”

Sam gave another small nod, which now seemed to be his preferred form of communication, and Dean began, starting in the back of Sam’s neck and working around to the front. Sam hissed a few times but said nothing. Dean kept moving steadily. It would only make it worse to stop and start again.

The worst blisters were at the front of Sam’s neck, and Dean gulped at a vivid image of the collar nearly strangling Sam as he ran for hours beneath Dean’s whip. He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. How did someone apologize for that?

“Looks good,” Bobby said, “You boys need anything else before I leave you to it?”

“Maybe another bucket of water?” Dean said. Just in case this one gets too bloody.

“’Course,” Bobby said. Dean didn’t bother to watch him leave as he wrapped layers of gauze around Sam’s neck and secured it with medical tape.

“The collar,” Sam said as Dean’s hand grabbed the rag again to start cleaning the new wounds on Sam’s collarbone.

“We can leave it off for a while,” Dean said, “Take a break with it, you know. I won’t tell.”

Sam turned his head, staring intently at tube of burn cream, and for a second, Dean thought Sam might be considering the idea.

Instead, the burn cream flew across the room.

“Put it on, Dean,” Sam said, panting a little at the mental exertion.

Dean hesitated, but obeyed, “I don’t understand,” he said as he locked the collar in place, “Why are you working so damn hard to keep yourself locked up?”

“Because you don’t understand,” Sam said, looking Dean full in the eyes for the first time since their mad flight out of Little Missouri. “What I am. Your father is right. I’m more dangerous, more powerful than you can imagine.” He took a deep breath, and his eyes flicked black, “I am not your brother.”

“You’ve sure gotten kicked around a lot for being as powerful as you claim.”

“And all of it,” Sam’s black eyes still glinted at him, “Was of my own choosing.”

“Well,” Dean swallowed and picked up the rag again, “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Sam snorted and returned his gaze to the ground, “You’re probably right.”

“That was a nice show,” Bobby said from the doorway, “And I have to say, Dean, I’m with Sam on this one. If he isn’t keen on trusting himself, I’m not sure about trusting him either.”

Dean scowled at Bobby, who shrugged and trudged back up the stairs. Then Dean turned his scowl towards Sam, “You knew he was watching.”

Sam shrugged, so Dean just dipped his rag in the water and started dabbing the blood from Crowley’s fresh cuts along Sam’s collarbone.

They fell into silence. Most of the cuts had stopped bleeding, so Dean carefully washed away the dried blood while Sam sat stoically, aside from the occasional grimace when Dean pressed to hard. Neither spoke, except when Dean thanked Bobby after he brought down an extra bucket.

“The fuck was he doing?” Dean said once he’d cleared most of the blood away. Crowley had made a series of light cuts into Sam’s skin, but Dean could not make out the pattern.

“Just giving me a reminder,” Sam said stiffly.

“Of what, some secret demon code?” Dean was only half-kidding.

“Hardly,” Sam snorted.

Dean looked a bit closer until finally, his stomach clenched as he made out the words, written in Kindergarten teacher’s handwriting down both sides of Sam’s collarbone.

LILITH’S BITCH

“That fucking son-of-a . . . that bastard.”

“S’nothing I didn’t already know,” Sam shrugged, “Crowley was trying to give me more . . . incentive to ice her. Like I need any.”

“Sam . . .” Dean sputtered, “You’re not . . .”

“Yes, I am,” Sam said coolly, “Just because it makes you feel icky inside doesn’t change the fact that she fucking owns my soul, and owned a lot more than that for a long time.”

There was nothing near a response to that, so Dean cleared his throat and poured some rubbing alcohol on a cotton swab, “They need to be disinfected and bandaged.”

“You’re going to run out of gauze soon.”

Dean did not have a response to that either.

After bandaging “Crowley’s reminder,” Dean turned his attention to Sam’s wrists, removing one shackle at a time, bandaging, and then shackling him again without comment.

“I forgot to ask,” Dean said as he worked, “Bobby brought some clothes down. Pretty sure Missouri bought them, just in case you stuck around. I know it might be a little uncomfortable, but did you want to wear anything?”

“Why?” Sam raised his eyebrows, “You’re plenty familiar with everything I’ve got, right?”

Dean swallowed, “Right, well seeing as I wasn’t asking about my comfort, but yours, what do you think?

Sam surveyed the pile of clothes set neatly at the bottom of the bed. “Are those pajama bottoms?”

“Looks like,” Dean grabbed a pair of green and grey plaid cotton pants from the middle of the pile and held them up for Sam to see, “There isn’t even an elastic waistband. Should be alright, don’t you think?”

Sam nodded, so Dean set the pajama pants to the side, “Anything else? Looks like she’s got some briefs that don’t have any elastic either.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Sam shook his head, “Not yet.”

“No problem,” Dean said, “Well let’s get your legs clean so we can get these on, then will finish up with your back and chest.”

Finish up, he thought, right.

Cleaning and bandaging Sam’s legs went relatively quickly. Dean convinced Sam to stick each foot in the bucket of water they hadn’t used yet after Dean unshackled it. Sam closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure at the coolness as Dean washed and disinfected the wounds on Sam’s legs up past his knee. He did not bandage anything besides Sam’s ankles and feet, though. Like Sam said, there simply wasn’t enough gauze for everything.

“Do you want me to clean, you know . . .” Dean nodded at Sam’s groin.

For a moment, Sam did not answer, “Yes,” he said finally, “It’s just skin.”

“Okay,” Dean helped pull Sam unsteadily to his feet and cleaned the blood, sweat, and urine from Sam’s groin and ass as quickly as he dared without putting Sam into too much agony and risking reopening the wounds. Once he was done, he set the washcloth back in the bucket and grabbed the pajama pants.

“Need any help?”

Sam nodded again, so Dean held open the pajamas as Sam put his leg in one pant hole, and then the other, pulling the pants up until Sam could reach them easily and finish pulling them up himself. Once the pants were on, he smiled, looking Sam up and down.

“There,” he said, “That’s better.” The pants at least made Sam look a little more like the million other men who shopped at Walmart, a little more human.

Dean moved onto Sam’s arms after that, bandaging his wrists then cleaning and disinfecting the rest of the cuts.

“Alright,” he said finally, looking Sam’s chest up and down, “Time to move onto the big stuff.”

It was hard to know where to begin, and Dean swallowed as he eyed the tapestry of cuts, welts, and bruises that tore through his brother’s back and chest. Finally, he started at the base of Sam’s ribcage, where the cuts were the deepest on his chest, and worked his way out, cleaning, stitching, sterilizing and bandaging as quickly as he could as Sam hissed and occasionally held his breath against the pain.

His back was even worse. No more than a few, small patches of skin were free of purple bruises, raised welts or deep, ragged cuts. Sam hissed in pain the entire time Dean worked, even whimpering a time or two when Dean cleaned cuts nearly an inch deep. He wondered how well healing via demon blood worked, if Sam would regain his full range of motion. Neither of them, apparently, had intended for Sam to survive his torture. Who the fuck knew what recovery would look like?

“Done,” he said finally, using medical tape to cover the last piece of gauze.

“I feel like a mummy,” Sam said drily.

“True,” Dean chuckled, “Do you . . . I mean, is there anything . . .”

“I’d like to sleep,” Sam said.

“Right,” Dean jumped up, hastily shoving the extra clothes and medical off the bed, “Right, of course. I guess you haven’t since . . . right. He glanced at the bare cot, “You want a blanket or pillow or . . .”

“Teddy bear? No, I’m good.”

“Right,” Dean said stupidly, “Well, I’ll just . . . I’ll just go then.” He picked up the two water buckets. The liquid in both was sickly pink.

“Lock the door this time,” Sam said, lying on his side on the cot.

“Cause you’re itching so much to escape,” Dean grumbled, but obeyed.

Chapter Text

Part III

Simon Peter

And behold I say unto thee that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.

Matthew 18

V

(31) And the Lord said, Simon, Simon, behold, Satan hath desired to have you, that he may sift you as wheat: (32) But I have prayed for thee, that thy faith fail not: and when thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren.

 (33) And he said unto him, Lord, I am ready to go with thee, both into prison, and to death.

 (34) And he said, I tell thee, Peter, the cock shall not crow this day, before that thou shalt thrice deny that thou knowest me.

Luke 22

“Well?” Dad demanded, barging through the door and staring down at Dean and Bobby as they sat around the table with chili and beer.

“Well what?” Dean asked.

“Well, did anything happen since I was gone?”

“I cleaned him up, bandaged him up, and then let him get some rest,” Dean said, “Which took a hell of a long time. Oh, and by the way,” he swiveled so he was meeting his father’s eyes directly, “He fucking insisted I keep him chained, even made sure I locked him in the panic room.”

“Just like I thought,” John sniffed.

“Excuse me?” Dean demanded.

“I said, just like I fucking thought,” John repeated, “Of course it’s letting us tie it down now. It’s lulling us into a false sense of security before . . .”

“Before he kills Lilith and lets Lucifer out,” Dean finished coldly, “That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“Of course that’s what I’m saying! We already know, no matter the endgame, it’s totally fine letting himself get captured and tortured, so wearing some handcuffs while you pamper it is like a fucking five star hotel!”

“He’s chained on a cot in a basement! That’s hardly . . .”

“Alright you two,” Bobby interrupted as Dad opened his mouth furiously, “Enough with the cat fight! Now John,” he directed his attention to the elder Winchester, “Is there any part of this story you believe?”

Dad hesitated, “I believe that yellow-eyes might have poisoned my son and turned him into that . . . thing. But that is not my son. It is not even human.”

“But Missouri . . .” Dean began.

“Missouri says she can’t know for sure!” Dad yelled, “You know this Dean. You’re letting your emotions get the better of you, and it could destroy the world!”

“Really, Dad,” Dean snarled, “Is it really just me whose emotions are getting in the way?”

“Now, calm down you two!” Bobby yelled, “Do I have to say it again?”

Dean glared at his father, chest heaving with fury, and was met with an equally furious stare.

“No,” John said finally, “No, Bobby. You don’t.”

“Good,” Bobby said, “Now as for me. I’m leanin’ more towards Dean on this one. I think Missouri’s word counts for somethin’,” he raised his voice a little as Dad opened his mouth in protest, “But, I don’t think it’s a bad idea to double check what’s been said. Seein’ as we’re talkin’ about the fate of the world and all.”

“And how exactly are we supposed to do that, Bobby?” Dean snapped.

“We research, that’s what,” Bobby said, “Before one of you hotheads blows the planet up. We’ve got a lot of stuff on demons, can summon some if we decide it’s safe. And, we’ve got a lot of diggin’ to do into this whole angel thing Crowley mentioned.”

“It’s a bunch of shit,” John said.

“There’s more lore on angels than just about everything else,” Bobby says, “So while . . . Sam . . . heals up. We are gonna be fillin’ our brains with anything that sounds remotely useful about the damned apocalypse, and we’re not gonna get into any more shouting matches! We clear?”

Dean glared at his father for several more seconds before nodding, “We’re clear, Bobby.”

“We’re clear,” John said, “Now I’m going to go talk to . . . whatever’s in the basement . . . alone.” He glared at Dean.

“Hell no!” Dean said.

“How the hell am I supposed to ever trust the bastard if I can’t even talk to it . . . him?” John said. He raised his hands in mock surrender, “We’re just gonna talk. You can frisk me if you really want to.”

“He’s asleep,” Dean said, ignoring most of his father’s words.

“I was gone twelve hours, Dean,” John said, “No matter how long you spent cleaning it up, it’s slept for a long while.” With that, he turned and headed towards the basement.

*** 

Dean sat, literally tapping his foot and glaring out the window the entire half hour John was with Sam, ignoring Bobby’s protests that “He’s not gonna hurt him, Dean,” “This needed to happen eventually,” and “for God’s sake, just come help me. This crap on angels isn’t gonna find itself.”

Finally, John emerged, scowling, if possible, more than he had before, “That thing’s so full of shit, son, it’s a wonder you don’t slip in it. He says Crowley ”convinced” him by summoning an angel to chat it out.”

“We’re looking for stuff on angel’s now,” Bobby said from across the room.

“How’s he doing?” Dean asked.

John’s scowl deepened, but he said, “Might need some bandages changed.”

Bobby had made a supply run for food, booze, and medical supplies, so Dean grabbed a bunch of gauze, a roll of medical tape, and on a whim, a couple of tattered books from Bobby’s bookshelf.

Sam was sitting on the cot, staring pensively at the floor when Dean entered. He didn’t even bother to look up when he said, “I had a feeling you’d come back now.”

“Sorry if that’s a disappointment,” Dean said slowly, “Dad mentioned you might need new bandages.” When Sam nodded again, still not taking his eyes from the floor, Dean approached, sitting on the other end of the cot. “I figure we can do it basically the same way we did before, sound good?” Once again, Sam nodded at the floor, so Dean started working, removing the collar and the bandages around Sam’s neck and reapplying the burn cream.

“This is looking a lot better,” Dean said. The skin was still angry red and raw, but most of the blisters had disappeared.

“You know I heal quickly,” Sam said to the ground, “The salt just slowed it down.”

“Right. Sorry about that.”

Sam shrugged, “You were doing what I wanted you to do.”

As per usual, Dean had no response to that, so he finished bandaging Sam’s neck and moved on to Crowley’s cuts. They hadn’t healed as well; the words were still red and legible, and blood had bled through the bandages in several places.

“Iron knife dipped in salt and holy water,” Sam said in response to Dean’s lingering gaze, “Might’ve had a spell on it too. The words will always be easy to read.”

Dean nodded and then kept going. He had just started working on Sam’s back when he finally said, “You’re not nearly as talkative when you’re not trying to goad me.”

“There isn’t much to say,” Sam shrugged.

“So you’re just brooding by nature.”

“I guess.”

“Huh,” Dean said, “Is that a demon-blood, boy king thing or . . .”

“It’s me . . . I think,” Sam said, “A lot of the others talked plenty.”

“Yea, most demons I’ve met are fond of monologing,” Dean said. He winced the moment the words were out of his mouth.

On the other hand, Sam cracked half a smile, “Imagine growing up with it.”

Dean chuckled, “Christmas dinner must’ve been a riot.”

Sam’s smile widened a little, but he did not respond. They fell back into silence before Dean said, a couple minutes later, “I hope Dad didn’t . . .”

“What? Upset me?” Sam shook his head, “Not at all. It’s about what I expected.”

“Still, he’s starting to get on my nerves. I can’t imagine what it must feel like on your end.”

“A lot of his fears are grounded in reality. You should be more worried than you are.”

“I’m worried about Lilith,” Dean said, “I’m worried about Crowley. I’m worried about demons and angels and the apocalypse. I’m not worried about you turning on us.”

“Why?” Sam looked him directly in the eyes for the first time, “Because Missouri said so? Because my name is Sam?” his eyes flicked black, “Because, deep down, I’m your baby brother?”

“Maybe all of those things,” Dean said, “I’m not sure why you still feel the need to be aloof and mysterious, but it’s not gonna work on me. You’re a bit screwed in the head, Sam, but you’re not evil.”

“You’re seeing what you want to see,” Sam’s eyes were still black.

“I’m seeing what you’ve shown me,” Dean countered, “You sold your fucking soul for us, man. Least we could do is return the favor a little.”

“And I regret it every day,” Sam’s eyes flicked back to hazel.

Dean stopped, his bloody washcloth hovering over a gash in Sam’s chest, “Excuse me?”

“I said I regret it every day.” Sam stared fixedly at the wall, and voice was quiet, almost thoughtful, “That’s the only guarantee with a demon deal, you will regret it. Always.” His gaze drifted to the floor, “I was stupid and soft, and now the whole fucking world is in danger because of it. And even before . . .”

He fell silent and clasped his hands together until his knuckles went white.

“What?” Dean pressed, even though he knew he’d hate Sam’s answer.

“Even before,” Sam said slowly, “I begged Lilith to release me from the contract, a thousand times over.” He snorted, “She loved it when I did that and she . . .” he stopped and let out a deep breath, “You always regret a demon deal, Dean. Always.”

They fell back into tense silence, and, when Dean accepted that the sharing and caring session was over, he stood, collecting the pile of used bandages.

“I brought you some books,” he said, nodding at the tattered paperbacks on the cot, “No idea what they’re about. Think they belonged to Bobby’s wife.”

“Little Women and Little House on the Prairie,” Sam quirked a sarcastic smile.

“Yea well, since there’s no HBO, I figured it’d be better than nothing.”

Sam nodded, still staring at the novels.

“Right,” Dean said awkwardly, “Well, I’ll pop in on you later.”

Dean headed towards the door, and it was only as he was closing it behind him that he heard a muffled, “Thanks.”

***

After a few hours of sleep (any semblance of a schedule had been shot to hell again), Dean helped Bobby and John study lore on angels. Their problem, ironically, was not a dearth of information, but rather that there were so many goddamned accounts, research, and theories. Naturally, most of them were either total B.S., confused angels with other supernatural beings, or completely contradicted each other so that it was nearly impossible to sort through it all.

“That’s it,” Dean said, after a two-hour study of a book on cherubim he was pretty sure was just the ramblings of a senile old man, despite the fact it was written in 1750, “I’m gonna go talk to Sam.”

“We agreed . . .” John began.

“Yea well agreeing not to clue him in on our research is a pretty fucking stupid agreement!” Dean said, “Because, even if he is lying, it’s useful to know what he wants us to know, and he’s smart enough to know we’re all not just twiddling our thumbs here!”

“He’s right, John,” Bobby said, “Go down and see him, Dean, and give him some food too. I have a feelin’ he’s itchin’ by now.”

“Will do,” Dean said with a last, furious glare at his father.

Sam, Dean was pleased to see as he entered the panic room, was lying on his side, immersed in one of the books.

“These sisters are self-righteous brats,” he said by way of greeting, sitting up and closing the book.

“Hasn’t stopped you from reading most of it,” Dean said, “Looks like you’ve only got about fifty pages left.”

“Like you said, no HBO.”

Dean sat on the other end of the bed, “So . . . are there any books you’d rather read?”

