Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Dean is lying on the couch and working his way through an old, dog-eared copy of Stephen King’s Christine (Christ, he misses his car; Sam better not have done anything to her) when the front door slams. He jerks upright, dropping the book, and spins around to see Sam striding toward him. Shadows ride in Sam’s wake, flames and lightning crackle over his skin, and Dean doesn’t understand how he could have missed his brother’s approach when he isn’t just leaking, but spilling power all over the place.

It’s been months since Dean has seen Sam like this, despite his own turbulent, violent mood shifts. Castiel’s fault, those, for thrusting himself where he didn’t belong and binding the lesser tears in Dean’s soul together while cauterizing the rest. Dean’s emotions came untethered and raged wild after that violation, and he had nothing to latch onto except for Sam. Nothing to lash out at except for Sam, either, and Christ, Dean had been so fucking angry in the first few weeks—seemed like the erratic rages and depressive drops would never stop.

But even at Dean’s most volatile, Sam has been nothing but soft-spoken. He has allowed Dean to yell at him, and hurl things, and only came close enough to touch him once it was clear that the energy fueling Dean’s anger had gone out. He has used his powers sparingly—only when Dean clearly needed it, and the force of his own emotions was tearing him apart. Sam has even been letting him wear normal clothes, although the jeans hang a little lower than Dean ever used to like them, and the t-shirts are softer and thinner than the cheap, thrift-store numbers he used to buy in plastic bags of three.

Funny how a simple thing like a change of clothes can make Dean feel so much more like he belongs in his own skin.

It was still difficult, torturous going, of course—regaining control over the storms, dragging himself back to a functioning whole—but over the past few weeks, as the snow melted outside and the bare, skeletal trees have blossomed into bud or flower, things have seemed almost tolerable.

From the look on Sam’s face now, they’re about to become markedly less so.

Wracking his brain for something he might possibly have done wrong (nothing, there’s nothing, he’s been good), Dean gets to his feet. He moves back, retreating from Sam as best he can, because he’s seen what happens to things when Sam touches them like this. Sam keeps coming, though, and Dean is rapidly running out of room to maneuver, and this is not going to end well.

Then, for no reason Dean can see, the shadows evaporate. Sam seems to draw the lightning and the fire within his own skin, he contains himself even as he reaches out, and before Dean can absorb the shift, his brother has him by his bicep and the collar of the soft, threadbare t-shirt he’s wearing and is manhandling him toward the bed.

It’s like being touched by the sun.

“Sam,” Dean gets out around the beating of his pulse in his throat. “Sam, wait. Wait a sec.”

Power shoves into him, sharp-edged and yet somehow still pleasurable, and Dean’s words cut off on a gasp. Sam holds him up—is the only thing keeping him from the floor, really—as the power intensifies in a sudden surge that sends Dean’s engines all the way from a cold stop to overheated full throttle in the space of a heartbeat.

“You don’t get to say when, Dean,” Sam growls with a flex of power that makes Dean hiss—pleasure, pain, he can’t really separate the two right now. He isn’t sure he wants to analyze his reactions enough to make that distinction.

When Sam unexpectedly shoves him backwards, Dean hits the bed hard. His muscles are too power-saturated for him to even make an attempt to catch himself, and anyway it all happens so quickly. Before he’s even really registered the change in location, Sam is on the bed with him, one knee planted between Dean’s thighs where his sprawled legs hang over the edge of the mattress. His hands grab hold of Dean’s t-shirt and yank it up the length of Dean’s torso.

“I need this,” Sam continues as he wrenches the shirt over Dean’s head. “I need you right now, so don’t fucking tell me to wait.”

Dazed, Dean turns his head to watch his discarded shirt flutter down to the floor, and then Sam reclaims his attention by gripping the underside of his left arm and his right side and hauling him higher up the bed. Despite the disordered confusion Sam’s power is making of his mind and body, Dean tries to get his arms and legs to work—not to fight, there’s no fighting Sam when he’s like this, but his feeble attempts to help position himself where Sam seems to want him are slapped away by intense, fondling hands of power that curl around his cock and slide up between his thighs to rub along the crease of his ass.

All of Dean’s muscles loosen up on him at once. His head lolls back, his hands unclench with a helpless twitch. His legs fall open wider to accommodate the press of power as Sam yanks on him again, drawing him high enough for the top of his head to brush the pillows and to leave nothing but his heels dangling over the edge of the mattress. One final heave of effort on Sam’s part and Dean’s head drops down on a pillow. His body is allowed to settle heavily against the mattress while Sam’s hands land at the buttons on his jeans and start working.

“Mine,” Sam mutters, still rubbing Dean’s most sensitive places with that warm, sparking power. “You’re mine, Dean. Tell me. Show me.”

Dean chokes as, unbelievably, the power lathing his cock and balls and pushing up against his entrance redoubles in intensity. His legs try to jerk open further as he rolls his hips—trying to get that teasing pressure deeper, to ease it inside him where he’s hot, where he’s burning—and are forced back together as Sam yanks his jeans down. The denim is off in a few moments, though, followed by the silk briefs he was wearing, and then Sam’s hands are on his inner thighs, pushing them wide. The stretch happens a little too quickly—Dean wasn’t built to spread so wide so fast—but his only protest is a grunt that’s almost immediately stifled as the weight of Sam’s body drops down on him.

Fever spreads through Dean in a rush, filling his vision with white-golden flames, and he shudders where he’s pinned to the bed. Turning his head blindly to the side, he opens his mouth and tries to breathe: tries to find clear air that isn’t choked with burning power. The hand that curls up from the nape of his neck to grip the back of his skull registers only dimly, and he’s taken by surprise when his head is wrenched over to meet the crush of Sam’s mouth.

Dean feels a brief, unimportant sting on his lower lip as Sam mashes their mouths together, followed by the coppery tang of blood on his tongue. His mouth was already ajar, but somehow Sam’s forcing it wider, getting Dean to open for him until the corners of his jaw are aching. Sam uses the extra space and angles himself to push harder, his tongue thrusting forward into Dean’s mouth as though he can dig his way to whatever he wants if he just gets deep enough, and Christ, if he keeps this up, he’s going to trigger Dean’s gag reflex.

Dean gets a hand of his own up, wrapping his fingers around his brother’s arm, but he can’t figure out whether he wants to push Sam away or anchor him close. Fuck, he’s going to need to breathe in a few moments anyway, or he’ll pass out from lack of air, and never mind the intensity of the sensations gripping him. His blood is already overloud in his head, almost enough to drown out the achingly perfect throb squeezing his cock and thrusting up against his ass.

But there’s still an irrational sense of disappointment and loss when Sam releases his mouth to lean his forehead against Dean’s while panting, “Need you. Tell me you need me. Tell me you love me.”

As if there’s really any doubt on that question any longer.

But Dean lets his next breath sink deeper, and pushes the words Sam wants to hear out with his exhale. “Love you. Love you, Sammy.”

Somewhere, in an overwhelmed, terrified corner of Dean’s brain, he’s praying that it’ll be enough to calm his brother down.

It isn’t.

Instead, Sam’s weight presses down more heavily against Dean’s chest as Sam lifts up high enough to fit a hand between their groins. Rough denim scrapes against Dean’s oversensitive cock for a moment, then there’s the jingle of a belt, and the rustle of fabric, and when Sam sinks back down, Dean’s cock is pressed against bare, feverish skin.

“Sam,” he grunts, tightening his grip on his brother’s arm.