“Science,” Sam said after a moment’s hesitation, “Biology, chemistry, geography. I like knowing how the Earth works.”

“Anyone tell you you’re a nerd,” Dean said drily, “Got any more casual tastes?”

Sam frowned, “What, like . . . novels?”

“For starters, maybe something that wasn’t written in an ivory tower?”

“I . . . I don’t know Dean,” Sam bit his lip and stared at his hands, “I guess I just don’t . . . get those.”

Dean frowned, “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Sam threw up is hands and winced a little when the shackles slid past his bandages, “I don’t get them. Normal life I mean. I just . . .” he slouched over again, “I used to watch other families sometimes, besides yours . . .”

“Ours,” Dean interjected.

Sam shrugged, “Whatever . . . I’d watch the others’ families, and they’d be talking about . . . barbeques and homework and birthday parties and I just didn’t understand . . .”

“What?” Dean prompted.

“Humans,” Sam sighed, “I would watch them all and it looked . . .”

“What? Too good to be true?”

“No . . . just . . . alien,” Sam shook his head, “It’s not my world, Dean.”

Dean leaned forward, trying to catch Sam’s eyes, and failing, “Well tell me this, then. If the whole world feels alien, then why are you working so hard to save it?”

“Hell is my world,” Sam said, “I know how evil it is, better than anyone. I’m willing to destroy it to make something better.”

“Then what happens to you?”

Sam frowned, “I’ve never really thought that far.”

“Huh,” now it was Dean’s turn to stare at his hands, “Okay then, let me ask you a question.”

“Another question.”

“Okay, then another question. You said all those other families were alien. What were Dad and I?”

For a long time, Sam didn’t answer, didn’t even twitch his hands. Dean was about to give up and change the subject when Sam said, in a voice so low Dean had to strain to hear, “You were too good to be true.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to struggle with a response, “Honestly,” he finally said, “I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

Sam quirked half a smile before finally raising his head and turning to face Dean, “But that’s not why you’re here. What do you want to know about the angels?”

“What?” Dean had forgotten the point of his visit, “Oh, right. Wait . . . first . . .” he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a flask, “Bottom’s up, I feel like you must be starving.”

Sam’s eyes widened and he fixated on the flask, just as he had in the basement and with Gordon. Apparently, the hunger was no act. “How much is in there?”

“Not much more than a shot. Dad was pretty insistent . . .”

“That’s good. That’s . . . good,” Sam said, “I shouldn’t have too much.”

Dean thought about pushing the issue, but decided against it. He wasn’t a huge fan of his baby brother chugging blood either. “Well here you go,” he handed Sam the flask.

Sam drained it in a second, closing his eyes and sighing in relief. “Okay,” he said after a moment, “Angels. What do you want to know?”

“Everything you’ve got, basically. We have a lot to sift through and it’d really help if you could show us what’s actually worth paying attention to.”

“So I figured,” Sam said, “But I can’t give you much. A week ago I would have told you that angels existed, that they were soldiers of God, that they scared the shit out of every demon, but no one had seen one in centuries.”

“Alright, so what did Crowley tell you?”

“He summoned one,” Sam smiled sardonically, “You’re father will be ecstatic to hear that Crowley had me in another room while he did the ritual. I didn’t see a thing.”

“And you never heard of anyone else ever doing something similar?”

“Until a couple of days ago, I still thought all of hell was determined to fight the bastards.”

“Wait. You mean there are demons on heaven’s side?”

“I mean the leaders of both heaven and hell are very eager to see Michael and Lucifer square off against each other, and they’re willing to work together to make sure that happens,” Sam snapped.

“Woah,” Dean held up his hands, “There’s no need to get nasty.”

“Oh really, Dean?” Sam’s eyes went black, but this time, Dean suspected it was an accident, “Because the way I see it, if we really want to stop the apocalypse, we’re gonna have hell and heaven on our asses, and call me a downer, but I’m not loving our odds!”

Dean let out a slow breath, “Well . . . fuck.” Sam rolled his eyes, but didn’t respond, so Dean said, “Does heaven know you went rogue? Is that what Crowley told them?”

“Yes. They’ve known ever since I sold my soul, I think. Crowley pretended to still be in league with Lilith, but that he didn’t know I needed to break the first seal. He said he thought Lilith wanted me to be rescued.”

“Makes sense,” Dean nodded, “That was supposed to be ultra-classified, Lilith-only info, right?”

“Exactly. So, when Crowley reached out to Zachariah, the—liaison—between heaven and hell, and said he had “stolen me back” from you and averted averting the apocalypse, Zachariah, to put it mildly, told him to throw me back to the wolves.”

“Okay . . . so the angels, and Lilith, I’m assuming, think that Crowley is still in their corner, he just screwed up, and the reason they’re not raining down on us is . . .”

“Is they think you’re still killing me,” Sam said.

Dean forcefully shoved away all the implications of that sentence, “So, how long do we have before they get suspicious? Before they think you should be dead?”

“You’re Dean Winchester,” Sam said, “They know how good you are. They’re hoping that if you torture me slowly to death, for weeks, I’ll stop rebelling and willingly start the apocalypse the second I land in the pit.”

“Oh . . .” Dean felt like he’d been doused in ice, “So the combined plans of heaven and hell depend on my sadism.”

“Your words, not mine,” Sam said, “Now you should probably go back. I’m sure your father’s exploding with rage at this point.”

VI

(43) And there appeared an angel unto [Christ] from heaven, strengthening him.

Luke 22

Sam was right, and John’s mood did not improve when Dean reported Sam’s information about the angels.

“So only two demons know about these bastards and how to summon them, but that thing couldn’t manage to catch the smallest glimpse on how to do it? How does that not stink to you, Dean?” John roared.

“Because it’s Sam!” Dean shot back, “If you’d get your head out of your ass for ten seconds . . .”

The argument continued another fifteen minutes before Dean finally stormed out of the house, climbed into the Impala, and just drove, tearing down the deserted highway for an hour before circling back and returning to Sioux Falls.

He only realized where he was going when he pulled into the parking lot of the Sioux Falls Public Library. He roamed lazily through the shelves for a while. Aside from a creepy dude in a trench coat carefully examining the YA Fantasy shelf, the place was deserted. Eventually, Dean started grabbing books at random: Advanced Biochemistry, A Complete Overview of Middle Eastern Geography, and An Introduction to Astrophysics. The severe-looking librarian scowled at him when he said he did not have one of those stupid library cards, and her scowl only deepened when he tried to charm his way out of getting one.

“No exceptions,” she snapped, slapping a form in front of him.

“I see why this place s’not hopping,” Dean muttered as he filled out the stupid paper.

She did not respond, but glared at him as she finally checked the books out, as if his existence insulted her.

Rolling his eyes, Dean left the library and dumped the books, maybe a little more forcefully than necessary, on the passenger’s side of the seat. Still trying to buy time, he made a food and medical supplies run at Walmart, skipped the checkout lane with the soccer mom pushing what looked like approximately five hundred pounds of groceries, but instead wound up with a pimply seventeen-year-old cashier who moved with the speed and motivation of a drunk sloth.

“Come on, come on,” Dean muttered under his breath as the cashier tried for the third time to scan a six-pack of beer, and failed. Dean glanced around, wondering vaguely if he should pick up all his crap and get behind soccer mom in the other line when he noticed the trench-coated man from before studying the tabloids two aisles over with the same bizarre intensity as at the library.

Once Dean, or at least, Richard Patillo, finally paid for his groceries, he waited for twenty minutes in the Walmart parking lot for trench coat guy to show (and seriously, a trench coat?) before finally giving up. He supposed it could be a coincidence, stopping in library then a Walmart was hardly unusual, but it still set his spidey senses tingling.

So, instead of returning to Bobby’s, he headed to a bar, ignoring the table of hot twenty-somethings and settling at in the corner nursing a beer.

Sure enough, trench coat guy . . . appeared. He did not come in through the front door, but Dean suddenly saw him standing by the table of twenty-somethings. The man ignored them, though, in favor of scanning his blue eyes over the bar before meeting Dean’s. He approached, bright blue eyes never wavering until he stopped in front of the table and said, in a surprisingly low voice, “Dean Winchester.”

Dean took a swig of beer, “Yea, and you are?”

“My name is Castiel,” the man’s blue eyes never left his. “I am an angel of the Lord.”

“Right,” Dean said, “Oh, and I forgot to mention, my name’s actually Santa Claus.”

Castiel leaned across the table, “Do not play games with me, boy. I know you, your father, and Robert Singer are studying lore on me and my kind.”

“Okay,” Dean said slowly. He scanned the bar for a quick exit, if needed, and was not pleased with his options, “Say I believe you. What do you want?”

“We need to talk,” Castiel said, and before Dean could respond, Castiel grabbed his arm, and the next second, Dean was falling on his ass.

“What the hell!” he shouted, pulling himself to his feet. He looked around. Castiel had zapped him to . . . a hotel room, one of those fancy-ass, leather furniture and silk sheets hotel rooms, “Where the fuck am I?”

“New York City,” Castiel said, staring out of a floor-to-ceiling window. “Come look.”

Dean obeyed, drawing up beside the angel and looking out over the city. Pedestrians swarmed the street: business people with briefcases, teenagers on cellphones, parents dragging screaming toddlers as cars, cabs, and busses inched along the narrow road.

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Dean asked.

“Humanity,” Castiel replied, staring unblinkingly at Dean, “I am hoping this will give you some perspective.”

“Okay. Perspective. Got it. Lots of humans. Lots of lives to save. You’re hardly the first person to give me this lecture.”

“You heard it from your father repeatedly, I know,” Castiel’s stare was getting a little creepy now, “But this obsession with your brother is making you forget.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean demanded.

“Sam is lying to you,” the angel said, “He is in league with Crowley against Lilith. He wants to set Lucifer free, and he wants to start the apocalypse.”

“Funny,” Dean said, “He said the same thing about you.”

Castiel’s glare darkened, “You really believe heaven would descend to such depravity? You are seeing only what you wish to see, and your willful ignorance is about to condemn the world.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean snapped.

“The boy king must die,” Castiel said. Dean flinched at the gravity in his voice, “You must kill him.”

“No.”

“Why?” Castiel took a step closer, “Because he used to be your brother? Because he spied on you when you were children? Because he sold his soul for you?”

Dean did not step back, and he determinedly maintained eye contact with the creepy-ass angel, “For starters, yea!”

“That was all in the past,” Castiel said, “You are right. Before he sold his soul, before his time with Lilith, he was on heaven’s side. He was fighting against Azazel.”

“Then why do you say he’s . . .”

“Because he broke, Dean!” The angel’s eyes flared furiously, “Lilith broke him. He despises his former love for humanity, his former love for you, and now, he can only think of revenge. His is desperate to kill Lilith, desperate to start the apocalypse, and he will go to any lengths to meet his goal.”

That’s the only guarantee with a demon deal, Sam had said, you will regret it. Always.

Dean swallowed and finally looked away, “So why did Crowley leave him with me?”

“Because they were both relying on your desperation and gullibility. They really do want your help, and based on your little trip to the library, I’d say they’re more than succeeding.”

“So say you’re right,” Dean growled after a moment, “Say Sam’s been lying through his teeth. Why haven’t you just zapped him away?”

“Because heaven needs your help, Dean Winchester,” Castiel said gravely.

“Oh yea?” Dean crossed his arms, “With what?”

“We need . . . information.” Castiel finally averted his eyes.

For a moment, Dean could not respond, “You mean torture? You want me to torture my brother?”

“No,” Castiel’s eyes bore into him again, “We need you to torture Lucifer’s future vessel to learn how he intends to break the first sixty-five seals before killing Lilith.”

Dean slid a hand down his face and turned away from the angel, looking back out the window.

“Look at these people, Dean,” Castiel said, “Your brother is dead, and holding onto to this bastardization of him will only damn the world.”

Dean remained silent.

“Think about it,” Castiel said. The next moment, Dean was sitting alone again at the bar.

VII

(55) And when they had kindled a fire in the midst of the hall, and were set down together, Peter sat down among them. (56) But a certain maid beheld him as he sat by the fire, and earnestly looked upon him, and said, This man was also with him. (57) And he denied him, saying, Woman, I know him not.

 (58) And after a little while another saw him, and said, Thou art also of them. And Peter said, Man, I am not. (59) And about the space of one hour after another confidently affirmed, saying, Of a truth this fellow also was with him: for he is a Galilæan. (60) And Peter said, Man, I know not what thou sayest. And immediately, while he yet spake, the cock crew.

(61) And the Lord turned, and looked upon Peter. And Peter remembered the word of the Lord, how he had said unto him, Before the cock crow, thou shalt deny me thrice. (62) And Peter went out, and wept bitterly.

Dad and Bobby each gave him varying levels of shit for being gone so late, but Dean brushed them off. Instead, he headed downstairs, books and fresh bandages in hand.

Sam startled awake when Dean opened the door, flailing a little as he tried to sit up with the shackles.

“Brought you some stuff,” Dean said by way of explanation, setting the books on the floor and sitting down without meeting Sam’s eyes. Was it actually Sam? “Let’s take a look at your bandages.”

As Dean expected, the blood had accelerated Sam’s healing. Most of the bruising had faded to a faint yellow, and only Crowley’s cuts and the worst of the lacerations on his back still needed bandaging, so Dean helped him into a pair of non-elastic briefs and athletic pants.

“You’re quiet,” Sam said as Dean disinfected the last of the deep cuts on his back.

“Thought my talking bothered you.”

“And your change of behavior is alarming,” Sam turned to face him, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Dean placed a length of gauze over one of Sam’s wounds and wondered if he was actually supposed to be making it deeper.

“Don’t lie to me Dean.”

“I can do whatever the fuck I want,” Dean said evenly as he taped down the gauze.

“I suppose you can,” Sam agreed quietly. “So what’s your play?”

“Fuck if I know,” Dean said as he secured another bandage, “I’ve got a demon saying I should help you, a father saying I should kill you, and an angel,” Sam flinched, “Saying I should torture you then kill you. But everyone seems to agree the wrong choice will damn the world.”

“So Zachariah came to you,” Sam said mildly.

“No, this one was Castiel. He told me a slightly different story than the one you told me.”

“I suppose he would.”

“That’s it?” Dean demanded, “You’ve nothing more to add?”

“What’s there to say, Dean?” Sam glared at him, “Anything I tell you, someone else will twist to suit their needs. It’s like you said, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”

Dean taped down the last bandage and drew a knife from his belt. Sam tensed at the sound, but did not move.

“Normal, steel blade,” Dean said, “Am I right in thinking plunging this through your heart is all it takes?”

Sam turned until his eyes met Dean’s, “Yes.”

“And Crowley couldn’t do anything to stop it?”

“Not even kill you,” Sam said calmly, though his gaze moved to the knife, “You can start slicing me up right now if you want.”

Dean’s stomach clenched at that, but he kept his face neutral, “You’re not doing a very good job of talking me out of this.”

“If you believe my story,” Sam eyes did not leave the knife, “It’s you, me, and one crossroads demon against the full forces of heaven and hell. I didn’t like the odds to begin with.”

Dean stood, sheathing the knife, “I guess I’ll have to sleep on it.”

“I guess you will,” Sam agreed as Dean turned and left the room, careful to lock the door behind him.

Chapter Text

Part IV

Judas Iscariot

(48) But Jesus said unto him, Judas, betrayest thou the Son of man with a kiss?

Luke 22

I

(52) Then Jesus said unto the chief priests, and captains of the temple, and the elders, which were come to him, Be ye come out, as against a thief, with swords and staves? (53) When I was daily with you in the temple, ye stretched forth no hands against me: but this is your hour, and the power of darkness.

 54 Then took they him, and led him, and brought him into the high priest’s house. And Peter followed afar off.

Luke 22

Dean did sleep on it, sort of. If sleeping on it meant staring blankly up at the ceiling in Bobby’s spare room listening to the crickets and Rumsfield’s barking.

Sam was right, in the end. Everyone could twist everything everyone else had said to suit themselves. Everyone could be (probably was) lying.

But Sam couldn’t stay in the panic room forever, and Dean couldn’t think of a way to find the truth, especially since every instinct Dean had told him to trust Sam, to take him and hide him where no one could ever hurt him again. Except Dean had spent over twenty years dreaming of his brother, and he couldn’t let that skew his judgment, not when deciding the fate of the world.

He didn’t realize he’d managed to fall asleep until sunlight was streaming across his eyes. He blinked, briefly blinded, and checked his watch. Squinting through his speckled vision, it took him awhile to register the time. 10:30.

“Holy shit!” he sputtered, jumping out of bed and throwing on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt at random. He knew, intellectually, that there was no need to rush. Hell, he more than needed the sleep.

Still, who snoozed during the apocalypse?

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Bobby said from the living room as Dean thundered down the stairs, “You actually gonna look at a book today?”

“Probably,” Dean said, heading toward the kitchen in search of coffee, “Where’s Dad?”

“Don’t know. Truck was gone when I got up. He’ll wander in sooner or later.”

Dean nodded, not able to find it in himself to care.

“How’s Sam?” Bobby asked carefully.

“Vague and pissy,” Dean said. He gulped down his coffee, searing his throat in the process. He wished it was whiskey, “Assuming it is Sam,” he finished.

Bobby frowned, “You startin’ to think it ain’t?”

“I think I have no idea who is down there, but somehow his fate decides the future of the world. And I just . . .” he rubbed his hand down his face, “I want him to be good, to be Sam so bad I . . . I don’t know how I can trust myself to decide.”

“Let me go talk to him,” Bobby said, clapping Dean on the shoulder, “Give you another perspective. We’ve still got time, son.”

Dean nodded, “Thanks Bobby.”

Bobby shot him a half-smile, “Be back in a few.”

Dean did not expect a conversation between Bobby and (hopefully) Sam to last long. He did expect, however, for it to last more than a minute.

“DEAN!” Bobby roared, “FUCK! DEAN!”

Dean barreled down the steps, expecting to find Bobby pinned to the wall with Sam’s hands around his throat.

Instead, he found Bobby standing in an empty room.

“What the hell!” Dean demanded, “Where is he?”

“Fuck if I know!” Bobby shot back, “With your Daddy, I’d expect!”

“Fuck,” Dean whirled around, half expecting to see Sam magically appear, “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” He sank onto the cot and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead, “Did you see anything? Hear anything last night?”

“Nothin’. Went upstairs around midnight. John said he was gonna head to bed soon. I woke up at eight, and the truck was gone. Just assumed. . .”

“Just assumed he was wasted somewhere, yea,” Dean said.

“But Sam’s a big guy,” Bobby said, “Even with those chains, and ‘specially given your father’s leg, I don’t see how he could’ve gotten him out, least not without Sam makin’ a hell of a lot of noise.”

“No, Sam wouldn’t have fought,” Dean opened his eyes and looked around again, “He was ready to go along with whatever we decided. He was done fighting.”

“Doesn’t sound like the behavior of an evil mastermind.”

“It ain’t.” Dean rubbed his eyes, “How could I have been so stupid? He was tellin’ the truth. Angels be damned.”

“What? Sam tellin’ you about the angels changed your mind?”

“No. I met one last night. Castiel. He told me I needed to torture Sam, force him to tell us more about how to set Lucifer free.”

“And you didn’t think that was worth sharing with the class?” Dean looked down to avoid Bobby’s deadly glare.

“I just wanted time to think it over, before Dad launched into me again,” he sighed, “But yea, it was stupid.”

“You’re damn right,” Bobby said, “And I’d bet Sam and your Daddy are with those angels now. Bet they saw how you weren’t willin’ to hurt Sam, so they turned to someone who would!”

“You’re right,” Dean said, still not meeting Bobby’s gaze.

“Well,” Bobby sighed, “Let’s go up. There’s nothin’ else to see here.”

The thing was, there wasn’t much to see anywhere else either. All the crap they’d found about angels was almost certainly useless, or at least not useful anytime soon. Dad’s phone went straight to voicemail, so Dean left a dozen, increasingly profane, messages on his way to the police station to and wheedle any photos from traffic stop cameras in the area from some sheriff named Jody Mills.

It was a bust. Dean managed to avoid arrest, but only just. So he spent five useless minutes slamming his foot into Baby’s tire and screaming things that didn’t even make sense to him before touching his head to the side of the impala, ignoring the searing pain of his skin touching the hot metal.

He was sure it was nothing compared to what they were doing to Sam, to what his Father, Sam’s Father, was doing to Sam.

The thing was, it wasn’t even hard to imagine. He knew Sam’s screams too well.

“Castiel, you fucking son of a bitch,” he growled, “Screw you, screw heaven, screw God for this. Sam’s better than all of you. I don’t care how demonic he is.”

There was no answer, of course, just the slamming of doors and starting and extinguishing of ignitions as cars entered and left the police station parking lot. Dean opened his eyes. The pity party could wait, assuming the world didn’t end first.

II

(22) Pilate saith unto them, What shall I do then with Jesus which is called Christ? They all say unto him, Let him be crucified. (23) And the governor said, Why, what evil hath he done? But they cried out the more, saying, Let him be crucified.

 24 When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing, but that rather a tumult was made, he took water, and washed his hands before the multitude, saying, I am innocent of the blood of this just person: see ye to it.

Matthew 27

After thirty-six hours, Dean’s best idea was to pick a direction, drive, and hope he happened upon the same abandoned factory they were probably torturing Sam in. They’d found Dad’s truck ten miles outside of Sioux Falls, stripped of anything hunter-related. There were no reports of stolen cars within a fifty miles of them that weren’t already accounted for. The books would be more useful as tinder (Dean tried a couple times, but Bobby always grabbed his wrist and glared at him before Dean could toss the book into the fireplace. Rufus, for the first time in Bobby’s memory, had no intel for them. There was only . . .

“Crowley,” Bobby said, “That’s the only other thing I can think of.”

“Are you kidding me! We bring Crowley in, he’ll whisk Sam away and . . .” Dean thought of Sam pulled up against Crowley’s crotch, “No Bobby. That’s no better. We’ll think of something else.”

“Even if Crowley does take Sam,” Bobby said slowly, “At least we know he won’t kill him.”

“That’s our standard!” Dean shouted, jumping from his chair, “Well hell then, why don’t we just auction him off to the highest bidder? One boy king for sale! Don’t care what you do to him as long as he doesn’t die!”

“That’s not what I mean boy, and you know it,” Bobby growled, “Look, I know this hurts Dean, I do. There’s a whole pile of different kinds of shit you’re feeling right now, but we’ve still got to keep things in perspective. There’s an apocalypse we need to stop. That’s what Sam would want.”

“No one’s ever given a shit about Sam in his life, not even Sam,” Dean shot back, “Why doesn’t somebody think about him for a change?”

“Because we screwed up!” Bobby was on his feet now, too, slamming his fist onto the table, “We screwed up, Dean! If me and your Daddy had taken half a second to think that maybe the demon wanted more than to spread misery just for the fun of it! Maybe if we had taken half a second to think that maybe the fact your Daddy remembered picking up a live, screaming baby and ended up outside with a burnt, dead one was more than just panic and denial! Maybe if all three of us had stopped when we first saw Sam and said “Well gee, that kid looks like he could’ve been Sam’s age, wonder what’s that about? Maybe if we’d pulled our heads out of our asses and trusted the kid after Crowley’s Agatha Christie reveal! Maybe if we’d done any of those things, we’d have another option!” Bobby sighed, all the fight draining out of him in one go, “But we didn’t. We screwed up, son, and Sam’s paid for that, is paying for that, and the only thing left to do is to make sure all that sacrifice isn’t for nothin’.”

Bobby looked down at the table. Dean could not respond, and the silence hung heavily between them until Dean finally said, “I’m gonna get some air.”

It was long past sunset, and the moon was little more than a sliver, so Dean had to rely on the light from Bobby’s windows and his instincts to navigate the maze of rusty cars. He welcomed the distraction, though; it made it easier to avoid thinking about Bobby’s words. A little easier, anyway.

Dean tried to find a way Bobby was wrong . . . how he was exaggerating . . . how this massive shit show could be stopped. How it wasn’t completely his fault.  

Sam’s quiet resignation, You can start slicing me up now, if you want, made it damn hard to wipe away any of the guilt.

“Dean.”

Dean whirled around at the sound. “You son of a bitch,” he growled at the dark shape behind him.

“So you’ve said,” Castiel replied, “Many times.”

“You heard that?” Dean said, taking a step towards the angel.

“When you invoke my name, you are praying to me, so I can always hear you, even if what you say is . . . unpleasant.”

“Well I’m sorry if my unpleasantness annoyed you,” Dean grabbed the lapels of Castiel’s coat, “Now you tell me where my brother is or so help me I will find a way to kill you.”

“We need to talk,” Castiel said, as if Dean had not spoken.

Dean pulled Castiel towards him, “Well I have a few conversation ideas.”

“There is not time for this,” Castiel pulled Dean’s hands away with humiliating ease, “Dean, we need to talk about Sam.”

“What about him?” Dean snarled.

“You called him your brother,” Castiel said, “What did you mean?”

“I mean he’s my brother!” Dean threw up his hands, “Same Mom and Dad, pretty sure you’ve heard of the concept.”

“Yes. But what do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re asking Cas? I mean he’s my brother!”

“I mean do you love him?” Castiel thundered. It was impossible to make out his features in the dark, but the angel’s eyes pierced Dean anyway.

“What?” Dean asked, his anger diverted for a second by the oddness of the question, “What the hell do you care?”

“I care a great deal,” Castiel said, “So I need to know. Do you love him?”

“I mean, yea,” Dean said, “Of course. I mean . . . assuming you’re not talking Luke and Leia, sibling romance kind of shit, then . . . yea.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my brother!” Deans repeated for what felt like the thousandth time, “What do you want from me?”

“I want to know why you love him,” Castiel commanded, as if he were God himself, “Tell me what is it about him that you love?”

“I . . .” Dean trailed off. He felt as if he was being asked for a password, that Sam’s life depended on the answer, but he had no idea what the fuck he was supposed to say. “I don’t know, I mean he’s smart. He’s been ditching demons, and apparently you guys, his entire life, and he’s into reading all sorts of geeky stuff. He’s pissy, but in kind of a funny way. He gives a hell of a lot more of a shit about this planet than God does, apparently.” His mind grappled for something else to say, but all he found was . . . nothing. “Truth is,” he said slowly, “I barely know the guy. That’s what kills me.”

“But you love him, not the idea of him you and your father have worshipped the past two decades.”

“I have no idea what the hell you mean by that. Now get to the point. Where’s Sam?”

“Are you willing to sacrifice everything for him, Dean?”

“What the hell is this, twenty questions? Yes! Alright! Yes! What the fuck do I have to do to get him back?”

Castiel’s eyes were blazing now, “Even if it means giving up everything, even your father.”

Dean’s breath caught. He finally had an idea where this was going, but he nodded, “Yes.”

Castiel nodded a couple times, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground, “It has been brought to my attention,” he said slowly, “That I have been . . . deceived about heaven’s intentions concerning the apocalypse.”

“You too huh,” Dean said sardonically.

Castiel ignored him, “I have . . . seen your brother. I saw the way he still cares for you and your father, despite everything. I have . . . felt his soul, and it is pure. I thought about telling your father this, but I do not think he would have believed me. He trusts my siblings too much.”

“So . . . what does that mean?” Dean demanded.

“It means your brother is a righteous man. It means heaven wants him to break in hell. It means they are trying to force him to . . . lose his love for humanity before he dies. Then heaven will set him loose, so he can kill Lilith.”

“And jumpstart doomsday, great,” Dean took another step towards the angel, “So, are you going to set him free?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing here, Castiel?” Dean roared, “Giving me your condolences while your buddies torture my brother to death!”

“If I were to set him free, the full wrath of heaven would bear down on me, on all three of us!” Castiel hissed. “There is no margin for error.”

“Then why are you here, Castiel?” Dean suddenly realized he was nose to nose with the angel now.

Castiel reached into his pocket and drew out a piece of paper, “Your brother is here,” he said, “I am the only angel guarding him, and in six hours I will return to heaven for a short time to attend to my other responsibilities. I suggest you be there.”

“Right,” Dean nodded, “Sam . . . he’ll be alive by then, right?”

“I’ll ensure it,” Castiel said. He reached out a hand and touched Dean’s chest.

“Ow!” Dean jumped back, running his hands down his chest to check for wounds, “What the hell was that?”

“Warding,” Castiel said, “On your ribs. It will make it impossible for angels to find you, including me. I have already done the same to Sam.”

“For when we’re on the run, dodging heaven’s army while Sam heals and we try to find Lilith, right.”

Castiel nodded, as if that sounded easy, “Good luck, Dean.”

With that, the angel was gone.

III

(25) And it was the third hour, and they crucified him.

(26) And the superscription of his accusation was written over, THE KING OF THE JEWS.

Mark 15

It turned out Sam was being held in a house in Rochester Minnesota, some cookie cutter, two-story ugly thing built for accountants, dentists, and insurance agents.

“S’gonna make it hard to make sure no one sees us,” Bobby remarked as they observed the house in a stolen Honda Civic.

“They’ll know it was us, anyway,” Dean said as he checked his weapon, “We just gotta get him and get gone.”

“You sure you’re ready for this, son?” Bobby said, glancing at him.

Dean avoided his gaze, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We’re going up against your father. Don’t pretend that’s nothin’.”

“Well we don’t have time for the whole Sigmund Freud bit,” Dean snapped, “We go in there. We get Sam. We get out. No one gets hurt.”

“Alright,” Bobby said warily.

“Good.” Dean opened the door, “Let’s go.”

It was easy enough to pick the lock on the door. The front room looked just as cookie-cutter suburbia as the exterior, with beige furniture and ugly-ass art. A crucifix hung on the far wall. Dean scowled at the hanging figure and looked away. The only glaring contrast to the nauseatingly civilian room was John’s worn, gun-oil soaked leather jacket tossed over the side of the couch. Dean stared at it, suddenly very aware of the gun in his hand.

“Dean,” Bobby said quietly. Dean nodded, forcing his gaze away from the couch.

They swept the first floor quickly, finding it as empty as they expected. A couple doors led off to an office and bathroom, respectively, before Bobby jerked his head towards a door in the hallway next to the kitchen.

Dean nodded in agreement and silently opened the door. He peered down the wooden steps . . . and saw Gordon Walker staring up at him.

“Well hey there, Dean,” Gordon said casually, pointing a gun up at him, “I thought that was you I saw parked outside.”

“What are you doing here, Gordon?” Dean demanded.

“Got a call from your father, saying he needed some help getting some intel out of a monster pretending to be his son.”

“And you were just happy to help,” Dean said, “You’re a fucking Mother Teresa.”

“Nah, that nun was just feeding a few kids. I’m saving the world.”

“You’ve got it wrong,” Dean said, “The angels . . .”

“The angels are secretly siding with the demons to spring Lucifer,” Gordon rolled his eyes, “Yea, so Sammy’s been telling me. It’s about all he’s willing to say, actually.”

“Because it’s the fucking truth!”

Gordon shook his head, “You know I feel sorry for you, Dean. I get it. This piece of shit wormed its way into your heart and its messing with your head. So how about you and the old man just turn around and let me and your Daddy take care of this.”

Dean cocked the gun, “Let him go, Gordon.”

“Dean!” John limped into view. Blood splattered his hands and boots. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’d ask you the same, sir,” Dean snapped.

“Alright everyone,” Bobby said slowly, “Let’s put the guns down before somebody does somethin’ stupid.”

Dean sensed Bobby lowering his weapon. Neither he nor Gordon wavered.

“Gordon,” John growled, “Stop pointing a gun at my son.”

“Sure thing,” Gordon said, slowly lowering his weapon.

“You too Dean,” John said, “Let’s talk about this.”

Dean obeyed and started heading down the stairs slowly, “You haven’t been very eager to talk beforenow.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell you,” John said, “I’m sorry. But that thing isn’t what you think it is—what we all wanted it to be. It’s not-“

“It’s Sam,” Dean growled, “I don’t know what the hell the angels told you, but they’re lyin’. They want to start the apocalypse just as much as the demons do!”

John narrowed his eyes, “How do you know about the angels?”

“Because they came to me first!” Dean said, “They only turned to you when they realized I wasn’t buying their bullshit story!”

“You weren’t?” Dean whirled around. He knew that rasp anywhere.

Sam was . . . Sam was hanging . . . Sam was hanging from a fucking cross.

Dean heard Bobby mutter, “You sons of bitches,” but he had honest-to-God lost the ability to speak. He wasn’t really aware that he was moving, wasn’t aware of anything, really, until his hands were ghosting over the ragged holes in Sam’s palms and over the thin iron chains wrapped around the length of Sam’s arms in a crisscross pattern, tying him to the cross. His feet were not nailed down, but they were resting on a board of iron nails, exactly like the one Dean had tortured Sam with earlier, and Sam’s feet from the ankle down were bathed in blood.

“Your Lord and Savior,” Sam said coolly. Dean looked up just in time to see his brother’s eyes flick black. Sam’s jaw was set and there was a dangerous glint in his black eyes that Dean had never seen before.

They had been so fucking stupid. Sam deserved to kill them all.

“It’s not a proper crucifixion,” Sam continued, “That would have killed even me by now. These humble soldiers of God just thought it would be righteous to tie me to a cross and drill holes through my hands. They were even kind enough to cauterize the wounds to minimize the blood loss.” He smirked as Dean stared, horrified at the small, sluggishly bleeding holes in the center of Sam’s palms. “Didn’t cast lots for my clothes either,” he said, “But the flogging and the crown, that they did by-the-book, just replaced the thorns with barbed wire.”

Dean glanced at Sam’s head, caught a brief glimpse at the blood oozing from his scalp, the angry blisters surrounding his head like a halo, and looked away.

“I’ll give you points for creativity, Dean,” Sam said in that same, cold jeer, “Looking for the latest and greatest ways to inflict pain, but you can’t beat the classics, can you, Pops?”

“Don’t call me that!” John growled, “You are not my son!”

“Suit yourself,” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Sam,” Dean began, “Sam, I’m so . . .”

“Don’t!” Sam growled, and Dean realized he had never heard Sam actually angry . . . until now, “Don’t say that to me!” Sam closed his eyes and hung his head until all Dean could see was his blood and sweat-stained scalp.

“John,” Bobby said, “Come to your senses! Look at him! That’s Sam. That’s your son!”

“You think I can’t recognized my own son when I see him?” John roared, “He’s hoodwinking you, just like he’s hoodwinked Missouri and Dean, and your stubbornness is going to damn the world!”

“No John!” Bobby countered, “Yours is!”

 “You’re leaving,” John said, “Both of you. If you aren’t willing to see reason, then leave so we can do what needs to be done!”

“No.” Dean spun around and drew his gun, pointing it at Gordon’s head, “This ends. Now. Go upstairs. Get in the car, and leave Sam the fuck alone.”

“Now Dean,” Gordon began, reaching slowly for his weapon.

Dean tightened his grip on the gun. “Don’t.”

Gordon raised his hands, “Would you really shoot me to save that?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Dean growled.

“And what about me?” John was glaring at him and reaching for his own gun.

Dean took a breath, “I don’t want to have to find out, sir.”

“Well it looks like you’ll fucking have to,” John drew his gun and pointed it at Dean’s thigh, “I don’t want to have to do this, son, but I won’t let this thing trick you into starting the apocalypse.”

Dean heard Sam start to wheeze behind him, and after a second, he recognized the sound as laughter: wild, manic laughter.

“You Winchester’s,” Bobby growled. He slammed his foot into John’s gimp leg. He fell with a howl, and Bobby grabbed the gun from out of his hand and snapped a pair of handcuffs on, “Now I hate to do this, John, but you’re obviously refusing to see reason.”

“You son of a bitch!” John roared, “You’re going to let hell win!”

“And if that’s,” Bobby nodded at Sam, who was still coughing and wheezing behind Dean, “Heaven’s idea of righteousness, then I’m willing to see what hell as to offer because, unlike you, I have faith in your sons!”