Sam shifts around, gives a tiny jerk of his hips, and then grunts in annoyance and lets go of Dean’s head. Reaching down, he takes hold of Dean’s thighs and jerks up, pointing Dean’s lower body at the ceiling. Their relative positions hit Dean with a cold chill and he responds by trying to snap his ass back down against the mattress. Sam’s fingers dig into his legs, bruisingly insistent, and keep him where he is.

“Stay,” Sam orders. He forces the word into Dean’s head as well as his ears, and a second, stronger surge of panic cuts smoothly through Dean’s arousal.

Pleasure temporarily dissipated, Dean fights against the command. He thrashes in his mind as his body shakes with minute, resistant tremors. Even those fade as Sam gives the order time to sink in, and when Dean is still, Sam loosens his grip and runs his hands over Dean’s thighs in a possessive, hungry motion.

When he leans forward again, he pushes his arms between Dean’s back and the bed. The first brush of contact with the tattoo snaps the connection between them open, but Dean barely notices. He’s too concerned with the fact that there’s something blunt and hot prodding up between his cheeks.

“Sam!” he says again, chest tight and head spinning.

Sam spreads his fingers, stroking Dean’s shoulder blades, and gives a little thrust of his hips that slides his cock along Dean’s crack in alarming, stomach-swooping ways. Panic zings in Dean’s mouth, bitter and stinging.

Not like this. Not now, not with Sam pissed off about something and Dean held still and helpless by one of his brother’s commands.

Dean’s distress is pressed out in a low, embarrassing whine as Sam sinks through the connection and into him. He’s had Sam’s power inside him before—had him nearly this deep when Ben was around to keep him complacent and willing—but it was never like this: it was never Sam. Christ, Dean never even guessed that Sam was holding back even then, but he’s more than aware of it now as that sense of Sam keeps coming and coming and unfolding into greater spaces inside of him. It’s a deeper, more thorough penetration than anything Dean has felt before, and Sam’s cock is prodding up against Dean’s throbbing hole in a way that threatens to close that circuit.

Dean’s body might still be sending out all the right signals—hole aching with need, cock leaking and feverish—but his mind and insides are splintering under the invasive weight of his brother.

He’s not ready. Oh Christ, he isn’t fucking ready.

“Sam,” he grunts between clenched teeth.

“Shh,” Sam says, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. There’s still too much wildness there, but he looks—marginally—more present.

More importantly, the inrush of his power and mind has stopped. Dean’s still stuffed almost unbearably full, but if this is all he has to handle, he can manage. He has a feeling he’s going to be sore tomorrow from all of the penetrating pressure, but he can do this. He can take this.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Sam promises. “Just… hold still. I have to—I need this.” Freeing one hand from beneath Dean’s back, he draws it down the length of Dean’s side. Then, as he slowly pushes his hand upward again, he shifts his hips forward in an echo of the motion. His cock moves, the tip slipping more firmly between Dean’s cheeks and digging into the indent of his hole.

The pulse of want that rips through Dean’s body in response is so strong that his head spins with it. And he can’t tell—oh, fuck, he can’t tell whether it came from inside himself or if it belonged to Sam.

“Tell me yes,” Sam insists, his restless hand moving back down and between them to rub over Dean’s inner thigh. “I won’t—I won’t push inside, but—give me this. I need it. I need you.”

His skin has started leaking power again. It’s getting in the air and making it ripple like heat waves. And Sam’s shoulders and arms are shaking with the effort of containing the worst of himself.

Now that Dean is aware of how close his brother is to snapping, it’s impossible to miss the seething darkness that roils through the invasive pressure inside of him. Little fragments of that suffocating weight keep flicking tendrils deeper into him. Like lightning bolts, they leave the places they touch raw and oversensitive.

So much need there. So much rage. Rage that’s going to need a target if Dean can’t calm Sam down.

Better Dean’s body and soul than someone else’s.

Shutting his eyes, Dean nods.

Sam’s exhalation above him is shaky with relief. It’s also the only warning Dean gets before Sam starts rutting against him in earnest, his cock pushing up against Dean’s entrance with increasing insistence and speed and slickness. Dean’s knuckles ache from how tightly he’s holding onto Sam’s bicep, onto his fistful of sheets, and he’s having trouble breathing—fuck, if Sam keeps this up, he’s going to pop inside anyway, promise or no, and Dean’s body doesn’t seem to have any problems with that idea. His ass aches with hunger at every prod. His cock is still hard and full where it’s pressed between their bodies. And Sam’s stomach keeps rubbing against it with his thrusts and all that friction is driving Dean closer and closer to the edge.

But his chest still clenches with alarm when he feels his ass start to open for the head of his brother’s cock.

“Sam,” he pants, not really expecting to be listened to.

Sam does push up one more time (almost in, his cock is going to slide in and then he’s going to pour in through their connection, he’s going to), but then he shudders and rolls his hips and the angle somehow changes, sending his cock on a different route and pushing it up and down along Dean’s crack. The tip still rubs over Dean’s hole, and catches on his rim occasionally, but the sensation of imminent penetration is gone.

Overwhelming relief (not happening today, not today) washes away all of Dean’s restraint and he gives in to the moment, shutting his eyes and concentrating on how good Sam feels moving against him. His acceptance soothes the ache of intrusion inside of him. The sensation of Sam pushed up against his mind and soul hasn’t eased at all, but it seems less suffocating all of a sudden. Some part of Dean yields and Sam sinks deeper, seeping into him through the smallest cracks and fissures until Dean feels like he’s submerged in an ocean of DeanneedyouloveyouDeanbrotherminemyDean.

Blind and anchorless, he loses himself in Sam—in that sensation of being cherished and loved. By the time his brother’s overwhelming mind disengages and pulls back, hours seem to have passed.

Dean comes back to a body with aching, worn muscles. His pulse is steady, though, and his breathing even. The itchy, uncomfortable sensation of cool semen caked on his stomach and cock tell him that he orgasmed at some point. Not that it even registered, lost in Sam as he was.

His brother is collapsed between his legs, face pressed into the pillow to the left of Dean’s head. Some of his hair is in Dean’s mouth (which is sore, lip stinging where it’s cut from that violent, initial kiss). Dean realizes that his legs are still up and spread where Sam ordered them, thigh muscles trembling from holding the position, and tries to lower them again.

Slowly, agonizingly, his legs obey the command. Dean flinches and groans a couple of times, but finally his legs are resting on the mattress again, still spread wide and shaking, but not under any present strain.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters faintly.

On top of him, Sam stirs at the sound of his voice. Dean tenses, sure he isn’t going to be able to take a second round, but Sam only moves his head over to kiss the top of Dean’s shoulder.

“Thank you,” Sam whispers.

Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that—‘you’re welcome’ somehow seems a little inadequate. ‘Don’t do it again’ is just as stupid.

Finally, he settles for, “What brought that on?” It’s possibly as dumb as any of his other options, might set Sam off again, but he can’t rid himself of the nagging tug of curiosity. Be nice to know just why Sam almost completely destroyed Dean’s sense of self.

Turning his head to the side, Sam nuzzles Dean’s cheek. “You’re mine,” he says. “They can’t touch you. They can’t have you.”

The angels, Dean thinks, his heart speeding with a confusing mix of hope and cringing shame. They’re still trying, apparently; still putting up a good enough attempt to push Sam off the deep end.

Then Sam says, in a voice thick with disgust, “‘Punishment for war crimes’. Like I haven’t killed just as many of them.”

Not angels, then, Dean realizes with only a slight, defeated sinking in his chest. Other team. He should be happy to hear that there’s some dissent in the ranks, but Sam has been in charge for too long. If any of those sons of bitches were going to do something, surely they would have by now. Not that any rebellion in the ranks would be successful. He can’t imagine any demon even coming close to his brother in power.