“Son,” John pleaded, turning his head towards Dean, “Please.”

“Keep your hands in the air, Gordon,” Dean said, carefully avoiding his father’s gaze, “Bobby’s going to cuff you and take your weapon, and you’re going to let him, or I’m gonna put a bullet in you.”

“You should shoot me anyway,” Gordon sneered as Bobby snapped the cuffs on, “Because you won’t make it ten miles before I’m hunting your asses, and you won’t like what happens next.”

“Thanks for your input,” Bobby said and wacked Gordon round the head with his gun hard enough for Gordon to crumple, unconscious to the floor.

Dean turned back to Sam. He’d stopped laughing in favor of letting his head fall back to his heaving chest, bloody saliva drizzling from his mouth. “Alright. Alright. Alright,” Dean muttered, “What’s the best way to get you down?”

“That wasn’t really part of the plan, buck-o,” Sam gasped without moving his eyes from the floor.

“Yea, well it is now,” Dean said, “You the one with the key?” he asked, glancing back at his father.

“You blind bastard,” John growled.

“I’ll pat him down,” Bobby said, kneeling beside John and tossing a key ring to Dean thirty seconds later.

“Alright,” Dean said, “First, let’s get this bastard off.” He considered the barbed-wire crown for a moment, “Okay, I think fast and ugly is the way to go here. On three. One, two . . .” He pulled the crown off. Sam screamed as the barbs scraped his blistered head.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Sorry, Sam,” Dean flung the thing across the room, ignoring the small cuts that pierced his hands, “Bobby, you want to give me a hand?”

“’Course son,” Bobby said. He crossed to them as Dean removed the shackles on Sam’s ankles, neck, and wrists then unwrapped the thin, iron chain binding his left arm to the cross.

“Easy there,” Bobby said gently, wrapping Sam’s free arm around him before Sam could collapse, “We’re almost done. You’ll be alright.” Sam made a noise Dean was pretty sure was a snort but did not reply.

“Alright,” Dean said as he finished unwinding the chain around Sam’s other arm. He glanced at his brothers bleeding feet, his stiff grimace, the way Bobby’s knees were buckling from carrying nearly all of Sam’s weight, and at the wooden staircase, “You think you can manage those steps?”

Sam looked at the stairs for a moment and shook his head almost imperceptibly.

“Not a problem,” Dean said. He picked Sam up bridal style, careful to place his arms under Sam’s knees and neck to avoid the worst of his wounds.

“My prince,” Sam said drily.

“Let’s go,” Bobby said. Dean made his was slowly to the stairs, careful to not jostle Sam too much. Even then, his younger brother was grunting in pain. Dean ignored the weight of his father’s glare baring down on him and kept his eyes fixed on the staircase.

It was only as Bobby held the door at the top of the stairs open for Dean and Sam that John finally spoke, “You walk through that door,” he roared, “Don’t you ever, ever come back!”

Dean paused at the top of the steps. The words echoed in his ears like the word of God. He felt Bobby’s eyes on him. He heard Sam’s rasping breath catch . . .

He stepped into the living room. “Close the door,” he said, “And push the armchair in front of it. That should buy us some time.”

“What about Castiel?” Sam rasped as Dean headed towards the door.

“He’s been kind enough to make himself scarce during this little operation,” Dean said.

“You’re working with him?” Sam’s tone was inscrutable.

“Yea. Not sure what you said to him, but he was impressed enough to decide to bail on heaven and tell us where you were. Even said your soul was pure.”

He felt Sam flinch at the word, but there wasn’t time to psychoanalyze his brother’s insecurities. He waited at the door for Bobby to come from the living room and open the front door then speed walked to the car, hoping none of the neighbors were home to see him carrying a grown, naked, bleeding man out of a house.

“Bobby’s driving,” Dean explained as Bobby got into the front seat and started the ignition, “I’ll be sitting with you, trying to patch you up the best we can on the road.”

“You forgot the cuffs,” Sam said.

“We don’t need them.”

“Dean.”

“We don’t need them,” Dean repeated, “Look. I’ve done more than enough sitting on my ass fretting about the world coming to an end. I choose you. I know you’ll do the right thing.”

“You stupid bastard,” Sam grunted as Dean set him into the backseat.

“Yea, well we can worry about that later,” Dean said as he climbed into the backseat, “Bobby, let’s go.”

Bobby did not hesitate, gently accelerating to slightly over the speed limit and turning of the neighborhood street and onto the main road.  None of them looked back.

IV

(38) And after this Joseph of Arimathæa, being a disciple of Jesus, but secretly for fear of the Jews, besought Pilate that he might take away the body of Jesus: and Pilate gave him leave. He came therefore, and took the body of Jesus. (39) And there came also Nicodemus, which at the first came to Jesus by night, and brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about an hundred pound weight. (40) Then took they the body of Jesus, and wound it in linen clothes with the spices, as the manner of the Jews is to bury.

John 19

 “Here,” Dean said, once Bobby was cruising on the highway. He pulled a small, plastic water bottle filled with blood out of the bag of medical supplies at his feet, “I figure you must be starving.”

As always, Sam’s eyes fixated on the liquid, “You’re an idiot.”

“Yea, well,” Dean said as he removed the lid, “You need to heal up, and I have a feeling your demonic superpowers are going to come in handy sooner rather than later.”

“And your childish guilt is pushing you to trust me.”

“Hey,” Dean said, “Take the win. You need help drinking this?”

Sam hesitated, glanced at his bloody palms, and nodded. Dean pressed the bottle to Sam’s lips. Sam drained the entire thing in less than ten seconds.

“That should help,” Dean said, “Now let’s patch you up.”

It was a horribly familiar routine, albeit in the backseat of a 1999 Honda Civic. Dean could not clean most of the blood off, but he disinfected and bandaged Sam’s wounds, treated his burns, and splinted his broken fingers the best as he could.

He only paused when he inspected the small, circular wound cutting though Sam’s palm. Dean felt the warm, sticky blood congealing in his hand as he held Sam’s palm flat on his own.

“It was a drill, if you’re curious,” Sam said matter-of-factly as he watched Dean used an alcohol wipe to disinfect both sides of the wound. “They drilled one hole a day. The King of Hell doesn’t deserve the luxury of a quick crucifixion, or so Gordon said. You came before they could start on my feet.”

Dean swallowed a mouthful of pile and started wrapping gauze around Sam’s hand, “Will it heal enough to . . .”

“Be useable again,” Sam finished, “I don’t know.” He didn’t seem bothered by the question.

“Right,” Dean said as he taped down the gauze, “Give me your other hand.”

Sam obeyed, watching as Dean repeated the process. “Gordon laughed,” he said finally.

“That son of a bitch,” Dean growled

He felt Sam’s eyes linger on him for a few seconds, “You didn’t ask if your father laughed too.”

“I know he didn’t,” Dean said. He couldn’t have.

Sam shrugged and turned his head to stare out the window at the Minnesota highway.

***

They drove west back towards Sioux Falls, stopping once for gas and for Dean to help Sam put on a new pair of pajama bottoms before driving another few hours and arriving at some fleabag motel just enough off the beaten track to ease the tension in Dean’s chest, at least a little.

“You stupid bastards,” Sam said, catching sight of the Impala sitting in the motel lot, “Do you want to put a bat signal up while you’re at it?”

“It has our arsenal,” Dean said.

“You’re obsessed,” Sam countered.

“I see your point, Sam,” Bobby said, “Which is why we took some precautions. Now I’ll check in. You boys get yourselves ready to go.”

“We’re staying just a couple hours out of Sioux Falls,” Sam said incredulously, “Why did you get so much stupider after you decided to trust me?”

“Bobby’s staying here,” Dean corrected, “You and I are heading south, if you’re up for the trip.”

Sam scowled, “Where are we going?”

“Doesn’t really matter, does it? S’long as it is not here.”

“Dean.”

Dean jumped at the sound of the gravelly voice, “Shit! Cas! Knock or something, would ya?”

“That seems unnecessary. You knew I would meet you here.”

“Still, personal space, dude. I don’t want to shoot you on accident.”

“That would be pointless,” Castiel said humorlessly

Dean rolled his eyes, “Whatever. Do you have anything for us?”

“Heaven has discovered my betrayal,” the angel said, “I need to hide.”

“Are you saying you’re staying with us?” Dean asked carefully. He saw Sam freeze out of the corner of his eye.

“That would be unwise. I am much easier to detect. I should not stay long.”

“Alright, well, can you at least do something for Sam?” Dean glanced at his brother. Sam was rigid with tension, jaw clenched, and staring expressionlessly at Castiel’s chin.

“I am afraid not,” Castiel said, “My grace is too incompatible with his blood. I attempted to ease his pain before, and the results were . . . unpleasant for both of us.”

“Not even his hands,” Dean demanded, “There could be permanent damage!”

“I am aware, and I am truly sorry, but there is nothing I can do. I have lingered too long as it is. Just know that I have shielded you, your brother, and your car from angelic detection. If you need me, pray, and I will come if I can.” With that, the angel disappeared.

“Well thanks for nothing.” Dean sighed, “Well, let’s get going, Sam,” he said, brushing his brother’s shoulder. Sam jerked violently, and Dean noticed sweat beading on his brow. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Sam said, “Let’s just go.”

“You need me to carry you?”

Sam shook his head.

“Alright,” Dean said dubiously, “Well let’s get these on at least.” He pulled a pair of slippers out of the bag and put them on Sam’s feet before getting out of the car and opening Sam’s door.

Sam made it all of half a step on his own before stumbling. Dean immediately slung his arm around Sam’s shoulder, bearing most of his weight as they stumbled to the Impala.

“Sorry it took so long,” Bobby said as Sam and Dean finally reached the Impala, “Pretty sure the clerk was drunk, stoned, and asleep all at the same time.” He opened the passenger side door and Dean helped Sam slide into the seat.

“It’s fine,” Dean said, “Castiel stopped by. Apparently, heaven’s made him.”

“Another reason not to dawdle,” Bobby said, “I’ll try and lead them on a goose chase. You boys keep your heads down.”

“Be careful,” Dean said.

“Course, son,” Bobby said, “You too. Remember, this is your father you’re dealing with, and apart from being the best damn tracker I’ve ever seen, he knows all your patterns, all your aliases. You boys stay far, and I mean far off the grid.”

“We will,” Dean said.

“Good,” Bobby said, “Now would ya mind grabbing the rest of the blood and medical supplies from the other car?”

Dean glanced from Bobby, to Sam, and back again, “No problem.” As he suspected, the moment he walked away, Bobby bent over just enough to see into the passenger seat. Dean wondered what Bobby was saying, it wasn’t like he’d had any real contact with Sam—yet another thing Dean was regretting about this entire fiasco. He doubted Sam was saying much back.

He loitered at the other car while Bobby and Sam finished their conversation, but he did not have to wait long before Bobby straightened and nodded at him.

“See you soon, kid,” he said when Dean approached, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You too,” Dean said, “Let’s give them hell . . . . literally.”

“Attaboy,” Bobby said with a final pat on Dean’s shoulder and a brief smile at Sam before he turned and headed into the motel.

Chapter Text

Part V

John the Beloved

(23) Now there was leaning on Jesus’ bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved.

John 13

I

(34) Then said Jesus, Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.

Luke 23

They drove south through nowhere Iowa for another seven hours, stopping once at a drive-through to grab a hamburger and once a few hours later so Dean could gas up the car, relieve himself, and buy a handful of hostess cakes.

“You didn’t pay with a card, did you?” Sam asked as he got into the car.

Dean startled. It was the first words Sam had spoken the entire drive. Even blasting Zeppelin, the silence had been oppressive, but he shook his head, “Dad knows all my aliases.”

Sam nodded then resumed his silent contemplation of the gas pump outside his window.

“You uh . . . want something to drink, or uh take a leak. I could help you, if you need . . .”

Sam shook his head without taking his eyes off the pump.

“Right,” Dean said, “Then I guess we’ll be on our way.”

Sam ignored all of Dean’s attempts at conversation: his comments on music (can’t get better than ACDC can you?), the scenery, (Iowa puts you to sleep just by looking at it), and even direct questions (do you want to pull over and take a look at those bandages?). No matter what Dean said, Sam didn’t respond, didn’t even take his eyes off the endless cornfields.

Dean understood Sam’s brooding. After all, Sam sold his soul to save Dean and John’s lives, only for them to turn around and nearly torture him to death . . . twice. Now he was trapped in a car with one of his torturers while being chased by heaven, hell, and his own father.

Dean understood it just fine, but that did not stop Sam’s silence from nearly driving him insane.

Finally, a little before dusk, Dean pulled off the highway and drove around until he found a deserted, dirt road next to a lake and switched off the engine.

“I can’t drive anymore,” he said, “I was seeing triple of everything.”

Sam nodded slightly, but gave no other acknowledgment of Dean’s words.

“Anyway,” Dean continued, “I figure you must be beat too,” he stopped, glancing at the bandages once again covering his brother, “Uh . . . sorry . . .”

“I’m not a porcelain doll, Dean,” Sam said, still without looking at him.

Well, at least he still gets pissy, Dean thought. Aloud he said, “Well, before we get some sleep, we really need to change your bandages.” Without waiting for a reply, he got out of the car, grabbed the bag of medical supplies from the backseat, and walked around to open the passenger side.

When Dean opened the door, Sam slowly rotated himself on the seat so his feet were resting on the gravel facing Dean. He grimaced at the movement, but made no other indication of the pain the motion caused him.

“Alright,” Dean said, “First, I’m sure you’ve gotta pee by now, so let’s take care of that then take care of the rest of these.”

Still refusing to meet Dean’s eyes, Sam nodded and allowed Dean to pull him to his feet. They stumbled a few paces away from the car, and Dean pulled down Sam’s pants and looked away while Sam managed to aim with his gimp hands . . . mostly anyway. Dean didn’t mention the specks of urine that sprayed his boots and Sam’s slippers, nor the flush in Sam’s cheeks as Dean pulled his pants back up.

That finished, they stumbled back to the car and Sam sank with a grunt onto the edge of the seat.

“Do you want me to take a look at,” Dean gestured towards Sam’s groin, “There were some pretty nasty burns . . .”

“It’s fine.”

“Okay then,” Dean knelt down on the ground, ignoring the pebbles pressing into his legs. Like he had any right to complain.

He started with Sam’s feet, pulling off the slightly damp slippers without comment and unwinding the bandages. He bit back a hiss when he re-examined Sam’s shredded feet. Despite Sam’s super-healing, the bandages were soaked in blood, and many of the holes—Dean reckoned some of them were at least half an inch deep—still bled. Suddenly, Dean realized it wasn’t just Sam’s hands that might never work properly again.

“Their nails were sharper,” Sam said, “You should take notes.”

“Fuck, Sam. I’m . . .”

“I don’t want to hear it, Dean,” Sam snapped, so Dean bit his tongue and started wiping the new blood away and dousing Sam’s feet in rubbing alcohol, barely resisting the urge to take a swig every time Sam hissed at the alcohol’s burn.

“We’ll stay in a motel tomorrow,” Dean said as he re-bandaged Sam’s feet, “Our trail should be cold enough to risk it.”

“Don’t coddle me, Dean.”

“Who says this is for you?” Dean lied, “I haven’t showered in two days, and you stink.”

Sam pursed his lips, but chose not to respond as Dean pulled the pajama pants up to Sam’s thighs and examined the burns and welts on his legs.

“Well those are fading, at least,” he said, stopping to disinfect a couple of the nastier ones. “Okay, let’s take a look at those arms.”

Dean swallowed a mouthful of bile when he got a good look at Sam’s arms underneath all the bandages. Angry burn blisters, some larger than quarters, surrounded his wrists and smaller, but no less painful, burns from the chains that tied him to the beam crisscrossed his arms in a grotesque plaid design.

His hands, however, were by far the worst. Like his feet, the holes seemed to have barely healed: Dean could wring the blood out of the bandages, and Sam cried out in pain when Dean poured the alcohol into the deep wound.

“Shit. Shit. Shit,” Dean muttered, biting back another apology as Sam panted in pain, “We’re almost done.”

“With this one,” Sam gasped.

He was right of course, and by the time Dean finished with the other hand, tears were leaking down Sam’s face. Dean carefully avoided eye contact. He could save Sam that humiliation, at least.

When Dean finally finished with Sam’s chest and back, he was straining to see in the last flickers of dusk. Sam was trembling in agony, and half the time his gasps of pain sounded horribly close to chocked sobs.

“Easy, easy,” Dean muttered over and over as he worked as quickly as he could, brushing mosquitos away from both of them and silently cursing his father with every one of Sam’s hisses and cries.

“Alright,” Dean said when he finally taped down the last bandage on Sam’s back, “Let’s get in the car before these goddamned mosquitos finish eating us alive.”

Sam obeyed, swinging his legs into the Impala so Dean could shut the door and circle around to the driver’s side.

“That’s better,” he said, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the seat. “Well,” he said, opening his eyes, “I’m going to have another one of these,” he grabbed one of the hostess cakes, “And hit the head.” He glanced over at Sam, “You need something to drink?”

“No.”

For a second, Dean considered letting it slide. Then he remembered Sam’s still-bleeding hands and feet, “Obviously I’m no expert,” he said, “But I know that you heal a lot better the more when you’ve eaten—drinken—so I’d think you’d want more than a couple swallows a day.”

“Of course I do,” Sam said stiffly, staring straight out the front window.

“Then how much do you want?”

“I can never have too much. The blood satiates, but it never fills.”

“So you could drink a man –demon- dry.”

“I have, on multiple occasions.”

“Then why don’t you . . .”

“Because the blood reminds me who I am!” Sam finally met his eyes, “What I am! When I feel it coursing through my veins I forget . . .” he stopped.

“Forget what?” Dean pressed.

“Forget why I’m doing all this,” Sam said tightly, “Forget why I’m fighting.”

Well . . . fuck.

“So what you’re telling me is if you chug down all the blood I’ve got locked up in the trunk . . .”