Sam’s mouth finds Dean’s ear, nips lightly at the rim.

“They’ll pay,” he promises as he moves on to lavish attention on Dean’s throat. “Some of them already have, and the others… I’ll hunt them out. I’ll seal them inside their meatsuits and then I’ll peel the flesh from their bones until they get it through their fucking heads that you’re off limits. Mine. My consort.”

It’s the first time Sam has called him that to his face, although Dean’s heard it before from Ruby, and for an instant, the insane, utter surrealism of his life bubbles laughter against the inside of his lips. But he doesn’t know what that sort of response would do to Sam right now, and somehow, after an intense, prolonged struggle, he swallows the noise. He stays silent, and pliant, and lets Sam reassure himself that his prized possession is safe and sound.

Eventually, Sam reluctantly pulls away and gets up.

It isn’t until Dean moves as well, rolling toward the opposite edge of the bed, that he feels the semen caked along his crack and down on the inside of his thighs. There’s too much there for a single load, or even two, which means Sam came and came and then kept on fucking his cock along the crease of Dean’s ass. Dean wishes he could tell whether the shifting in his gut at the thought is nervous disgust or anxious excitement.

Sam is watching him, looking pleased with himself and waiting for a reaction.

Dean licks his lips and cuts his eyes away from his brother, feeling more naked than usual. He could be wrapped in fifty layers and a blanket right now and still feel naked. He resists the urge to cover himself and tilt his body away—Sam’s made it loud and clear how he feels about that sort of ‘false modesty’.

“I’m gonna shower,” he announces, and gives Sam a beat to respond—forbid it, maybe, or ask if he wants company. When the silence stretches out, and it becomes obvious that Sam is just going to stand there quietly watching him, he starts to move in the direction of the bathroom.

“Dean.”

Dean stops, keeping his expression carefully blank. He’s sweating, shame spreading across his body in a flush because the only thing he can think about right now is his brother’s cock sliding up against him. The only thing he can feel is Sam’s dick prodding at his hole repeatedly until his rim reluctantly starts to give way. His groin throbs once, hungrily, and Dean swallows.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dean’s thrown off balance enough by that to look over at his brother’s face. Sam’s expression is actually penitent; his golden eyes brimming with sincerity. He looks even more ashamed than Dean feels.

“I didn’t mean to—to rush you. Like that. I just… Sometimes, I need you.”

Dean senses that he could refuse the apology. He could turn around and walk away right now, leave Sam feeling humble and guilty—those emotions are real, he thinks. Shadows of what a person would feel, maybe, but … it’s as real as anything Sam feels these days.

He licks his lips, remembering how trapped and panicked he felt when Sam shoved his legs in the air and told him to stay. Remembering the immense, steadily increasing presence of Sam inside him, until it felt like he was fraying, like he was being crushed and broken open and consumed.

Sam stares at him, eyes pleading and expression hangdog.

Dean sighs internally and detours, moving away from the bathroom and walking up to his brother. Sam shies back from him a little, like Dean has the power to hurt him. Like he expects to be hurt. He flinches when Dean lays a hand on the side of his face, then shifts tentative eyes back up to Dean’s.

“I’m right here, Sammy,” Dean tells him.

The relief and happiness that spread over Sam’s face like daybreak almost make Dean smile in return.

Sam wasn’t kidding about making the demons who asked for Dean’s head on a stick pay. He starts staying away longer, leaving at the crack of dawn—before Dean wakes, some days—and returning just after the sun has dipped below the horizon. For the first time in what has to have been years, he comes home dripping: wears the blood like it’s a medal of valor, like Dean should be impressed to see his little brother wearing someone else’s insides on his skin. Sam always makes a point to let Dean know that the blood on him isn’t human, but it doesn’t stop Dean’s stomach from churning.

There might be demons inside the bodies Sam is taking apart, but there are people in there too. Dean doesn’t know whether Sam doesn’t remember that any longer, or if he just doesn’t care, but either way, the end result is tinting Dean’s dreams red again. He tries talking Sam down from his vendetta the first night, but getting hoisted up onto the bathroom counter and sucked off by a guy who leaves bloody marks on his body whenever he wants to manhandle Dean into a better position makes for pretty good incentive to keep his mouth shut on the subject.

Dean’s skin crawls when Sam touches him like that, but his mind doesn’t retreat toward the black the way it used to, back in those first terrifying weeks After. He’s learned, since then, that this is his brother too. It’s still Sam, no matter how many bodies he rips the skin from. No matter how much blood he’s spilt. No matter the innocent lives he has taken—Ben’s above all, and Christ, Dean wishes it were possible for him to feel that loss as anything but a distant, dull pulse.

As hard as Dean has tried to resist the process, he’s just too well adjusted to get that upset.

Adapt or die, that’s just human nature. And, for Dean anyway, dying is an option that has been yanked unceremoniously off the table.

He still blames himself for not flipping out like he should be.

Three weeks into the Inquisition, as Dean has privately taken to calling Sam’s new favorite pastime, the door to the suite opens unexpectedly early. Dean is in the bathroom when it happens, toweling his hair off from his morning shower, and the break in routine leaves an unhappy tension in his stomach.

“Sam?” he calls cautiously.

The door shuts again, but otherwise there’s no response.

And, now that Dean is listening for his brother in the place where Sam’s presence always registers, he realizes that there isn’t so much as a ripple. Which means that, whoever’s out there, it isn’t Sam.

Great. Now Dean’s really wishing that he bothered to bring a change of clothes in here with him. As it is, all he has to cover himself with is a damn towel. And there isn’t a weapon in sight, not that he’s needed one. Not that he likely needs one now, considering the amount of protective wards Sam has covered him in.

Doesn’t make him feel any better about the idea of going out into the main room.

Still, the bathroom isn’t any place to hole up, and anyway, Dean feels like a moron lurking in here without actually knowing that there’s anything wrong. The low-key tension in his gut could be wrong. Sam could have come back and, for some reason, be preventing Dean from sensing him. Hell, Dean might even have just imagined the sound of the door opening and shutting. He’s been closed up in this place beyond long enough for cabin fever to have set in.

Dean wraps the towel around his waist, takes a deep breath, and then opens the bathroom door.

Ruby is sitting on the couch with her feet up on the coffee table, grinning at him in a decidedly predatory manner.

“Hey, Dean,” she says. “Miss me?”

Dean starts to jerk back into the bathroom, only to be grabbed by two black-eyed demons who were standing watch on either side of the door. They’re both wearing massive, burly bodies—more like gorillas than men—and even without bringing power into the equation, it isn’t even close to a contest as they drag him out into the main room toward the couch.

Dean struggles anyway, losing his towel along the way, which drops his stomach through the floor. Christ, it’s hard to fight when he just wants to curl up in a ball and disappear. The embarrassment infuriates him, though—he’s sick of this, sick of being treated like a piece of meat, sick of being ashamed—and after a brief struggle with himself, he fights harder instead. He still ends up in front of Ruby, of course, but by God he makes the bastards work for it.

“Well, well,” Ruby says, leering up at him. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, pretty?”

If Dean had any suspicions that Ruby was here on Sam’s orders, they’re gone now. He didn’t think it likely in the first place, not when she fucked up so thoroughly with him the last time they were alone. And the demons she brought with her are manhandling Dean while he’s wearing nothing but his birthday suit, which means they might as well be putting their names down at the top of Sam’s To Do list.

No way would they be doing this if they thought there was any chance they’d be caught. Which means they don’t plan on leaving Dean in any condition to tell Sam about this little visit.

He looks down into Ruby’s face—different from the last time he saw it, not so pretty. Her mouth and cheeks and forehead are crisscrossed with heavy scars from a knife-blade. One ear has been partially melted from her head. Half her nose is just… gone.

“Wish I could say the same for you, hon, but…” He clucks his tongue in mock disappointment.

Dean wasn’t really expecting the jab to hit home, but Ruby lifts a hand halfway to her face before catching herself and sinking back into the cushions of the couch. “Your brother doesn’t play well with others,” she says. “But then again, you knew that, didn’t you?” And she looks down at the stain still discoloring the rug.

Dean’s stomach clenches—Ben, how the fuck could she know about that, how the fuck could Sam have told anyone about that, shared it around—but he keeps his expression still. He isn’t going to talk about Ben with this bitch. Isn’t going to let her bait him.

Forcing himself to stand tall and pretending he isn’t being held in place by two black-eyed goons, he asks instead, “You here to kill me?”

Dean feels a surprisingly large amount of dismay at the idea. His survival instinct rearing its ugly head when he really, really wishes it wouldn’t.

But Ruby pouts. “Now, why would you go and ask a mean thing like that? And here I was, thinking we were friends.”

Great, now he’s disappointed. Be really fucking nice if his emotions would just make up their minds already.

But his frustration at his own screwed up responses—or maybe it’s just facing a nice, simple demon for a change instead of whatever Sam has become—gives him the strength to smarm, “Oh yeah, best buds. How about you ask your goons to let me go and we can braid each other’s hair.”

The insincere grin he offers can’t be anything like the threat he wishes it were. He’s naked, unarmed and reduced to playing the role of pampered pet. Ruby, sure enough, just smirks back at him, but Dean feels a slight lessening in the hold that her lackeys have on his arms. It’s gratifying.

“Sorry, Dean. I’m not here for a sleepover.”

“And here I was, looking forward to some girl time.”

“Cute,” Ruby replies, uncrossing her legs and standing in a smooth motion. “But then again, you always were a smooth talker, weren’t you? Always had such a way with the ladies…”

When she steps forward, putting her hands on his stomach and then running them up his chest, Dean can’t quite manage to keep his grimace off his face. There’s a knee-jerk, repulsed response triggering inside him—not because she’s a demon, or even because of her new horror-show of a face. No, he’s flinching back from her touch because she isn’t Sam.

“Of course,” Ruby adds as though she can sense the tenor of Dean’s thoughts, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” She tilts her head to one side in mock curiosity. “How’s monogamy working out for you, Dean? I can’t guess you’d be thrilled at having to eat out of the same cookie jar day… after day… after day…”

Her hand slides back down and around to grip his ass and Dean clenches his jaw to keep from reacting. Ruby’s scarred lips twist with amusement anyway and she deliberately presses her body close against his front. Her hips roll against him in a way that makes Dean really, really wish he still had that towel.

Not that there’s any stirring from that region, or any emotions gripping him but uncomfortable horror at being touched like this by someone who isn’t his brother. No, actually, there is another emotion—quiet at first, but steadily creeping into the forefront of Dean’s mind despite his best efforts to dispel it.

Guilt.

Great. Just fucking great. He’s being fondled against his will by a demon bitch with a grudge and he feels like he’s being unfaithful to Sam.

“How about it, baby?” Ruby whispers, going up on her tiptoes to take his earlobe between her teeth.

Dean tenses, waiting for her to bite down, but she just drags her tongue over it and then lets go again. It takes Ruby’s amused chuckle to tell him that he has his eyes shut and his face scrunched up in disgust. He gets his eyes open again and then has to bite back on a grunt as Ruby lets go of his ass to grab his limp cock instead.

“You in the market for a little something new to spice up your diet?” she purrs, nosing at his cheek. Feels really fucking surreal, having that half-nose bumped up against his skin.

Dean would really rather not participate in this conversation at all, but the way Ruby’s hand starts sliding up and down his cock seems to indicate that she isn’t going to let this drop until he does. Might not help even then, of course, but it’s worth a shot.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says, forcing a stiff smile back on his face when she draws back enough to meet his eyes. “You’re not my type.”

She does drop his cock. Hallelujah.

“Oh, I know. But I also know someone who is. Or rather, you’re his type.”

Dean doesn’t like the sound of that, but he thinks he does a decent job at keeping the panic off his face as he says, “Aw, look at you; a demon Yenta. Mazel tov, bitch; I think you’ve got the market cornered.”

Ruby’s right hand shoots up suddenly, gripping Dean’s chin in a punishing hold and stilling his tongue. Her smile, though, is deeper and more satisfied than ever.

“All this hostility, Dean, and here I am trying to do you a favor. Or didn’t you want a first class ticket out of here and this never-ending war finished?”

Dean’s too surprised to hide his startled inhalation or the hopeful widening of his eyes, and Ruby chuckles as she releases his face to pat his cheek condescendingly.

“Thought so,” she says, and then steps back a pace and nods at the demons holding onto Dean’s arms. “I think we can let him go now.”

Dean doesn’t move as he’s released. He can’t move, poised on the edge between begrudging suspicion and fervent hope.

Ruby wouldn’t have come here if she weren’t absolutely sure of her plan. She wouldn’t have risked pissing off Sam.

Still smiling like a well-fed cat, Ruby sits down on the couch again. Putting her feet up on the coffee table, she trails her eyes down his body in a way that reminds Dean all over again that he’s a little underdressed for this conversation.

“Uh,” he says, shifting one hand to strategically cover himself. “You mind if I take a pants break before we powwow?”

Ruby tilts her head consideringly and then drawls, “Seems a pity to cover up such a pretty meatsuit, but I guess I’ll wait.”

Dean doesn’t much like the thought of demons at his back, so he rounds the couch with a careful eye for Ruby and her two lackeys, making for the wardrobe on a diagonal path with his back toward the balcony and his eyes on the front door. He’s halfway there when an unexpected voice behind him says, “Stop.”

Dean whirls around and, for the first time, spots the figure by the sliding door. And ‘figure’ and ‘male’ are pretty much the only things Dean can label the dude, because he’s shrouded in loose, black cloak—complete with a raised hood so that Dean can’t even check out the back of the dude’s head. Now that Dean is staring at the guy, he doesn’t know how he could have missed him, even with the distraction presented by Ruby. By virtue of sheer presence alone, he should have spotted this guy first thing when he was dragged out of the bathroom.

Christ, just looking at the dude’s cloaked back is making Dean’s skin break out in goose bumps.

“I want to see what I’d be getting,” Cloaked Dude adds as he slowly turns around—not that it matters, since Dean can’t see past the hood’s enveloping shadows to the face beneath.

Dean doesn’t know exactly what’s going on here, but he’s sure that he isn’t going to let himself be pawed over by some pervy stranger. His body is (Sam’s) his own, and if this guy wants a peep show, Dean’s got the business end of a lamp with his name on it.

What? It’s the best weapon he has access to these days; so sue him.

But when he tries to move toward the wardrobe again, he finds his body rooted in place. He didn’t even feel the breath of power move over him. He doesn’t even really feel it now; only knows it’s there by virtue of the fact that his muscles are aching with the strain of how violently he’s trying to move and he hasn’t so much as twitched.

Wide-eyed, Dean watches Cloaked Dude move toward him with a smooth, confident stride. It’s like being tied in place while a snarling, bloody-jawed lion paws closer. Whoever—whatever—is under that cloak, Dean already knows that this isn’t going to end well for him.