“Then I’ll forget exactly why it is I’m not stripping the meat from you and your father’s bones, one fiber at a time,” Sam said coldly, “Yea.”

“Awesome,” Dean rubbed his eyes, “And you can force me to do whatever you want, just by talking to me, right?”

“Get out your gun and point it at your head.”

Dean felt his hand move before Sam had finished his sentence, felt his fingers grasp the grip of the gun as naturally as the thousand other times he had reached for it, felt himself point the weapon at his head without the slightest tremble.

“Does that answer your question,” Sam said coolly.

“So is this it?” Dean said, not quite able to keep his voice steady, “You want me to blow my brains out?”

Sam considered him for a long moment, “No.”

With that, something in Dean’s mind snapped like a rubber band, and he felt motion surge back into his hand. He shoved the gun back into his pocket with trembling hands, breathing heavily as he leaned his head against the steering wheel.

“Do you understand now, Dean?”

“That you’re a scary bastard,” Dean said, “Yea.”

“That you can’t trust me,” Sam insisted, “All the shit people have been telling you about my righteousness and purity is just a technicality. That Castiel, Gordon, and your father did everything they could to get me to fucking hate you all and they damn near succeeded.” His eyes flicked black, “I know you’ve got a set of chains in your trunk, and if you really want to stop the apocalypse then you need to lock me down now.”

Dean looked away, tapping the steering wheel and staring at a couple of lightning bugs hovering lazily in front of the windshield, “If you’re really are so dangerous,” he said slowly, “Then why are you telling me this? Why aren’t you dashing off to start doomsday.”

“Because I don’t want to go to hell, for starters.”

“Then do what you just said,” Christ, what was Dean doing? “Kill me. Kill Dad. Hell, kill a whole town of people while you’re at it. You won’t be a righteous man anymore, and you can just cool your heels until a different righteous man breaks in hell and ice Lilith.”

“Thought of that already,” Sam said, “But it wouldn’t work. Hell’s technical definition of a righteous man is someone who sells their soul to save another. I can become Hitler and it wouldn’t do any good. Plus, Lilith would still come after me.”

“And shove your ass in the pit just for the trouble you’ve caused, right,” Dean said, “So is that it? That’s the only reason you’re in this now, to avoid the fire and brimstone?”

Sam bit his lip, turning his head to stare straight out the windshield again, “Lucifer doesn’t want to destroy the world, you know,” he said finally, “Not really. He loves creation. He just hates humanity. He wants . . . Eden.”

“Sounds nice,” Dean admitted, ignoring how the words sent his heart pounding, “Worth going to hell for?”

“I’m already going for less.”

“Right.” Dean’s finger was tapping in time with his heart now, but he could not think of anything else to say. Either way, Sam was screwed. Saving the world would put off his trip to hell, but it wouldn’t undo his deal. Sam’s only chance at salvation was . . . Lucifer.

Sam could choose either to save himself or the world . . . and the noble bastard was still debating . . . even after everything . . .

The weight of Sam’s goodness, his—righteousness-- hung heavy on Dean. It wasn’t hard to find the real monsters.

They sat in silence—Dean looking at Sam, and Sam looking out the windshield—for a full minute before Sam said, just loud enough for Dean to hear, “He did laugh. Your father. Not at first. At first he hung back . . . let Gordon and Castiel . . .” He swallowed, “But he did. When Gordon started drilling through my hand. I screamed. I screamed “Dad!” and I . . .” he took a deep breath, and a tear streaked down his cheek, “He laughed. He laughed and told Castiel to use his grace to keep me awake so Gordon could drill slower. And . . .” he jaw snapped shut, and he took several deep breathes, “Lock me down, Dean. I’m warning you.”

“Yea,” Dean cleared his throat and wiped wetness away from his own eyes, “Yea, that’s not going to happen.”

Sam looked away from the windshield to glare at him, tear tracks gleaming on his face in the moonlight, “Have you been listening to me? I might kill you. I might kill you and your Father and start the Apocalypse just because I am so fucking pissed!”

“I’ve been listening,” Dean said quietly, “I’ve been listening real good, and the way I see it, you’re well within your rights to do all of that.”

“Excuse me?” For the first time since Dean laid eyes on him in Gordon’s hotel room, Sam looked honestly shocked. It would have been awesome if it wasn’t all so fucking horrible.

“I mean it!” Dean said, more confidently now, “It’s like you’ve been saying from the get-go, Sam, you don’t owe humanity anything. None of us have ever given you a single damned thing.” Another tear rolled down Dean’s cheek before he could stop it, “’Specially not the people who should’ve been helping you from the start.” He looked down at his lap, “I’ve been calling you my brother, but truth is, I don’t have the right to call you that. Not after everything we’ve—that I’ve done to you.”

“I wanted you to . . .” Sam began.

“That don’t change what I did,” Dean interrupted, “And it sure as hell don’t change what Dad did. So here’s how it’s gonna go.” He took out his gun and set it on the dashboard, “Nobody’s telling you what to do anymore. No demon. No angel. And sure as hell not me. If you want me to help you kill Lilith, I’ll stay with you to the end. If you want to kill me and Dad then go off and hunt Lilith yourself, that’s fine with me.” He hesitated, “And if you want to die so you can start the apocalypse and live with Lucifer in paradise, then that’s what I want you to do.”

“I . . .” Dean looked up. Sam’s mouth was shaped into a comically perfect “O,” and Dean was struck with the realization that, despite all his power, no one had ever asked Sam what he wanted.

“I-I . . . want to sleep,” Sam said finally.

“Alright,” Dean nodded. He got out of the car and opened the trunk, grabbing a couple old blankets before opening the driver’s-side door again. “There you go,” he said, balling up the more ragged of the blankets into a rough pillow shape and handing it to Sam, “Not quite five-star material, but I figure it’ll do.”

Sam accepted the blanket dumbly, rotating with a grimace so that his feet were resting on the seat of the Impala and tucking the blanket behind his head.

“And there you go,” Dean said, tossing another blanket over Sam, who, sure enough, grabbed it awkwardly with his bandaged hands and pulled it up to his shoulders. Satisfied, Dean shut the driver’s side door and climbed into the backseat.

“Good night, Sam,” he said, closing his eyes and stretching out in the seat.

It took several seconds for Sam to respond, and Dean thought about the gun on the dashboard.

“Good night,” Sam finally replied.

It was probably because he had been awake for nearly forty-eight hours, but it took Dean less than a minute to fall asleep, even if he honestly didn't know if he'd see the morning.

Chapter Text

Part V

John the Beloved

(23) Now there was leaning on Jesus’ bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved.

John 13

II

(3)Then Judas, which had betrayed [Christ], when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, (4) Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood. And they said, What is that to us? see thou to that.

Matthew 27

A particularly obnoxious bird startled Dean awake just before the sun decided to make an appearance. He growled at the thing to shut it, and when it ignored him, sat up with a resigned groan.

His first coherent thought was that he wasn’t dead.

His second was that Sam wasn’t in the front seat.

He leapt out of the car, heart thundering in his chest. He had given Sam permission to end the world last night, but he had not bet on being around to watch it go down.

“Morning sleeping beauty.”

Dean whirled around. Sam was sitting in front of the Impala, legs stretched out in front of him and resting his neck against a headlight, careful to keep his back from touching the metal.

“You should have seen your face,” Sam’s mouth vaguely resembled a smile, “You looked like you were about to shit yourself.”

“I might have, a little,” Dean said, sliding down next to Sam, though careful to keep a few inches distance between them. “You been awake long?”

“Awhile,” Sam said, “Managed to piss without spraying myself.”

“Well that’s something.”

“Thought about trying to sit on the hood,” Sam added, “But I decided that couldn’t end well, so I sat down here until your lazy ass could help me up.”

“You want me to help you up now?”

Sam shook his head, so Dean settled more comfortably against the grill of the car and stared at the streaks of pink and gold just peeking over the tree line.

“So,” he said after a couple minutes of silence, “I’m not dead.”

“No,” Sam said expressionlessly.

“Awesome,” Dean hesitated, “Can I expect the not deadness to last . . .”

“For the near future,” Sam said, “Probably. At least, I won’t be the one who kills you. You’re so moronic I expect some demon or angel will get around to it soon enough.”

“Well thanks, I think . . .”

Sam honest-to-God smiled at that. It was a small thing that flitted across his lips like a startled rabbit, before settling back into his permanent frown, but it was there.   

They sat in silence: Sam watching the final rays of the sun peek over the tree line and Dean watching Sam. At first, Dean tried to think of something to say, anything, to break the quiet, but Sam didn’t seem to share Dean’s need for noise.

Finally, when the last traces of pink had left the sky, Sam extended his hands, “Help me up.”

Dean obeyed, grateful it was the normal, help-some-one-up-when-they-ask command, obeying and not the Jedi mind-trick kind, “You need any bandages changed?” he asked as he lifted Sam up and helped him back to the passenger seat.

“Hands and feet, probably,” Sam said, “And burn all the old ones.”

“What? You think angelic bloodhounds can track the smell?”

“Let’s not risk it.”

“Alright.” Dean made quick work of the Sam’s feet, grateful to see that most of the bleeding had finally stopped. “What’s your range of motion like?” he asked as he taped the last bandage in place.

“Well, I was able to limp three whole feet,” Sam said, flexing his feet experimentally and wincing at the movement, “So maybe we’re not totally screwed.”

“Awesome,” Dean said, “Now let’s take a look at those hands.”

“They’re not as promising,” Sam said drily, extending his hands so Dean could see the small red dots in the center of the bandages and the splints holding half his fingers together, “But hey, my thumbs work!”

“You’re a regular Pollyana,” Dean muttered as he unwrapped one of the bandages.

“Who,” Sam hissed as Dean doused his hand in whiskey, “The hell is Pollyana.”

“Some kid who smiled too much,” Dean said, “That’s not how I’m going to introduce you to humanity’s greatest hits.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m guessing yellow eyes and Ruby didn’t show you to the finer things in life,” Dean shot a glance up at Sam, whose eyebrows were reaching halfway up his forehead.

“Like . . .”

“Football,” Dean said, “Pool. The Three Stooges. Star Wars.”

“No,” Sam sounded almost offended at the suggestion.

“Well I’m morally obligated to fix that,” Dean said as he unwound the bandage on Sam’s other hand, “Along with dodging all of creation, I am going to show you, Sam, the best humanity has to offer. If we’re gonna watch the world end, we might as well enjoy the ride.”

***

It took less than half an hour to burn Sam’s small mountain of bandages, swing through a Mickey D’s drive-through for a couple Egg McMuffins, and pull back onto the highway.

“Where to?” Dean asked once Baby was cruising at seventy.

“I don’t care,” Sam said, but his tone lacked most of yesterday’s venom.

“I’m really asking,” Dean said, “Dad knows my instincts better than I do, so I figure it’s best we follow yours.”

Sam hesitated, “East,” he said, “Let’s go east.”

“Alright,” Dean said, revving up the engine. They drove east heading towards Illinois and the Mississippi while Dean began his tour of humanity by blasting Zeppelin, occasionally shouting explanations of band tours and guitar riffs over the roar of the engine and the music.

Sam didn’t respond much, but Dean took his vaguely amused expression as a good sign.

They were somewhere in Indiana when Dean pulled into a motel half a step above his usual pay-by-the-hour standard. It would do nothing to shake Dad off their tail, but Sam deserved to spend the night in a—somewhat—clean room.

Traveling with Sam was cheap, too. Instead of his usual credit card fraud routine, he just helped Sam (still shirtless, but places like this didn’t care) stumble to the front desk. Sam told the clerk to give them a key to the first-floor corner room without paying and then to forget the entire interaction.

“Nice work Obi-wan,” Dean said as he helped Sam limp to their room.

“What?” Sam grunted.

“Right,” Dean said, “Star Wars. That’s next on the list.”

Although they had lost most of yesterday’s tension, by the time they reached the room, Sam was practically buzzing with the need for some alone time, so Dean changed Sam’s bandages, cajoled him into accepting a couple more tablespoons of blood, and settled him in one of the beds with the remote.

“I’ll grab some food at the diner and be back,” he promised from the doorway. Sam grunted, already flipping through channels, so Dean nodded, swallowing down most of his fear at leaving Sam alone (not sure whether he was more afraid of what would happen to Sam, or what Sam would do), and closed the door behind.

It was a three-minute drive to the local diner, and despite his anxiety, Dean liked the idea of food from a place without golden arches.

The waitress was cute, with a thin face and blonde hair reaching a little past her shoulders, so Dean gave her his most charming smile along with his usual order of a burger and fries.

“Here you go,” she said fifteen minutes later, setting his plate in front of him with a smile.

“Thanks,” he said, returning the smile.

“Actually,” she sat down on the other side of the booth and leaning across the table so he got a good view of her breasts, “I just finished my shift. Wanna chat?”

Dean glanced at his watch. It read 6:37.

“I doubt that,” he said, though he couldn’t help staring longingly at her cleavage. It had been a hell of a long time since he had seen any action . . . but Sam was waiting, and Dean didn’t feel confident enough to leave him much longer, not even for a quick one in the Impala. He shot the woman a regretful smile, “Wish I could, but I don’t really have the time.”

“Actually, I think you do,” the waitress’ eyes flicked black, “Unless you want me to start dropping bodies.” She nodded casually at the people dotting the diner.

Fuck. Dean took a deep breath, weighed his options, and came up with nothing, “Alright,” he said, “What do you want?”

“First I want you to stop reaching for the holy water in your pocket.”

“Fine,” Dean raised his hands slowly and set them on the table, cursing silently. At this point, his best chances of out of this was Sam bursting through that door.

But Sam wouldn’t be bursting through anything for a while yet, and more likely than not, he was facing his own demon problems.

God, Dean was such an idiot.

“Good,” the demon said. She grabbed a couple French fries from Dean’s plate and popped them in her mouth, “Then let’s talk.”

“What do you want?” Dean demanded with significantly more gusto than he felt.

“Just wanna talk, Dean-o,” the demon said, “I figure you know why.”

“I don’t know where Sam is,” he said, “He ditched me the moment we got him away from the angels.”

“Why do humans always insist on telling such ridiculous lies?” the demon rolled her eyes, “Even if I hadn’t seen you and Sam entering the motel down the road, I know Sam well enough to know he would never leave you, even though he should. He’s been pining after you like a lost puppy for too long.”

“You’re Ruby,” Dean said, seething with fury as he watched the demon that lied to and betrayed Sam steal a couple more of his French fries.

“You’re smarter than you look,” she smiled.

“You leave Sam the fuck alone!” he growled.

“Do you see me near him?” She raised her hands in mock acquiescence, “And don’t worry, no one’s going to be interrupting Sammy. I really just want to talk to you, dumbo.”

“Why the hell should I believe you? You’re working for Lilith.”

“I’m working for Lucifer,” Ruby corrected, “Which means I’m working for Sam. I want nothing to do with Lilith.”

“Don’t try to sell me the ‘Sam wants to end the world’ line too,” Dean said coolly, “It’s getting old.”

Ruby shook her head, “I’m not. I’m telling it to you like it is. I have faith in Lucifer, which means I have faith in Sam.”

“You betrayed Sam.”

“Sam thinks I betrayed him, but really, I was saving him. And it was working until Crowley started meddling in things he didn’t understand.”

“Oh that’s right, I forgot,” Dean folded his arms, “You didn’t betray him. You just lied to him, pretended you wanted to help him save the world, and sold him out to be tortured to death and sent to hell!”

“Yes!” Ruby snarled, jumping to her feet and leaning across the table until her face was just inches away from Dean’s, “And I’m the only one in Sam’s life who has always had his best interests at heart. Hell I still am! You can talk about love, about betrayal, about family, but you’re just full of shit!”

She sank back onto her seat, arms crossed and glaring at Dean, “Which is why I’m here. Everyone, and I mean everyone, is gunning for you two, so here’s how it’s going to end. Best case scenario, your father finds you, shoots Sam on sight, and send him to hell to break the first seal and set Lucifer free. Option two, the angels find you, torture Sam to death, and send him to hell. Or, option three, Lilith finds you, and she keeps Sam alive for years, doing things to him that will leave him begging for hell, because hell would really be better. Sam was Lilith’s toy, and now he’s pissed her off. She’s willing to put off the apocalypse a few years to make him pay.”

“Or he kills her,” Dean growled, “He kills the bitch and . . .”

“Oh yes,” Ruby snarled, “This is my favorite: your plan. Sam kills Lilith, Lucifer stays locked up and . . . guess what? Sam still dies, and quickly, likely as not. So your plan ends like all the others: Sam in hell. Except, this time, he stays there, forever. No angel will resurrect him. No demon will give him up, even for a hundred deals. He just suffers, for eternity.”

She paused, as if waiting for Dean’s response. When none came, she folded her arms and continued.

“That’s what I want you to think about, Dean. Sam’s worshipped you all his life, and his obsession has only brought him pain. He doesn’t care about saving the world, only about saving you. So this is my question: are you really going to let him? Are you really going to damn your brother for eternity and take away his only chance for peace, for happiness, with Lucifer? And if you are,” she snorted, “Then which one of us is really the traitor?”

“Then what do you expect me to do?” Dean growled.

Ruby stood, “If you really love your brother, you will get up, go back to that hotel room, and shoot him in the head. He will break quickly in hell, which means the angels will rescue him quickly. He will kill Lilith and set Lucifer free. Then Lucifer will reward him beyond anything any of us could ever imagine.”

“And the world will end!” Dean interjected.

Ruby shrugged, “And you all go to heaven. Demons come to earth. Everybody gets an upgrade. More importantly, for the first time in his life, Sam will be happy.”

“Are you really trying to tell me you give a fuck about Sam?” Dean snarled, “That a demon cares about him! The way I see it, you’re just smoothing the way for Lilith.”

“I am working with Lilith only because I have to!” Ruby snapped, “She claims to love Lucifer, but she despises his chosen vessel. I am the only one he has ever confided in, the only demon he has ever trusted, and yes Dean, I am the only being in existence who will do anything to minimize his suffering. Think about that before you spew your self-righteousness on me.”

Dean’s eyes fell to the table, “Then why don’t you kill him yourself?”  

“He wouldn’t let me get close enough,” Ruby said, “Like you said, he thinks I betrayed him,” she hesitated, “And, I wanted to give you a chance. He’s told me so many stories about you, done so much for you . . . I want to see how willing you are to return the favor.”

Without another word, she turned and strode out of the diner.

“Thought you’d gotten lost,” Sam said when Dean finally returned to their room. Sam was still lounging on the bed, eyes fixed to the TV screen as some woman in a yellow apron spotted with watermelons dumped a bowl of green things into a blender.

“Place was packed, took a while to get my food,” Dean said, ignoring the rush of guilt that accompanied the words. He didn’t know how to bring up his conversation with Ruby to Sam, wasn’t totally sure he should. Especially not if she was right. If the best thing would really be to . . .

Dean shut down the thought and nodded at the screen instead, “Didn’t figure you for a cooking show guy.”

“Nothing better on,” Sam said without taking his eyes from the television. The watermelon lady was adding a handful of –something—to that God-awful concoction.

“Well that sucks,” Dean flopped onto his own bed, focusing more on the woman’s frighteningly white teeth than whatever potion she was brewing.

“You have so many words for it,” Sam said thoughtfully.

“For what?”

“Food,” Sam said, “She throws them around all the time: salty, sweet, crispy, even stuff that sounds like total bullshit: decadent and savory and whatever.”

“Yea, well. I guess different people like different stuff,” Dean didn’t like the way this conversation was going. But then, when did he ever when it came to Sam?

“Blood’s much simpler,” Sam said, “Doesn’t matter if it’s hot or cold or baked into brownies or whatever else. It just is.”

“Most people would call that boring,” Dean said. He sat up, pulled his duffle towards him, and pulled out a flask. God, he needed a drink.

“It’s pure,” Sam said, “Honest. Humans need fuel to function, simple as that. There’s not point dressing it up, making it something it’s not . . .” he trailed off, furrowing his brow and watching, transfixed, as the lady poured the blender mixture into several tall glasses.

“You don’t sound too sure about that,” Dean said, taking a long swig of whiskey.

The furrows on Sam’s brow deepened, but he didn’t answer.

“Who knows,” Dean continued, “Maybe after all this is done. We’ll find some way to dry you out, for good. Then maybe you could try the miracle that is a burger.”

Sam snorted, “Right. Like there’ll be much of an after.”

Dean was suddenly grateful he had not been able to manage more than a couple of bites after his conversation with Ruby, because the food was beginning to twist and sour, sending bile up his throat. Dean washed it back down with more whiskey.

“There will be,” he finally said, staring down at the flask in his hands “I’m gonna make sure of it.”

Sam finally tore his eyes away from the screen and fixed Dean with a small, sad smile. It was miles from his usual, sarcastic smirk, and that scared Dean more than the rest of the shit storm that was the past few weeks.

“Dean,” Sam said so gently, like a mother breaking the news about Santa Claus, “We both know how this ends.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. This was not how it was supposed to go. Dean was supposed to protect Sam. He was supposed to rescue his kid brother from the hell that was his life. Sam was supposed to trust him to make things all right. They were supposed to ride off into the sunset together.

Dean sure as hell wasn’t supposed to damn Sam to hell, just because they were brothers.

“No,” Dean finally said, “I don’t buy it. That’s not how this ends.”

“What do you mean?” and fuck Sam and his gentle, patronizing smile.

“You’re not gonna save the world then go to hell for your efforts,” Dean’s felt his resolve strengthen as he spoke, “And you’re definitely not going to damn yourself for me. I’m gonna get you out of this.”

“Dean . . .” Sam began.

“No,” Dean overrode him, “I mean it. I don’t care if I have to tear this world apart. I’m gonna get you out of this deal, and we’re both gonna live until we’re shriveled raisins in some nursing home. You hear me?”

Sam gaped at him, looking a lot like Wiley Coyote after being clocked by an anvil.

Dean took another swig from his flask. “Glad we covered that,” he said, leaning back and watching as watermelon lady started dumping a bunch of crap into a mixer, buzzing about chocolate cake.

After a long, long moment, Sam followed suit, staring at watermelon lady as if she held the secrets to the universe.

III

(40) And there came also Nicodemus, which at the first came to Jesus by night, and brought a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about an hundred pound weight.

(41) Then took they the body of Jesus, and wound it in linen clothes with the spices, as the manner of the Jews is to bury.

John 19

It took Dean a long time to fall into something somewhat like sleep, Ruby’s words plaguing his dreams. Even that didn’t last long though, when a strangled cry sent him flying out of bed, gun out and whirling around, searching for the angel, demon, or hunter hiding in the dark.

Instead, he found Sam, blankets kicked off the bed, sheet twisted around him like a snake, trembling and—fuck—crying. His eyes were still shut, and Dean guessed he was still sleeping, but thick, hot tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“No, no, no!” Sam was muttering, “God, no! Please!”

Then a loud, inhuman roar ripped from his throat, and despite everything, despite all the monsters Dean tortured, despite everything he had done to Sam, he’d never heard anything like that desperate scream.

Dean had looked at the gun in his hand and then back at Sam. If you really love your brother, shoot him in the head.

After a few seconds, Sam quieted a little, keening and weeping in his sleep, and Dean finally, finally set the gun on the nightstand and approached Sam’s bed.

“Sam!” he’d said loudly, “Sammy!” He’d touched Sam’s shoulder, and Sam had lurched away like the contact burned, sitting up and looking around wildly.

“You okay, dude?” Dean had asked cautiously.

Sam had nodded, eyes still spinning wildly around the room.

“You sure? I mean . . .”

“Did you call me Sammy?”

The question caught Dean off guard, “Um, yea. I mean, Mom and Dad used to . . .” he stopped abruptly, “Sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

“Go back to bed,” Sam said, untangling the sheet from around himself before laying back down and turning so he was facing away from Dean.

Dean had obeyed, laying down and staring at Sam’s bandaged back. He didn’t mean it, wasn’t expecting it, but he was soon asleep again.

When Dean woke a few hours later. Sam wasn’t in bed, but before Dean could freak out, he heard a toilet flush in the bathroom.

Speaking of . . . Dean sniffed his armpit tentatively and gagged. It smelled a little worse than shit. Dean tried to shake the smell out of his nose. First order of business after Sam got out of the bathroom was a shower.

Although, Sam must be even more desperate to clean himself. Dean waited a little, waiting for Sam to emerge or to hear the shower running. When neither happened, Dean crossed to the room and knocked quietly on the bathroom door.

“Sam?” he said, “You good? Need anything?”

It took a long time for Sam to answer. Dean was about to knock on the door again when Sam finally said, “Come in.”

Dean entered cautiously and found Sam sitting naked on the toilet, staring ruefully at the bathtub. He’d torn off all of his bandages, which littered the floor like morbid confetti. Bright pink burns and cuts still marred most of his body, while a few were fading to bright white, joining his tapestry of scars. Dean looked at Sam’s hands. He’d laid them, palms up, gently on his knees. The holes had scarred over, but only just, and the wounds were still a bright, angry red.

“I wanted to shower,” Sam said evenly, “But I realized the best I’d be able to do alone is dump water over myself, and I want to actually get clean.”

“Right, sure,” Dean said, crossing to the tub and turning the water on. “How do you want to?”

“Just fill the tub a little and help me in,” Sam said, “I’ll do what I can, then you can handle the rest.”

“Awesome,” Dean glanced at the slowly filling tub, totally at a loss of what to say.

The silence stretched on, accompanied by the sound of falling water, until Sam finally sucked in a deep breath and said, “It wasn’t you.”

Dean frowned, “What wasn’t me?”

“In my dream,” Sam was looking carefully at the floor, “It wasn’t you.”

Dean let out a breath he did not realize he was holding, but he couldn’t think of a reply. Sam didn’t seem to expect one though, just rubbed his fingers slowly along the words carved just below his collarbone. Dean could read them easily across the small room: Lilith’s Bitch.

“Want to go in?” Dean said. He nodded at the tub: the water wasn’t even six inches deep, but Dean was at a loss of what else to do.

Thankfully, Sam nodded, and leaned heavily on Dean’s arms as he stepped into the tub.

“Feet seem better,” Dean noted.

“Just stiff now, mostly,” Sam agreed, “Not much pain.”

Dean doubted Sam’s definition of “not much pain” matched anyone else’s, but he took the win, grabbing a washcloth and the cheap, complimentary shampoo and soap from the counter as Sam splashed water over himself with stiff hands.

“How are your fingers?” Dean asked, dipping the washcloth in the bathwater and lathering it with soap.

Sam pressed his thumb and middle finger together, grimacing as his fingers struggled to meet, but didn’t quite manage it.

“Well that’s progress,” Dean said, handing Sam the washcloth, “You want this?”

Sam hesitated, but shook his head, “Let’s just do this as fast as possible.”

“Alright,” Dean said. He shut off the water, “Wanna start with your back?”

“Get the worst out of the way,” Sam agreed, leaning forward and pressing his head to his knees.

Dean sat on the edge of the tub, just behind Sam, “Gonna start at the top,” he said, “Work my way down.”

Sam nodded into his knees, so Dean started dapping gently at Sam’s right shoulder, trying to clean as quickly and thoroughly as possible without causing Sam too much pain. It seemed to work, mostly: Sam only hissed once or twice as Dean washed his back and torso, working his way through the maze of mottled skin and angry scars, old and new. He looked away as he gently scrubbed Sam’s collarbone, unable to handle seeing the words up-close.

“Look at that,” Sam said, as Dean started washing his arms, “You get to have bath time with baby brother after all.”

The words barely sounded mocking, so Dean grinned, “You think this was the part I missed? I wanted someone whose boxers I could douse in itching powder and bully into doing my homework for me.”

“I’m four years younger than you.”

“So? You’re obviously an obnoxious nerd, and don’t blame that on the demon blood.”

Sam smiled at that, ducking his head, “Yea, well, I just wanted someone to steal army men from.”

“Hell no!” Dean laughed, “Those were mine.”

“That was the first thing I saw,” Sam said abruptly, all trace of humor gone now, “First time I saw you, you were in some sleazy hotel, and you had two rows of army men lined up, facing each other. You’d pick up one of the men from each side, and pretend they were shooting each other, and I thought,” he smiled sadly, “I thought it’d be a hell of a lot easier if you had someone sitting across from you, that way your men could fight each other properly.”

Dean stared at Sam, washcloth hanging uselessly from his hand. Sam, for his part, had taken a sudden, intense interest in the tarnished bathtub faucet.

“I remember that,” Dean said finally, “I was eight, ten at the most. I had mostly stopped playing with those, figured they were for little kids. Then Dad left for two weeks, and by the end I was climbing the walls, too bored for even TV, and I was scared shitless, ‘cause Dad had never been gone that long. So I dragged those things out from the bottom of my duffle, lined them up and . . .” he cleared his throat, “And pretended my kid brother was playing with me. I figured, since he’d still be little, I was allowed to play with the little kid toys, just until Dad got home.” He stared at the grimy washcloth in his hands. “Guess, I was feelin’ so alone, I just wanted to have my kid brother back, just for a while.”

“Do you?” Sam’s eyes were fastened on his feet now, and his whisper barely echoed through the tiny bathroom, “Do you have him back?”

“I . . .”  Dean cleared his throat again and wiped wetness from his eyes, “I think I do.”

Chapter Text

Part V

John the Beloved

(23) Now there was leaning on Jesus’ bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved.

John 13

IV

And, behold, two of them went that same day to a village called Emmaus, which was from Jerusalem about threescore furlongs.

 14  And they talked together of all these things which had happened.

 15  And it came to pass, that, while they communed together and reasoned, Jesus himself drew near, and went with them.

 16 But their eyes were holden that they should not know him.

Luke 24

They were back on the road an hour later. Dean stuck to the state highways so he could roll the windows down, and as they drove Sam spouted off random facts about trees they passed, or the Native American tribes who used to live there, or the history of the American transportation system. Dean rolled his eyes every time, called Sam a geek, and interjected his own thoughts about classic rock, classic movies, and classic cars. Sam rolled his every time and called him a loser with smile, an honest-to-God, no-strings-attached smile, and every time the pit in Dean’s stomach grew a little wider.

Was he really going to send his brother to hell?

There was supposed to be time to think about it. There was supposed to be time to talk it out. There was supposed to be time to spend one day, just one day just talking to his brother, getting to know Sam Winchester without messing with angels, or demons, or the apocalypse. Just one fucking day.

Except, midafternoon, half-way between one no-name town and another, Sam interrupted Dean’s (only slightly) exaggerated story of the time he hustled half a dozen members of a biker-gang in Texas.

“Shut up, Dean,” he said sharply, sitting up sharply in his seat and looking out the window behind him.

“What?” Dean demanded, trying to follow Sam’s gaze.

“Demons,” Sam said, “Where’s the blood?”

“The what . . .”

“The demon blood!” Sam shouted, “Where’s the rest of it?”

“Trunk . . . shit!” Dean slammed his hand on the steering wheel, “How many are there?”

“Half a dozen, at least,” Sam said distractedly, “All of them powerful.”

“How many can you take?”

“All of them, hypothetically.”

“Well that’s something, right?”

“I’d rather not hang the fate of the world on a hypothetical, would you?” Sam snapped. “Stop the car.”

“What? They’ll be on top of us!”

“They can’t touch you. They can’t touch the car. They can’t touch me in the car. This fight happens on our terms.”

“Then why would we . . .”

“Because we’ve only got a quarter of a tank of gas left!” Sam gestured at the dashboard, “And I’m only going to get weaker. So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to stop the car. You’re going to get out, get the blood from the trunk, and get back in here. I’ll drink it and fight them off.”

“Sam . . .”

“Now!”

Dean slammed on the breaks. As much as he hated the plan, there wasn’t time to argue, especially not when Sam was right.

“Okay,” he breathed, “Sit tight.” He flung the door open, slammed it shut behind him, and sprinted to the trunk. There was no one in sight, but Sam had yet to be wrong (about anything), so Dean hurriedly unlocked the trunk and grabbed an un-opened gallon jug.

“Thanks Dean-o,” someone said behind him. Dean whirled around and was met by what looked like a twenty-something college girl, except for black eyes and a sadistic smile.

“You can’t touch me,” Dean said, “I know how this works.” He took a step back, only to run into a possessed mechanic.

“You’re right,” the first demon agreed, taking a step towards him. “We can’t have you, or your car, or what’s in your car, but what’s in your hands,” she looked meaningfully at the gallon jug, “That’s fair game.”

“Dean!”

Dean heard the passenger door slam shut. He turned towards the sound, “Sam! No!” but Sam was already out of the car.

“I don’t think so, Sammy boy,” the demon said, “You’ve got an appointment, in hell.”

“So do you,” Sam said, and the next second, both demons launched at Sam, Dean ran to intercept them, and the gallon of blood flew from Dean’s hands. For one, horrible second, Dean thought he’d dropped it, but then it flew over his head, the cap popped open, and Dean watched, stunned, as the blood streamed out of the carton like a fountain, arched threw the air, and fell into Sam’s open mouth.

The two demons snarled and pointed their hands at the blood, apparently trying to disrupt the stream, but they had all the effect of a couple of kids trying to punch a mountain as the blood still poured into Sam’s mouth.

“Sam!” Dean warned as half a dozen demons appeared and behind Sam, but Sam just held out a hand, and they stopped as if they had slammed into a brick wall.

So they all watched as the last of the blood flew from the jug and into Sam’s mouth. Sam closed his eyes, licking the last flecks of blood from his lips, and Dean swore his brother (this was his brother) expanded. The slouch Dean had never noticed disappeared as Sam lifted himself up to his full height, he extended his arms, oblivious to the wounds that lingered in his palms and underneath his t-shirt, and when Sam opened his black eyes the air crackled with power.

“Alright,” Sam said calmly. His eyes gazed imperiously over the paralyzed demons, “Do any of you have something to say to me?”

“My king!” one of them, possessing a middle-aged man with a receding hairline, cried, falling to his knees.

Sam turned to face him, “Yes.”

“Why?” and there were actual tears running down the demon’s face, “Why did you leave us? Why do you fraternize with Michael’s vessel . . .” the demon stopped with croak, eyes bulging as Sam cut off his voice.

“Why do you defy me?” Sam said in that same cold, imperious tone, “If you really considered me your king, you would obey me without question.” He flicked his hand, and black smoke poured from the man’s mouth, settling like a dark, seething thought cloud above his head.

“I have no use for insolence,” Sam said, and with another lazy flick of his hand, the smoke exploded in a flash of flames and a terrible scream.

“The same goes for the rest of you,” Sam gestured again, and smoke billowed from the seven remaining hosts, before exploding like fireworks above their heads. The hosts collapsed to the ground, and Dean ran to the nearest one.

“She’ll be fine,” Sam said calmly, “Unless the demons killed them before-hand, they’ll all wake up in a couple minutes.”

“What the fuck was he talking about?” Dean demanded as Sam stepped over the line of unconscious bodies and out went out to the main road, “What the fuck is Michael’s vessel?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam said, his voice frighteningly similar to the imperious tone he used with the demons, “He was just old-fashioned.”

“Sam . . .” Dean began, jogging after his brother’s long strides.

Sam ignored him. Instead, he stopped and shouted to the open road, “Are you satisfied, Crowley!”

“Quite.” Dean jumped as Crowley appeared in front of Sam. He smiled possessively, looking Sam up and down like a valuable painting bought at a black-market auction. “Well look at you,” he said, “The Messiah, crucified and resurrected. Even got the marks to show for it.” He nodded at Sam’s hands.

“You knew?” Dean demanded.

“Of course I knew!” Crowley said, “Your father’s half a dozen sandwiches short of a picnic, so I assumed that he’d bloody Sam up a bit. I didn’t expect the angels to get involved.”

“You underestimated them,” Sam said, “They made you immediately.”

“Clearly,” Crowley said tersely, “Which means I’ve spent the past three days bunking with a couple of grizzlies in Alaska to keep away from Lilith’s clutches, so I’d like to finish this.”