The only plus side he can find in the whole affair is the fact that Cloaked Dude isn’t making him wait. Within the space of a few seconds, Cloaked Dude is standing right in front of Dean, the shadows beneath his hood no less impenetrable from close up. Dean knows because he can’t look away. Can’t even close his goddamned eyes for longer than it takes to blink.

The hand that emerges from beneath the cloak is black-gloved. Leather-clad fingers trace over Dean’s hip, up his side, and then, as Cloaked Dude circles out of sight, onto the tattoo. Not even the man’s intangible, invisible power is enough to keep Dean from shuddering at how wrong it feels being touched there by anyone who isn’t Sam. Even Ruby, he realizes belatedly, carefully skirted these marks when she was pawing at him.

A numb, blank feeling sinks into Dean wherever Cloaked Dude’s fingertips travel, followed by a frozen burn, as though he’s being painted with liquid nitrogen. Ice to Sam’s fire, negative void to the toomuchtoointense that Sam spikes inside of him. This isn’t just wrong, it’s the complete antithesis of everything Dean has grudgingly accepted as right.

He’d be screaming if his lungs hadn’t closed up on him.

“This is interesting,” Cloaked Dude murmurs as he calmly traces a swirl of tattoo up Dean’s spine. “How does that feel to you, Dean? It can’t be too comfortable, can it?”

Dean tries to respond—a simple ‘fuck you’ would do right about now—but his jaw is locked up too tightly to manage it. Christ, he can’t breathe.

Behind him, Cloaked Dude makes a thoughtful humming sound. “You’re very nearly damaged goods. Lucky for you, though, I’m not quite as picky as my pious brothers.”

The hand lifts from Dean’s skin, allowing him to suck in a deep, heaving breath, and Cloaked Dude strolls back into view on his path toward the sliding doors.

“He’ll do.”

Dean wastes a few moments staring incredulously while Cloaked Dude paints swirls of frost over the glass panel of one of the doors before he realizes that he can move again. Which means he can talk.

“’I’ll do’,” he echoes, ignoring the strident voice in his head that’s telling him it’s a very bad idea to piss this guy off. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Cloaked Dude has quite a garden going on the window by now. Tall willow trees of frost, rose bushes, lilacs. He’s adding in what Dean guesses is supposed to be a pond when he answers, “I’m sorry. Forgive my manners. You’re more than adequate, Dean. One might say you were almost born for me.”

Finished with his ice painting (Dean was right, it was a pond, complete with a duo of graceful swans), Cloaked Dude lowers his hand again and stands there admiring his work. For someone as powerful as Dean senses he is, Cloaked Dude seems a few fries short of a Happy Meal.

If there even are Happy Meals any more.

“Okay, that’s it,” Dean says, moving for the wardrobe again. “Party’s over, Ruby. Everyone out of the pool.”

“You haven’t heard our offer yet,” Ruby replies, watching way too closely as Dean grabs the first pair of jeans he comes across and then bends over to pull them on.

“If it has anything to do with Rainman over there, then the answer’s no fucking way. Now get out. Maybe, if you’re real lucky, you’ll get a head start before Sam gets home.”

“Sam is going to be preoccupied for a time,” Cloaked Dude puts in.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Dean snaps. He’s more concerned than he wants to be, but he doesn’t bother fighting the emotion. He’s spent far too much energy trying not to care about Sam since that night in the graveyard. He isn’t going to start being successful now.

“Your brother is currently battling for his life somewhere in the vicinity of…” Cloaked Dude tilts his head to one side. “I believe it used to be called Montana.”

Alarm slices through Dean’s chest. He’s already moving toward the door before he’s finished with the top button on his jeans.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ruby calls after him.

“I’m not just gonna leave him out—” Dean starts, and then cuts himself off. He has the door to the suite open and is looking down the hallway at the elevator. The one he can’t so much as set foot in, let alone ride to the bottom.

Goddamn it.

Frustrated, Dean slams the heel of his palm against the doorframe. The strength of his fear on Sam’s behalf is stirring up all sorts of other emotions as well—guilt and shame among them—but the fear is utmost. Christ, he hasn’t felt this much worry and dread gnawing at his chest since that night in the graveyard. Not for Sammy.

When Dean looks back at his four visitors, Ruby is smirking at him. Her two goons are wearing respectful, mostly expressionless faces. Cloaked Dude is still staring out the sliding doors.

“I’m certain that Sam will survive,” Cloaked Dude says after a moment. “He has more than enough power to handle a few malcontents.”

He has a point. Dean sees that immediately and feels more than a little stupid for having gotten so worried. It might take Sam a while to rip through his opponents, but it isn’t like he’s in any actual danger.

And even if he were, what the fuck did Dean think he was going to do about it that Sam couldn’t? Spread his legs and see if the demons would prefer taking a ride to littering Sam’s insides across Glacier National Park?

“But,” Cloaked Dude adds, “they should prove distraction enough for us to conclude our business here.”

“And just what business is that, huh?” Dean asks, sticking to the doorway—much good it’ll do him, since he can’t actually make a run for it. But he can’t help thinking that the more space he has between himself and the thing by the balcony, the better.

Cloaked Dude finally turns, and even though there’s nothing but shadow beneath the hood, Dean feels eyes on him.

“This isn’t the way things were supposed to happen,” Cloaked Dude announces. It’s close enough to the bullshit Castiel used to feed Dean that it catches his attention. Biting down on his sarcastic, frightened response, Dean listens as Cloaked Dude continues, “Sam and his blind devotion to you have taken Fate right off the rails, so to speak. It’s far too late to return to the path as it should have been, but I do seem to have found myself an alternate, equally appealing option.”

Despite himself—despite his fear (for himself, for Sam)—Dean finds himself curious. Frowning, he edges back into the room. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“Exactly,” Cloaked Dude agrees, and then stands there waiting. His unseen eyes rest heavily on Dean.

Dean glances at the three demons in the room—at the respectful, almost worshipful way they’re staring at Cloaked Dude—and, with a lurch of comprehension, he gets it.

“No way,” he breathes, taking an unconscious step backwards. “You’re not him. He doesn’t even exist.”

“Ah, but I do. And, difficult though it was to obtain my freedom without your assistance, here I am.”

The ambient temperature of the room should have melted the frost on the window by now, but over Cloaked Dude’s shoulder the garden remains as pristine as ever. In fact, now that it has caught Dean’s attention again, he realizes that the frost willow’s branches are swaying in the wind. The swan is drifting slowly around the circumference of the pond.

Cloaked Dude steps forward, moving over to rest one hand on the back of the couch, and Dean’s attention snaps back where it belongs.

“I’m a little the worse for wear, it’s true,” Cloaked Dude continues, “but that will be easily remedied just as soon as I have an appropriate vessel.”

“A vessel?” Dean repeats, liking the look of this conversation less and less. “Why would you even need one? If you really are the devil, you’d be, like, an angel, right?”

“I am one of the first angels. The best. But like my lesser brothers, I still require substantial flesh to... shall we say, work my will upon the world. Most of your kind are appallingly weak and brittle. Fine for demons, I suppose, but I require substance of a more tempered nature. What I really need, Dean, is a sword.”

Dean can’t help flushing in relief a little. For a few seconds there, he thought… but no, this is just Cloaked Dude—Lucifer, if he’s telling the truth—revealing that, yes, he really is nuts.

Still, there’s no point in deliberately trying to piss the devil off, so he keeps his voice pleasant as he says, “Last time I checked, there’s a shortage of sharp, pointy objects up here.”

Ruby laughs, and Dean rolls his shoulders uncomfortably at the brief surge of amusement he feels from Lucifer’s direction.