“Wait,” Dean said, “You’re taking him to Lilith, now?”

“There’s no reason to wait, Dean,” Sam said, “It only gives Lilith time to strengthen her forces.”

“Sam!”

“Dean,” Sam turned to face him, suddenly looking a lot less like the demonic Messiah and a lot more like Sam, the Sam Dean was just beginning to know. “It’s alright. It’ll be over soon.”

“I . . .” but the words simply refused to come. What was he supposed to say? Don’t go! Let the apocalypse happen! Maybe. But before Dean could get the words out, Sam drew near and wrapped his arms around him.

The hug shocked Dean, so it took him several seconds to reciprocate, but eventually he wrapped his arms around his brother, careful to avoid the worst of Sam’s remaining wounds, even if Sam no longer felt them.

“Thank you,” Sam muttered into his shoulder, but before Dean could ask what he meant, Sam had pulled away.

“Time’s a wasting,” Crowley said impatiently, “We need to get Sam full to the brim with blood and off to the title fight.”

“I’m coming,” Dean said instantly.

“Oh come on,” Crowley rolled his eyes. “No. You’re not, and you know why? First, because you annoy me, and second, because I don’t need you distracting Sam.”

“No way in hell I’m leaving him behind,” Dean growled.

“I’ll be alright, Dean,” Sam said, “We know I can beat her. I’ll call you after it’s over.”

With that, both Crowley and Sam disappeared.

“You don’t think there’s gonna be an after!” Dean roared at the empty sky.

“Sir! Sir!” Dean whirled around, barely stopping himself from punching the voice’s owner in the jaw.

It was middle-aged man, human once more. Sure enough, Dean watched the others climb to their feet behind him.

“Sir!” he repeated.

Dean gritted his teeth, “What!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!” he squeaked, “I just—I saw—I mean I saw that thing watch you. And it knew who you were and it—it knew you, so please—c-can you help me? I was at home with my six year old. He’s sick and—“

“I’m sorry, dude,” Dean interrupted, “But I can’t help you right now. You have a phone on you?”

He nodded.

“Good. Well, call 911. They’ll pick you up. I’ve gotta go.”

He pushed past him, past the other stunned civilians clamoring for his help, got in the Impala, and tore down the road.

“Castiel!” he shouted, “Castiel! You’d better get you’re feather ass down here to . . . to . . .” he ducked his head out the window to catch a view of the name of the road.

“I’m here, Dean,” Castiel said, appearing in the passenger seat.

Dean swore and swerved, “Good,” he said, “Sam’s gone.”

“Where?” the angel said urgently.

“With Crowley!” Dean slammed his fist on the steering wheel, “They’re going after Lilith.”

“I . . . do not understand,” Castiel said slowly, “Was that not the goal?”

“It was. It was! I mean, I think it was, but he wasn’t supposed to go alone!”

“Dean,” Castiel sighed, “What aid could you be in this fight, except to distract Sam from his goal?”

“I need to make sure there’s an after!” Dean shouted, “Everyone’s talking, Sam’s talking like he’ll self-combust the moment he kills Lilith, and I need to fucking know that I didn’t just send my brother to hell!”

“Dean,” and shit the angel’s expression was almost sympathetic, “It would not be wise . . .”

“Don’t fucking give me that!” Dean roared, “The demons can’t kill me! Worst case scenario, I stand around useless. Best case scenario, I’m at least an extra pair of hands!”

Castiel hesitated, uncertainty clouding his granite-like features.

“Come on, Cas—Castiel—please. He’s my brother.”

“Very well,” Castiel said finally. “Wait here. I will try to find them and bring you there if I can.”

It took less than five minutes for Castiel to return. When he did, his lips were pressed in a tight line and his eyes were dark.

“What’s wrong?” Dean demanded.

“I found Sam,” Castiel said, “And Michael is with him.”

“Michael!” Dean’s insides froze, “Like the Michael. Fight Satan to the death, Michael?”

“Yes.”

“What the fuck is he doing there?”

“He’s making sure Sam doesn’t kill Lilith,” the angel said, “Apparently, neither he, nor Lilith wanted to take the chance of your plan succeeding, and they have Sam.”

It was as if Castiel had ripped the air from Dean’s lungs, “Did they--is he dead?” As much as the words felt like knives in his gut, Dean couldn’t help but think Maybe it’s better.

“No,” Castiel said, “Not yet, and they have a message for you.”

“How do they—“

“They caught me,” Castiel said, “I was not anticipating Michael. I did not think he would stoop to Lilith’s level, but they told me to tell you, ‘Come now, or Sam dies slowly.”

Dean pulled over to the side of the road, “That’s all.”

“That’s all.”

“Is there anything,” Dean said slowly, “And I mean anything, we can do?”

“Only an archangel is powerful enough to defeat another archangel, and with hell’s strongest demon . . .” Castiel shook his head, “There is no other way, Dean. It is finished.”

“Right. Well,” Dean switched off the ignition and got out of the car. Castiel, apparently deciding to forego the doors, appeared next to him. “You’ll be okay, Baby,” he said, patting her hood, “If I don’t come back, Bobby, or, or someone will find you.” He patted her a couple more times, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Okay,” he said, turning back to Castiel, “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Part V

John the Beloved

(23) Now there was leaning on Jesus’ bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved.

John 13

V

For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

Romans 8: 38-39

Apparently, both angels and demons lacked originality, because Castiel zapped Dean to an abandoned warehouse in God-knew-where. Dean blinked in the dim light but quickly made out a Sam-sized shape standing in the middle of the floor.

“Sam!” he shouted, and as Dean’s vision adjusted, Sam came into focus. He was standing in the center of what looked like an elaborate, white devil’s trap. From what Dean could see, Sam looked unharmed, but it was hard to know for sure, because Sam wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his brother’s gaze was fixed on two, blonde women standing across the room. One, Dean recognized as Ruby, and the other must be, “Lilith,” he growled.

Lilith, dressed in a simple white dress with a plunging neckline raised her hand, “Good to finally me you Dean. Sammy here,” she gave Sam a possessive smile, “Has told me all about you.”

“You leave him the fuck alone!” Dean said, striding towards Sam.

“Stay back, Dean!” a voice commanded, “Or Sam’s going to start hemorrhaging in front of you.”

Dean spun around. It couldn’t be . . . “Dad?” he sputtered

John Winchester emerged from the shadows. Only, the closer he got to Dean, the less he looked like John. His limp had disappeared. He raised his head a little higher. His arms and shoulders had lost their usual tense, coiled readiness and instead hung easily at his side. The dark, troubled look in his eyes had vanished; instead, they traveled imperiously around the room, not unlike how Sam had surveyed the demons only half an hour before.

“Who the fuck are you?” Dean growled, “Where’s my Dad!”

“He’s right here, Dean,” the thing that looked like John Winchester said, “I am Michael, the archangel. Your father graciously allowed me to use his vessel.”

“You’re possessing my Dad!” Dean roared, “Like a fucking demon!”

“No!” Michael’s eyes hardened. “It is nothing like that. Only certain humans are strong enough to hold a vessel, and even then, we can only enter with permission.”

“You’re telling me my Dad gave you permission to wear him like a prom dress?” Dean said, “No way in hell he’d agree to that.”

“John was willing to do anything to save you,” Michael said, circling around so he was standing inches from Dean, blocking his view of Sam. Dean stood his ground, but only just, “When you abandoned him in that basement” Michael continued, “He was desperate. He happily said yes when I told him that I could save his son.”

“You son of a bitch. . .” Dean growled.

“We don’t have time for banter, Dean Winchester,” Michael said impatiently, “We need to talk.”

“Get the fuck out of my Dad, and let my brother go,” Dean said, “There. Good talk.”

“You should not take that tone with me,” Michael said. He snapped his fingers, and Sam fell to his knees, clutching his stomach, his face contorted in agony.

“Stop it!” Dean said as Sam grunted in pain and coughed up a mouthful of blood. Dean glanced furiously back at Michael who watched passively as Sam moaned, blood dribbling down his chin, “Alright! I get it! Just stop!”

Michael snapped his fingers, and Sam fell to all fours, and he was gasping for air, but no longer writhing in agony. As Dean watched, Sam pulled himself back shakily to his feet, breathing heavily and wiping blood from his lips and chi .

“It’s time to talk, Dean,” Michael said, moving so that he was standing between Dean and Sam. Dean could just make out Sam’s face over Michael’s shoulder.

“About what?” Dean fought to keep his voice steady.

“About you,” Michael said, “About heaven’s plans for you. About your destiny.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean snuck another look at Sam; he was staring at Michael with a mixture of fury and, Dean could tell, terror.

Michael smiled, “Isn’t it obvious . . .”

“Michael!” Sam roared, and for one, absurd second, Dean nearly laughed because damn the kid had balls.

Michael smirked and glanced over his shoulder, “Yes, Sam?”

“Don’t,” Sam said, all the fury suddenly draining from his voice, “Please. You have John. You have me. You don’t need him.”

“Are you asking me to defy my Father’s will to appease you,” Michael sneered.

“I’m begging you,” Sam glanced at Lilith before returning his gaze to Michael, “Either of you. I’ll do anything. Just let him go.”

“You’d come back to me,” Lilith approached Sam, apparently immune to the modified devil’s trap. She slid a dainty hand up his shirt. Sam froze at the contact, turning his head away from her.

“Come now, Sam,” she said, “It’s not nice to ignore people who are talking to you.” She ran her hand further up Sam’s chest, and her eyes widened when she reached his collarbone, “Oh!” she squealed, “Did Crowley write this?” Sam blushed crimson, and Lilith giggled, “So will you, Sam? If Michael and I let Dean go, will you be my bitch for as long as I want?”

“No!” Dean roared, “Sam! Fuck no! Get your hands off of him, you bitch!”

“I don’t think I’m the bitch in this scenario, Dean,” Lilith said. She put her mouth to Sam’s ear, hand still pressed against his chest, “What do you say, Sam?”

Sam stared at the ground, but Dean could see him trembling against Lilith’s touch. Then Sam close his eyes, and Dean knew what the selfless bastard was about to do.

“Sam! No!” he barked.

Sam ignored him, took a deep breath, and gave Lilith a nearly imperceptible nod.

“That’s my bitch,” she smiled and kissed Sam’s neck. He shuddered as Lilith’s lips trailed up his neck before finally meeting his lips.

Dean looked away. It made him a fucking coward, but he looked away. His eyes met Ruby’s, who folded her arms crossed and glared at him. Her message was clear: You could have stopped this.

At a loss, he whirled around until he saw Cas standing by the far wall

“Do something!” he roared

“He can’t do anything,” Michael said, “I froze him the moment he brought you here. Which reminds me,” Michael turned to face Castiel, “There is no forgiveness for betraying heaven, brother.” He snapped his fingers, and Castiel exploded, spurting blood and specks of flesh and bone across the room.  Dean closed his eyes against the spray of blood and things he didn’t want to think about hitting his back. It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

“What do you say, Michael,” Lilith said, finally pulling her lips away from Sam, who pulled away, retching. Arching an eyebrow at the archangel and slinging a hand around Sam’s waist, pulling him back towards her, Lilith said, “Give me a few months, and he’ll be desperate to free Lucifer. Won’t spend more than a minute in hell before he breaks the first seal. Everything stays on schedule.”

“No.” Michael glared at Lilith, “We do this as God intended.”

“Pity,” Lilith sighed. She went to her tiptoes and kissed Sam’s lips again, pulling his head toward her when he tried to jerk away. “I’ll see you in hell, my bitch,” she said, stroking his cheek before rejoining Ruby on the other side of the trap.

“Michael . . .” Sam rasped.

“And I think that’s enough from you,” Michael said, and Sam’s voice vanished. He opened his mouth as if to shout, fists clenched in fury, but did not make a sound.

“Finally,” Michael said, turning back to Dean. Dean forced his gaze away from Sam, who was staring at Michael, tears traveling slowly down his cheeks.

“What are you going to do to me?” Dean asked, fighting to keep his voice even despite the jackhammering of his heart against his chest.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Michael said, “I told you only certain humans were strong enough to hold an angel. Well only one bloodline is strong enough to hold me.”

Dean stared at Michael, the archangel wearing his father’s face, “So you’re saying only me and Dad can hold you, and you want,” Dean glanced frantically at Sam before looking back at Michael, “You want to possess me and kill Sam?”

“Only once Sam frees Lucifer,” Michael said, “I don’t like constricting myself in human form.”

“Well then duke it out with Lucifer without us!” Dean yelled, “Either of us!”

“That is not how my Father willed it to be done!” Michael’s voice rose, “Two brothers, one faithful, one rebellious fought after the creation of man. So two brothers, one of heaven, and the other of hell, must hold us as we confront each other at the end.”

“You want to possess me so I can kill my brother!” Dean shouted, “Fuck no! Never!”

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Michael said, “I tried to make this easier for you. That’s why I allowed Azazel to take Sam, made sure you grew up apart, so you would not have to kill a brother you loved.” His expression shifted, and he glanced sympathetically at Sam before returning his gaze to Dean, “I understand. I love my brother. I don’t want to kill him, but I am a good son, and I will do what I must.”

“No,” Dean shook his head, “I won’t.”

“That’s what Sam said, when he found out,” Michael nodded again behind him, “That’s why he helped you kill Azazel, why he made his deal with Lilith, why he’s still trying to kill her, even though it will damn him for eternity. He cannot bear the thought of killing you.” The archangel gave him a rueful smile, “But despite all of that, despite everything he did to defy my Father’s plan, despite all his meaningless suffering, after everything, we are still here. We will always end up here. Do you know why, Dean?”

“Why?” Dean growled.

“Because you can’t fight destiny,” Michael’s eyes blazed with holy passion, “Free will is an illusion, Dean. There is no choice, so this is what you are going to do,” Michael reached into John’s pocket and pulled out his gun. Dean must have seen Dad use it hundreds of times, used it plenty himself. Now, he stared at it stupidly as Michael held it out to him.

“You are going to take this,” Michael said, “And you are going to shoot Sam, now. He will go to hell and break the first seal. Then, when the time is right, I will resurrect him, and he will free Lucifer. Finally, Lucifer, in Sam’s vessel, and you, in mine, will finish my Father’s work.”

“One of us kills the other,” Dean completed.

“You and I serve God, Dean Winchester,” Michael smiled, “Who do you think will win?”

“I can’t,” Dean glanced at Sam, who was staring stock-still, eyes fixed on the floor, “I won’t kill him. Not now. Not ever.”

“It is still in his best interest, Dean,” Michael said gently, “When we win, Sam will cease to exist. No heaven. No hell. Just oblivion. I promise that is what he truly craves.”

Dean stared down at the gun in Michael’s outstretched hand and then looked back at Sam. His brother’s arms were hanging limply at his sides, and his cheeks glistened with tear tracks, but his gaze was firm when he looked up at Dean and shook his head.

“No,” Dean turned back to Michael, “No. I won’t. I won’t kill him.”

“Then I will,” Lilith called, “ . . . eventually.”

“And I will kill you,” Michael said, “And you will experience heaven’s persuasion. You will say yes to me, Dean. Sam will say yes to Lucifer. The Apocalypse will unfold as planned. Do you understand?”

Dean stared at the gun in Michael’s hand, “Dad,” he whispered finally, “You there?”

“He is in here, Dean,” Michael said, “He is with me, with us. He knows this is right.”

Dean closed his eyes, and for a moment, all he could hear was the thudding of his heart, his ragged breathing and, just maybe, Sam’s shuddering breaths in front of him. Finally, he opened his eyes, and looked up at Sam who hesitated for a second, then nodded.

“Fine,” Dean’s voice cracked, “Fine, you bastard.”

He held out a trembling hand. His hand, the gun, and Sam were the only things in the world. The only things that mattered in the universe.

“Well done, Dean,” Michael said imperiously, handing him the weapon.

Dean grabbed the gun without meeting the archangel’s gaze. Michael stepped aside, and Dean approached his brother, holding the weapon in trembling hands.  It took both an eternity and no time at all to reach Sam until, suddenly, he found himself staring at Sam’s boots.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I hope your guy wins. Michael’s a dick.” He glanced up; Sam was smiling silently at him, and Dean realized with a jolt that Sam still couldn’t speak.

He glanced at Michael, “Seriously, I’m about to kill my brother to fulfill your fucking divine plan. Least you could do is give him his voice back!”

Michael rolled his eyes, but then Sam coughed, “I think Michael’s trying to get you to like him,” he croaked.

“Yea, no way in hell that’s happening,” Dean tried to meet Sam’s eyes, but they both looked away too quickly. “Listen, when you’re . . . down there. Don’t waste any time. Just break that fucking seal and get back up here as fast as you can. You hear? No more sacrifices. No more nobility. I want you to let Lucifer loose and crush the fucking world and fucking kill me. You got that?”

“Dean,” Sam shook his head, and his eyes brimmed with tears again, “I can’t do that.”

Dean pulled his brother into his arms. Sam rested his head on Dean’s shoulder as if they’d embraced a thousand times, and Dean closed his eyes, clapping his hand around the back of Sam’s neck, “You can,” he said, “Sure you can. Because all you’ve ever done is look out for me, and I’m a selfish bastard. I want you to win for me, Sam, because I sure as hell don’t want to have to live with you dead. You hear me?”

Sam nodded into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean pulled away, cocking the gun. His hands steadied as he placed his finger on the trigger and pressed the gun against Sam’s heart, “It’ll be quick,” he said, “You won’t feel a thing.”

Sam nodded and gave him a weak, wet smile, “Thank you, Dean. For everything.”

“I . . .” but words failed Dean. What had he given Sam, really? Some memories? Scars? A one-way ticket to hell? Sam’s smile, however, didn’t ask for words. Instead, Dean smiled . . . a small, sad smile he hoped communicated a fraction of the soul-crushing love he had for this kid, how grateful he was to him for saving his ass so many times, and how so, fucking sorry he was for all of it.

“Now, Dean!” Michael commanded.

Dean cleared his throat, “On three, okay?” Sam nodded, and Dean took a deep breath, “One . . .”

“DEAN! STOP!”

Dean looked wildly around and saw Michael hunched over on himself, staring desperately at him.

Except the wild panic in that voice was nothing like Michael’s cold arrogance, those trembling limbs nothing like Michael’s casual confidence, and the horror in those eyes nothing like Michael’s imperious stare.

“DEAN!” John Winchester roared, and Dean reacted, as if he had known what he was going to do all along. He moved the gun and sent half a dozen shots at the floor, covering his eyes as the shards of cement flew at him.

He sensed, more than saw, Sam leap to action, jumping out of the ruptured trap and extending his hand.

Ruby fell instantly: eyes burning red then extinguishing like smoke before she could scream. Lilith fought. Her eyes flicked white, and she raised her hand, shooting a blast of white light at Sam, who shrugged it off. Instead, he clenched his fist, and Lilith flew towards him. He caught her throat in both hands, baring his teeth as her body glowed red, and she screamed. Dean covered his ears as her shrieks echoed like the deepest pits of hell, but Sam only clutched harder as the fire burning Lilith from the inside turned white-hot, and Dean could see the dark outline of her ribs. Then, finally, her screams reached a desperate pitch, blinding light exploded from her eyes and mouth, and then she went still, crumpling in Sam’s hands as blood leaking from her mouth.

Sam snarled at her with black eyes and twisted her neck around, throwing the body to the ground with a ferocious growl. It bounced and cracked like a large, bloody porcelain doll on the chipped cement. With another snarl, Sam approached the body, ready, Dean knew, to tear it apart with his bare hands.

“Sam!” Dean yelled, and Sam looked up, startled, “It’s done,” Dean said. Sam’s black eyes stared blankly at him, blood splattered up his chest and arms.

“It’s done,” Dean repeated, “It’s done,” and, slowly, so, so slowly, Sam’s eyes slowly melted back to hazel, and he nodded.

“Dean!” Dad cried from behind him. Dean whirled around. John was kneeling on the floor, arms clutched around his chest, tears streaming from his cheeks.

“Dad!” Dean dropped to his knees in front of his father.

“He’s still in me,” John gasped, “I can’t fight him much longer. Go! You boys have to go!”

“No!” Dean shouted, “I’m not leaving you!”

John cried out, hanging his head and keeling forward.

“Dad!” Dean grabbed his father’s shoulders, pushing him upright, “Dad!”

For a moment, John went still, then he looked up, and his eyes flashed blue.

“You should have listened, Dean,” Michael snarled. Then everything exploded into white. The world echoed with Sam’s screams, and everything felt too hot. There was a strange pain in his chest, but when he tried to grab it, he found his arms refused to work properly. Everything jumbled into a mess of light and sound until it all swirled into black.

The last thing Dean saw was his mother’s face.

“Angels are watching over you, Dean,” she said.

Then black.

Chapter Text

Part V

John the Beloved

(23) Now there was leaning on Jesus’ bosom one of his disciples, whom Jesus loved.

John 13

VI

 (24) This is the disciple which testifieth of these things, and wrote these things: and we know that his testimony is true. (25) And there are also many other things which Jesus did, the which, if they should be written every one, I suppose that even the world itself could not contain the books that should be written. Amen.

John 21

It tasted like a small animal had curled up and died in Dean’s mouth. It was too cold. The air reeked of antiseptic, and some blasted beeping was giving him a headache.

Worst of all, Dean had no idea why the fuck he was in a hospital, and he had no idea where Sam was.

This thought, more than the rest, propelled him to open his eyes. That was also an unpleasant experience in the bright room, and it took a lot of frantic blinking before Dean could make out anything.

Finally, a familiar salt-and-pepper beard and sun-beaten baseball cap swam into view.

“Bo-Bobby?” Talking felt about as good as swallowing glass.

“Here kid,” Bobby said, pressing a Styrofoam cup up to Dean’s lips, “You’ve been in and out for a while, so I figured I should have this ready.”

Dean accepted a few sips of water before turning away in favor of looking around the rest of the room. He barely registered the pastel walls and ugly furniture. It didn’t matter. All that did was that he and Bobby were alone.

“What the fuck happened?” he croaked, “Where’s . . .”

“Sam’s fine,” Bobby said, “Your Daddy too.”

“Then . . .”

“Well, seein’ as those two idjits have about a teaspoon of self-esteem between them, they’ve been trippin’ over themselves to be out of the room ever since it became clear you weren’t about to head upstairs to sing with those damn angels we’ve been hearing about.”

It took a while for those words to work their way through Dean’s fog-addled brain, “What happened?” he finally asked, making a pathetic effort to sit up.

The blinding pain in his stomach dissuaded him from the idea.

“Fuuuuuuck.”

“Stab wound will do that to ya,” Bobby said as he guided Dean back to the pillow, “Apparently once Sam killed Lilith, Michael got so angry your Dad couldn’t hold him back anymore. Michael took control again, just for a few seconds, but it was long enough to-“

“Stick a knife in me,” Dean completed, “Awesome.”

“Yea. So, after that, your Dad got so pissed he managed to throw Michael out. No one knows where that dick is now, but he’s not in your Dad.”

“Well that’s something,” Dean agreed, “Any idea why he hasn’t smited us all?”

“Well, Sam put up some warding with invisible ink,” Bobby said, nodding at one of the walls, “Here and in the motel we’re staying at. But honestly, Michael should’ve been able to find us. Wasn’t like we could be picky about hospitals.”

“Right.” Dean couldn’t comprehend the “You should be dead” thing. It felt too big, too surreal. Sure, he’d been injured before, thought he might die. It was part of the job. But he’d never seen anything like the purple bags under Bobby’s eyes, or his greasy hair, or the way he held himself stiffly, as if he’d spent long hours sitting in a crappy hospital chair.

Nothing compared to this.  

“So Sam was here,” Dean finally said, “To put up the warding.”

“Sam didn’t leave your side until he knew you’d be fine. He stood by your bed, hissing at anyone who came near without his permission. Frightened more than a few doctors and nurses away. Still,” Bobby admitted, “It was damn useful. Didn’t need to pull any of our usual scams. Sam just told the doctors not to ask about insurance, told the nurses to get you a private room, and told the ambulance and police to forget that they found you in a warehouse littered with bodies and guts.”

“He’s a useful bastard,” but Dean couldn’t really bring himself to focus on all the ways Sam had helped instead of the fact that Sam wasn’t here.

“He left when your father came,” Bobby said carefully, “Your father waited outside the hospital while Sam was inside with you, but once you got out of surgery, Sam went out and practically bullied John into coming in. I’m just not sure either of them can handle being in the same room right now.”

“Right,” Dean turned away. The opposite wall had a window, but all Dean could see was a parking lot, some power lines, and patches of blue sky.

“You did it, Dean,” Bobby said, “You, your Dad, and Sam. You saved the world.”

“Yea,” Dean said, “And got kicked in the balls for our trouble.”

The next time Dean woke, John was there.

“Hey kiddo,” his voice as raspy and raw as Dean’s. His eyes were red, and like Bobby, he sported dark circles under his eyes.

“Hey Dad,” Dean said quietly.

John tried to crack a smile, but it collapsed almost immediately, so he settled for staring down at his hands, “Doctors say you’re healing up great, but they’ll be keeping you for another few days.”

“That’s . . . good.”

“It was uh . . . pretty bad,” John rubbed a hand down his face, “They weren’t sure if . . .” John rubbed a hand down his face, “I’m so sorry, Dean. Words can’t even begin to—“ John looked down, rubbing his eyes with calloused hands, “I’m so fucking sorry, for all of it.”

“S’not your fault, Dad,” Dean said, “You’re supposed to trust angels, right? They had us all chasing our tails.”

“I’m supposed to trust my fucking sons! Especially when one sells his soul for –“ John’s mouth clamped shut and he sighed heavily, “He can’t stand to be near me. He tries to hide it, but he flinches every time I move.”

Now it was Dean’s turn to stare down at his hands, “We both did things to him that we can never make right.”

“You should’ve seen him,” John said dully, as if Dean hadn’t spoken, “When I fetched him from the panic room. I had Gordon with me, for backup, but Sam just stood and let us take him. He knew there was no point arguing, and when he was screaming and fucking begging me to stop I . . .” John closed his eyes and let out a single, choked sob.

“I know,” and Dean didn’t mean to let an icy edge enter his voice, but he had bandaged those wounds.

Thankfully, his coolness jerked John out of his tears, but he didn’t look up, “Sam asked me to kill him, after we knew you’d pull through.”

It was no fucking cliché. Dean’s heart literally stopped. The monitor fucking proved it, “He what?”

“Said it was the least I could do,” John said numbly.

“Well what did you say?” Dean demanded.

John finally looked up, “I said I was a fucking selfish bastard who couldn’t do that without your permission.”

“My permission?”

“That’s why he asked while you were still asleep,” John shrugged, “Guess I know him well enough to know that. He won’t kill himself unless you let him.”

“Well I don’t fucking let him!” Dean shouted, “Not ever! I’m not going to fucking send him to hell ten seconds after he saved the fucking world!”

“It’s what he wants,” John said, eyes fastened again on his hands.

“Well fuck that! He’s not going anywhere. Not for a fucking long time. And when he does die, he’s not going to fucking hell!”

“You can’t break a demon deal, Dean,” John said, and Dean despised the man’s apologetic tone, “Never.”

“Well we will,” Dean said, “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care how long it takes. We’re going to save him. Do you fucking hear me?”

For a long, long moment, John didn’t respond, but finally, he smiled. It was a small, trembling little thing, more like a twitch of his whiskers, but it was there. “I hear you Dean.”

Sam, the bastard, refused to visit until the day the doctors released Dean from the hospital.  Even then, Dean knew Sam only agreed to come to Obiwon them through the discharge process.

When he wandered into Dean’s room, dressed in dark sweats and a black sweatshirt with the hoodie pulled over his head, hands shoved into the front pocket, and the words University of Oklahoma –that’s where the title fight had gone down, fucking Oklahoma – blazed in crimson on his chest.

He looked so pathetic, so lost, that Dean took pity on him for exactly two seconds.

“No,” he said as Sam entered the room.

Sam stopped mid-stride, “What?”

“I said, no.”

Sam’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “I’m not going to get out of it, Dean,” he said in that gentle, patronizing voice that Dean hated, “So why wait?”

“Who says you’re not getting out of it? You just saved the fucking world, Sam! Don’t you think you deserve something?”

Sam’s brow furrowed like an accordion, “When has deserving something ever had anything to do with if you get it?”

“Since now,” Dean said, “Since fucking now. You’re not doing this Sam. You’re not going to throw your life away before you have the chance to enjoy the world you saved!”

“It’s not my world, Dean,” Sam said coldly.

“Of course it is!”

“No. It’s. Not!” Sam roared. His eyes flashed black, and the window shattered, although the shards conveniently moved in a wide ark to avoid hitting either of them.

“Bit late for the seventh grade emo phase, isn’t it?” Dean raised an eyebrow, “So tell me. Why are you willing to rot in hell to save a world that isn’t even yours?”

“I didn’t give two fucks about saving the world!” Sam crossed the remaining distance between himself and the bed in half a stride and grasping the top bar until his knuckles shone white, “I only cared about you! I couldn’t bear to see you dead! And I couldn’t bear for you to watch the world you loved die in the crossfire of some bullshit sibling rivalry!”

Sam’s hood had fallen back, and Dean could see the faint, star-like scars dotting Sam’s brow from the barbed wire crown and the patchwork growth of his downy hair.

He wished Sam would put the hood back up.

“It’s not my world,” Sam sighed, “And that’s okay. Just let me go to mine.”

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me—“ Sam’s pursed lips were well on their way to certified anger.

“You heard me!” Dean said, more resolutely, “Bullshit! You stand there and tell me hell’s your world, while I say you’d be just as out of place there. Only this time you would be suffering for all eternity too!”

Sam didn’t reply, “Well?” Dean finally demanded.

Sam stared at his shoes, “I don’t want to know what I’m missing.”

Out of everything Sam could have said, Dean hadn’t even considered this, and it sucked away all his anger, “You mean about being human?”

Sam nodded but still refused to look at him, “Cooking shows. High school. College parties. All of it. If it stays an impossible dream, then I can’t miss it, not really. But if I do understand your world, even a little . . .”

“I see,” Dean said slowly.

“So please,” Sam’s eyes were wide and desperate. His bottom lip even trembled a little, “Dean. Let me go.”

Dean rubbed his eyes. His stab wound ached and his stomach demanded something besides red jello. He wasn’t up for the existential debates that defined Sam’s existence.

“One year,” Dean said finally, “Give me one year to break the deal and convince you stay. I do it, you stay up here as long as you can. I don’t . . .” Dean swallowed and fixed his eyes on the wall opposite Sam, “I don’t, and I’ll kill you myself. Alright?”

It took nearly a minute for Sam to decide. Dean counted. Sam kept his head down the entire time, fingers crossed in front of him and tapping on each other again and again and again like a typewriter.

Finally, Sam looked up, “Fine.”

“Alright then.” Dean knew that the insanity of what he had just done, the weight of his promise would catch up with him later. He knew it would torment his walking hours and steal his nights. He knew the next year would suck ass. He knew it would be the best year of his life.

He also knew, unequivocally, that he was going to save his brother. Even if he had to shake the foundations of hell to do it.

Dean smiled. “It’s a deal.”

Fin

Chapter Text

The Acts of the Apostle

I didn’t take long for Dean to figure out that Jesus was a coward. Sure, He had come and saved the world an all, but he hadn’t stuck around in a world he wasn’t really a part of, not really. He just high-tailed it to the clouds.

Sam, hell’s Messiah, who had come to destroy the world but saved it instead, had no such luxury. His eternal reward was not adulation but agony infinitely greater than either Savior had experienced on any cross. Before then, he was trapped in a place that he only understood slightly less than it understood him.

And Dean was the one who’d trapped him here.

June

It turned out that Sam was a messy pile of trauma held together by a stubborn, if not obsessive, determination to save the world (save Dean).

That first week it became painfully obvious that without his mission, Sam, to put it mildly, lost his shit.

The nightmares were the first, obvious, sign. They were lucky to get a few hours of sleep before the screaming started, and Dean would drag himself out of bed and shake his brother awake. At this point, without fail, Sam would shut himself in the bathroom, and Dean would lie back down. If he got lucky, he even fell back asleep.

During the day, Sam wrapped himself up in his sweatshirt, despite the summer heat, the hood pulled up and over his patchy hair. He followed Dean without argument, and Dean considered it a win if Sam said twenty words a day. In public, he was cautious and twitchy, clearly uncomfortable, even in half-empty dinners. Whether he feared the people themselves, or what he was able to do to them, Dean had no clue.

On the other hand, Sam still told the waiters at the restaurants and the clerks at the motels to forget to charge them, so that was a plus, at least.

Dean’s stab wound was still healing, so hunting was off the table, if they ever would. Instead, Dean dragged Sam around America in his crusade to convince his little brother that the world was a place worth living in.

It didn’t go well. Road-side attractions (“It’s the world’s second largest ball of twine, Sam!”), car shows, “you can see a bunch of beer-belly lawyers drool over Baby”), even geeky things like botanical gardens got, at best, an un-impressed shrug as Sam burrowed himself further into his hoodie.

Operation “save Sam from the pit” was equally discouraging. It was obvious to everyone that Sam still couldn’t spend more than thirty seconds around John without shaking like a startled colt. John wasn’t much better, so he crashed at Bobby’s and the two worked full time on figuring out how to break a demon deal. So far, they had found exactly shit.

For his part, Sam showed no interest in his own eternal rescue mission and only gave minimal answers to Dean’s questions about hell. The only time he went into detail, in fact, was when Dean wondered aloud about Crowley’s fate.

“Lilith and Michael let him go,” he said, “Right after they trapped me.”

“What? Why? I just assumed they incinerated him on sight.”

“I think they wanted to let him sweat, then kill him slowly,” Sam shrugged, “That’s more Lilith’s style. But he’s intelligent, ruthless, and well-connected. He’s probably already consolidated enough power to crown himself king of hell.”

“Meaning he holds your contract now.”

Sam didn’t respond, his twenty words apparently used up for the day. Instead, he returned his attention to the football game blaring on the grainy TV screen. Dean sighed and opened another beer.

Of course, Sam was right. A couple weeks after Dean left the hospital—once he’d convinced himself that Sam wasn’t going to run out on him, or worse, kill himself—he left Sam in the motel room with a paleontology textbook Dean had lifted from the local library and went to summon Crowley.

“Dean,” the arrogant bastard had greeted him with a cold smirk, “Figured we’d be having this conversation soon enough.”

“Sam reckons you’ve been doing pretty well for yourself,” Dean said without greeting, “Says you might even be the king of hell.”

“Sam always was the smartest of Azazel’s freaks,” Crowley said mildly.

“So you hold his contract.”

“Yeess,” Crowley said, “And before you ask, there’s no way in hell I’ll release him.”

“He saved you!” Dean said, “If he hadn’t done what he did, Lilith or Michael would be slow-cooking your ass!”

“And I’ll be sure to send him a Christmas card,” Crowley said, “But it is in my best interest, by far, to give Sam a one-way ticket to the pit.”

“To fill your sadistic wet-dreams, sure,” Dean growled.

“Hardly,” Crowley said, “Lilith was extremely protective of her property, and I have no interest in playing with someone else’s broken toy.”

“You shut your fucking mouth,” Dean growled.

Crowley smirked, “Either way, it doesn’t change the fact that, despite Sam’s precarious mental state, he is still the one who killed Lilith and, a sizeable portion of hell believes . . .”

“Believes they should dump your sorry hide and crown him instead.”

“Exactly,” Crowley seemed unperturbed by Dean’s insult, “And the other half want to take out all their considerable anger on their former Messiah who decided to run off with Judas,” Crowley looked pointedly at Dean, “So try everything you’d like, darling, but Sam is going to hell. He is going soon, and he will be there forever, so I suggest you enjoy him while you can.” With that, the king of hell disappeared.

The only upside, really, to the entire fucking month was that, for whatever reason, Michael left them the fuck alone.