“I’m sorry, Dean, allow me to rephrase myself. When I say ‘sword’, I’m speaking in the very general sense of ‘weapon’. One of a pair, actually, born to that purpose and meant to be wielded in a great battle—the Last Battle. Unfortunately, as I said, Sam has thrown a bit of a kink into the works. He melted my sword down altogether, and I really thought I might be out of the running until Ruby told me where I could find the other half of the pair. A little worn, perhaps, but still serviceable. So here I am, all dressed up and ready to put an end to the suffering of this world.”

Dean still doesn’t quite follow the whole sword thing that Lucifer is yammering on about, but he can’t help but laugh at that last claim. “Right. Because all the stories about the Morning Star are really big on his whole peace, love and kittens plan.”

“Misrepresentation,” Lucifer responds smoothly. “All I want is to go home. Imagine it, Dean: this world, left in peace. No angels. No demons. I’d take them all with me.”

If Lucifer is telling the truth, which Dean doubts, that would be an insanely tempting offer.

“Say I believe you,” he hedges. “I still don’t get what you need me for.”

“I don’t think you realize just how special and unique you are,” Lucifer answers. “The sole surviving half of a matching set millennia in the breeding. Sam would have been a snugger fit, of course, but as I said, Sam is… no longer feasible.”

He can’t possibly be saying what Dean thinks he is.

“Pretend I’ve been having a rough couple of years and give it to me in English.”

“You’re the sword, Dean,” Lucifer answers, and yeah, no way Dean can misinterpret that, much as he wants to. “You were intended for my brother Michael, but he has been uniformly unsuccessful in his efforts to obtain you. The wards on this place—you wouldn’t happen to know how Sam found Michael’s birth name, would you?”

He pauses, like Dean is actually going to have an answer to that aside from a blank, uncomprehending stare. Christ, this is the first Dean has heard anything about this crap. How the hell is he supposed to know what’s going on?

Lucifer dismisses his own question with a shrug. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, although it really is beautiful craftsmanship.”

He lifts his other hand in a slight gesture and, suddenly golden, glowing lines flare up from every corner of the suite. They’re etched into the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The sliding doors are covered with them—even the balcony on the other side shines with a dome formed of tangled arcane symbols Dean can’t even begin to decipher. Now that he can see them, Dean can also sense the power it took to lay those lines—the power running through them in a continuous circuit—and he staggers a little under the sheer weight of it.

How the fuck has he been managing to breathe up here? How the fuck could he not have noticed a warding of this magnitude?

He shies to the side, trying to find an inch of clear space, but there’s nowhere to go. When he turns, looking out into the hallway, more gold reflects back at him. The lines seem to brighten the more he pays attention to them, as though even now he’s only sensing a glimmer of their true potential, and Dean presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and grits his teeth, trying to shut it out.

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer’s voice echoes to him through his self-imposed darkness. He sounds different like this, his voice distorted by the power into something ringing and bell-like. Something that threatens to liquefy Dean’s brain and pour it from his ears. “I forgot you mortals have no tolerance for High Ennochian.”

Almost immediately, the unbearable feedback of power lessens, dwindling until Dean feels safe enough to lower his hands again. He’s in time to see the last of the lines fade back into the contours of the room, as invisible and unfelt as they were before Lucifer lit them up like a supernova.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters.

“You can see why Michael has been unsuccessful,” Lucifer says. “But dear Sammy neglected to ward against me, and—what is it you humans always say? Finders keepers?”

It’s difficult to process. Dean’s head is spinning from what he’s being told, from the wards he just saw. Christ, is that why Sam has been so adamant about keeping him up here? Has he been telling the truth this whole time—about keeping Dean safe? And if he has, then why the fuck didn’t he ever say anything about it? Why turn the suite into some twisted cage instead in Dean’s mind? Why not just tell him it’s a shield? It might not have been the only reason, and it wouldn’t have made Dean any easier about Sam’s bloodier habits, but Dean would have thought that his brother would be thrilled to have some sort of noble explanation for keeping him confined.

And none of that even begins to touch on the more pressing problem of Lucifer, the devil himself, showing up and basically letting Dean know that he’s about to hijack Dean’s body and take it for a joyride. The thought of something else—even the archangel Michael, like it was apparently supposed to be—inside of his body makes Dean feel nauseous. None of Sam’s mind tricks this time, none of his brother’s skilled conditioning, but all him.

Monsters are supposed to be the things he kills. They aren’t supposed to nest inside of him like termites in a wall.

“So this is my offer, Dean,” Lucifer says smoothly. “Prove yourself a worthy sword, and I will ask you to be my vessel. Consent to that, and I promise that I’ll bring peace to this shattered world.”

“Consent?” Dean checks, his attention caught by that one, surprising word. “What do you mean, ‘consent’? I thought you guys just… you know.” He makes a vague hand gesture that probably looks nothing like the smoky entrances and exits he’s seen, but Lucifer nods as though he understands perfectly.

“Demons,” he says, “are creatures of force. I’m an angel.”

“So what, I have to agree? I say ‘no’ and, what? That’s it? Everyone walks away?” Somehow, he doesn’t think it’s that simple, and Lucifer’s evasive answer confirms that suspicion.

“I would hope that you’d make a wiser decision than that, Dean. And would allow me to… make my case. I’m sure you would find my arguments most persuasive.”

Dean can just guess what that means. Ignoring the sinking sensation in his stomach, he stalls for time by asking, “What happens to me if I say yes?”

“Oblivion,” Lucifer answers frankly. “That’s what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? An end to your suffering? I will grant it. Your soul—or, well, that travesty inside you—won’t survive my coming. It will be quick, though. Virtually painless.”

Despite the natural repugnance that accompanies the thought of something else riding around in his body, Dean is tempted by that offer. The weariness that always seems to be lingering in his bones these days grows even heavier at the prospect of release.

God, it would be so nice to put down the load.

And then he thinks of Sam, left here. Left alone.

Dean licks his lips. “And Sam?”

Lucifer’s head tilts in inquiry.

“What about Sam in this scenario?” Dean clarifies. “What happens to him?”

“What Sam has done to himself can’t be undone. Let’s be honest with one another, Dean; if it could be, I would be speaking to him right now instead of to you. But I can neutralize him, stop him from doing more harm than he has already wrought—with your help, of course. Without a proper vessel, I lack the power to face him.”

It isn’t difficult to read between the pretty, promising words and find death looking back at him. Death for Sam—death for the world, probably. But Dean isn’t quite sure, anymore, that that’s necessarily a bad thing. He isn’t sold on it as a good idea, either, but there’s no reason not to entertain the thought for a while, give himself time to think it through.

“What did you mean, prove myself worthy?” he asks. “Thought you already had your look at the merchandise.”

“I’ve examined your body, yes. But I need a strong sword. You’ve been tempered by Sam’s hand. Ruby has vouched for your continued resilience, but what we are to have between us is a little too important for such untested assurances.”

“So what? You want to see me do a couple push-ups? Jumping jacks?”

Lucifer gestures in Ruby’s direction and Ruby pulls something from her waist, tossing it toward Dean in a fluid motion. Dean watches the object arc through the air with a dangerous, lopsided gleam and recognizes it as a knife before it thumps to a stop on the rug less than six feet away.

For a second, he thinks it’s Bobby’s dagger—the one sent to end his life. But a closer look reveals that, although this knife also has markings up and down the blade, they aren’t quite the same. And the handle is all wrong. This blade is just as sharp, though, and Dean feels a conflicting draw and revulsion toward the knife.

The last time he held one of those in his hands, he almost killed himself with it.

“What am I supposed to do with that?” he asks, his voice only carrying a slight trace of a rasp despite the sudden dryness in his throat and mouth.

“Survive,” Lucifer answers, and before Dean can ask anything else, Ruby’s two lackeys are running at him.

Dean isn’t sure who’s more surprised when he throws himself for the knife and comes up from a somersault with it clenched in his hand—himself or the demons—but he knows that he’s got to be the only one happy about it. Both of Ruby’s goons slow as soon as he’s armed, moving away from each other and approaching on cautious arcs. They’re going to come at him at the same time, one from the front and one from the back: a simultaneous attack that would have been difficult for Dean to block back when he was on his game.

Now, after what has to have been years of soft living in this gilded cell, he’d better hope that Sam’s protections hold.

Only there’s a dusty, cobwebbed part of his brain that seems to be waking up, all the lights clicking on slowly but surely. He moves suddenly, almost before he’s even aware of the intent himself, jerking to the side with a half step before turning and backing up four or five paces. The movement puts him on the apex of a triangle where his attackers make up the other two points, which is, strategically, a hell of a lot better than being the center of a line.

Shifting the knife into a more comfortable grip for slashing, Dean crouches into a lower fighting stance—more potential for explosive energy from down here, not to mention presenting less of a target—and then backs away on a slant that quickly sets his back against a wall.

See the fuckers hit him from behind now.

They’re still going to come at him together once they’ve worked up the nerve, of course—Dean wouldn’t expect otherwise. In his experience, the bad guys are never honorable enough to wait their turn. They come two or more at once, and there always seem to be multiple fists coming at Dean’s head at the same time as the dude he’s currently facing delivers a roundhouse kick to his chest.

This is one of the reasons Dad was so adamant about the benefits of hunting with a partner, and also why Dean got dragged to Caleb’s for all those special training sessions. It was just Dad and Caleb at first and then, after Sam left for Stanford and Dad realized Dean would have to go out on his own, it was Dad and Caleb and about a half dozen of Caleb’s buddies. Those sessions are years in the past, but the lessons Dean learned through bruises and blood and, once, a spectacularly broken arm, seem to have stuck.

Divide and conquer, he can almost hear Dad saying. You let them bog you down, you’re done.

“Come on,” he mutters, keeping the knife pointed threateningly out in front of him as the demons edge in closer.

The demons glance at each other and that’s all the warning Dean has before he’s rushed, both of them moving in near-unison. The demon wearing the blue polo, the one on Dean’s right, is half a step behind Eager Beaver, which isn’t much but Dean isn’t really in a position to be complaining.

He ducks Eager Beaver’s fist, feeling molding from the wall rain down on the back of his neck, and then twists to the side to avoid Blue Polo’s kick. The knife comes up without Dean having made any clear decision to swing it, his body running on instinct and muscle memory (like a freaking elephant, Jesus), and slices across Eager Beaver’s thigh. Lightning flickers from the blade into the cut, drawing out a shower of sulfur.

There’s something reminiscent of the Colt in the weapon’s effect, and Dean dives away from the wall with an excited throb of adrenaline. He hadn’t really expected to be able to make a dent, but this… this really does level the playing field, even if Dean would prefer that gun and a couple dozen rounds to go with it. Knife fighting—knives—have never really been his thing. They’re too up close and personal, used to make Dean feel… sometimes… like something that wasn’t quite safe.

Stupid, maybe, but in the movies it’s never the good guys who prefer this kind of blade.

There’s nothing of that feeling in him right now, though, and as he moves back out into open territory, Dean doesn’t care that he’s being watched and assessed like the underdog in a prizefight. He puts Ruby and Lucifer out of his head without a thought past locating them as potential obstacles in the room. Adrenaline and the heady, almost high feeling of pitting himself against the darkness rush through him.

This, he feels in his blood. This is what he was meant to do, Sam and his golden cage be damned.

The demons are even more cautious as they trail after him now, especially the one he marked. Both of them are lingering by the wall, drawing out blades of their own and exchanging a meaningful glance. As they start to part ways again, Dean imagines being backed against the couch, or the bed, or any of the other inconvenient, low obstructions in here. It would be easy enough then for one of them to knock him over on top of whatever, following to keep him pinned while the other comes around the side.

That’s not anything like a position Dean wants to be maneuvered into. It’s almost worse, he thinks, to be knocked onto something at that height than it would be to end up on the floor. Floor, he’d have tons of room to roll until he found some leverage. Table or bed, he’d have only so far before he hit a drop, and then he’d run the risk of breaking something when he fell wrong, or of ending up momentarily stunned.

And a moment is all it ever takes.

So don’t let them corner you. Dad’s voice, leaking scorn all over the place, but Dean’s too busy scanning the room for something he can use to his advantage to care.

It’s the breakfast tray he seizes on, still lying on the coffee table and waiting to be sent back down the dumbwaiter. Praying that demonic powers are off-limits in this battle, he turns suddenly and sprints for the couch, dropping a hand down onto the back and using it to vault himself over. Ruby makes a startled noise and ducks away, eyes fastened on the knife, but Dean ignores her and grabs the tray instead.

His opponents, when he whirls back around, are rounding the couch, one on each side. Still trying to keep his attention divided like he thought they would.

With a tight, uncontrollable grin, Dean hurls the tray at Blue Polo’s face. The demon reacts instinctively, ducking back from the oncoming projectile, and Dean uses the opening not to attack him, but to turn and throw himself at Eager Beaver. He switches knife hands as he moves, lifting the blade high with his left hand as though intending to slash at the son of a bitch’s eyes. Eager Beaver is watching the blade, of course, and moves to counter the blow, which is exactly what Dean was hoping would happen.

He allows his wrist to be caught and quickly deflects the accompanying thrust Eager Beaver makes with his other hand. Eager Beaver’s momentum carries him closer anyway, bringing his knife hand harmlessly past Dean’s side and allowing Dean to trap the demon’s forearm between his ribs and elbow. It isn’t a hold he’ll be able to maintain for long, and the slice he’ll get if Eager Beaver manages to yank his arm free is going to sting like a bitch, but Dean isn’t planning on giving him the chance.

Instead, as soon as he has Eager Beaver’s arm trapped, Dean snaps his head forward. His forehead solidly connects with the bridge of the demon’s nose and is accompanied by a snap and a spatter of blood—and, more rewardingly, by a strangled yell of pain. The demon doesn’t release Dean’s wrist—probably plans on keeping him trapped until his buddy can get there—but Dean doesn’t need him to let go. He just needs the son of a bitch momentarily blinded.

Twisting slightly to get his right hand into position, he opens his left hand and lets go of the knife. The blade turns slightly as it falls, but Dean already factored that into his positioning, and the handle hits solidly in the palm of his right hand. His fingers close reflexively, he twists again, and the demon hanging onto his wrist grunts.

Dean hears another crackle of lightning. He smells burnt ozone. Sees the demon’s eyes widen with flickers of red and gold.

And then the son of a bitch is slipping floorward, grip loosening enough for Dean to pull his wrist free.

He stumbles a little as he disengages, which is the only thing that saves him from the wild thrust Blue Polo makes at his back. As it is, pain sings along his side, and he sprints forward without any real plan at all in order to put some distance between himself and his sole remaining attacker. He rounds the couch again without slowing—passing Ruby instead of Lucifer: even without paying conscious attention to them he’s taking care not to get too close to the Devil—and then glances down at the shallow line of red along his ribs.

It’s a two-stitcher at best—painful, but not life threatening.

“First blood, Consort,” Blue Polo sneers.

Dean glances over his shoulder to see the demon coming around the couch after him, flicking his knife and spattering the couch arm with red droplets as he goes.

“First kill,” Dean reminds him with a twirl of his own reddened blade, and has the satisfaction of seeing the demon’s expression darken as he glances back over his shoulder toward his fallen companion.

And hey, an opportunity. Look at that.

Dean doesn’t hesitate, sprinting in with his shoulder tucked down and pushed forward. He hits the demon hard just as it’s turning back around, then allows momentum and his own weight to take them both down to the floor. The demon immediately tries to bury its blade in his side, but Dean catches its wrist in his left hand and twists. Something pops and the demon snarls, eyes flickering black.

Dean finds himself shoved up and into the air by a fist of power. It’s a blind, forceful throw and he tenses reflexively as he sails in a high arc that ends with him slamming into a wall. It’s his right side that hits, unfortunately, and all of his muscles go dead on impact. The knife falls from his nerveless fingers. When he tries to get up, his dazed body won’t listen to him—no matter how frantically he tells himself that there’s a pissed off, oversized demon with a knife coming right at him.

The most frustrating thing is that Dean is fully aware he could respond in kind, if only Sam’s impenetrable wall weren’t still keeping him from touching that yellow-eyed bastard’s power.

The expected attack, though, doesn’t come.

Instead, as Dean finally manages to push up onto his hands and knees, he lifts his head to see Blue Polo standing frozen in place with a terrified expression. He glances at Ruby—who briefly returns his gaze and then turns her face away, absolutely no help at all—and then reluctantly turns his attention toward Lucifer.

“I think I remember telling you that I wanted a fair contest,” Lucifer comments mildly.

Blue Polo doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“Go on. Finish it.”

It takes Dean a few moments to realize that Lucifer is talking to him, but once he does, he shakes his head and pushes the knife away.

“Do it yourself.”

Lucifer takes a single step away from the couch and stops, cloak swirling around his legs. “It’s just a demon, Dean. I didn’t figure you for squeamish, especially considering how neatly you dispatched your other opponent.”

“That was self-defense,” Dean answers as he slowly, painfully, climbs to his feet. “I’m no murderer.”

There’s a pause where Dean feels himself studied and then Lucifer says, “In another life, you made a wonderful rackman. Quite the artist, as I’ve been told.”

Dean doesn’t know what a rackman is, but he’s pretty sure that isn’t a compliment. He isn’t quite stupid enough to mouth off to the devil, though, so he keeps his mouth shut and silently waits for some sign of what to expect next.

Lucifer sighs. “Very well. I suppose you’ve already proved your merit.”

He gestures with one hand and the blade Dean fought with lifts from the rug. It hovers before his face for a moment, then shoots across the room to bury itself in the remaining demon’s neck. Blue Polo, obviously released from Lucifer’s hold, has time to gurgle and clutch at the protruding handle. Then lightning runs over his skin and crackles in his open mouth. Soot trickles past his lips and down from the wound. His head jerks once to the side, and then stills again as the demon collapses in a graceless heap.

Dean can’t help wondering about the man who owned that body before Sam turned the entire world into a used meatsuit store.

“So, Dean,” Lucifer says in a more conversational tone of voice. He runs his hand lightly across the back of the couch as he walks toward Dean. “Do we have an agreement?”

For a moment, Dean can’t remember what he’s talking about. Then his mind, which was so vividly shanghaied by this impromptu contest, jerks back to alertness. Only problem is, he’s no closer to knowing how to answer than he was before he went a few rounds in the ring.

Of course, the fact that he’s still hesitating at all (and yeah, okay, the fact that he’s dealing with the Father of Lies here) is probably a good indication that he shouldn’t go anywhere near this offer.

“Thanks,” he says, trying to smile calmly. “But no thanks. I think I’m going to have to pass.”

“Pity.”

“I’m sure if you run fast enough, you can be gone before Sam gets back,” Dean offers.

Lucifer steps forward—toward Dean, not the door.

Which is right about the moment when Dean realizes what he should have done the instant he figured out that he had unexpected visitors.

Pushing at the connection between himself and Sam without Sam’s power holding it open is a bit like trying to push himself through a wall. He tries it for all of a few seconds before abandoning it as a bad idea and giving the connection a heavy mental kick instead.

Sam! he thinks as loudly as possible. I know you’re busy, but I could use a little help here!

“Unfortunately, I can’t really take no for an answer,” Lucifer says, reaching up for the hood of his cloak and pushing it back. “You can see why.”

Dean can.

There’s really no knowing what Lucifer’s current vessel looked like before he invited the devil in. Not when the man’s hair is hanging in stringy, patchy clumps. The skin of his face has either erupted in boils or peeled away, revealing desiccated muscle beneath—sagging bone, in places. His nose is gone entirely, nothing left but two holes opening into that hideous, malformed head.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, lifting a hand to cover his nose and mouth.

“Not very pretty, am I?” Lucifer asks, his face shifting in something that might be a smile. “It doesn’t feel any better from here, either, let me tell you.”

“What’d you do,” Dean asks as he backs away, keeping some distance between them. “Get your face caught in a nuclear blast?”

“This flesh isn’t meant to house something like me. Improper vessels function only briefly before the strain of containment begins to burn through. You, though… you, I’ll be able to ride for a thousand years, if I want. And nothing so much as a sunburn.”

Ben’s room, Dean realizes belatedly as he catches sight of the doorway over Lucifer’s shoulder. Get on the other side of that, get the door shut and locked, and he should be able to ride this out until Sam gets back.

“I don’t know about that,” he says, trying to circle around in the right direction. “I’m pale; I burn easily.”

This time, when that face moves, Dean’s certain it’s meant as a smile.

“Pity your soul will be obliterated by the transfer,” Lucifer tells him. “I’m finding you surprisingly interesting, for a human.”

“I thought you said I had to agree.” It isn’t a particularly witty response, but then again most of Dean’s attention is on the door—to his right now, closer, but not nearly close enough.

“Consent, yes. But I’m sure I can find some way to… convince you.” Lucifer gestures and pain stabs into Dean’s side. The shallow gash along his ribs, when he clutches at it, has widened. Blood drips through his fingertips.

It’s alarming, and not just because it’s going to slow him down when he runs for the door, but Dean manages to keep a grin on his face as he pants, “Torture? Really? That’s all you’ve got?”

Lucifer’s head tilts, but before he can speak, Ruby breaks in urgently. “Lord, we can’t afford to wait here. We need to take the vessel and go.”

Dean’s breath stops for a moment. Pain spikes through his wounded side as his muscles tense and he doesn’t really notice it, too focused on the thought of being yanked out of here before Sam gets back. Of being brought somewhere where Lucifer can take his time, somewhere that torture will become more than just a word and a little blood.

Dean doesn’t know how long he’d be able to hold up under that.

Everybody breaks. Everybody.

But Lucifer doesn’t move, still staring at Dean with lidless, bottomless eyes.

“You can’t, can you?” Dean realizes as giddy relief spills through his chest. “Whatever Sam did to lock me up here, you can’t break it unless I consent first.” When Lucifer still doesn’t answer, Dean throws his head back and laughs. “Man, was this stupid. You went and piled all your eggs into one basket, didn’t you? All or nothing. Well, guess what: the yolk’s on you, buddy.”

Lucifer doesn’t crack a smile this time—no one ever appreciates Dean’s puns—and a second later Dean isn’t laughing either. Instead, he’s screaming as all of his nerve endings ignite at the same time, flooding him with agony and dropping him on the ground. Flames are eating through him, he’s being burned alive, his marrow is baking in his bones, he’s—

“Say yes, Dean. Consent, and it all stops.”

Fire, fire, burning bright…

“Fuck you, Louie,” Dean grates, and then clenches his jaw shut on a scream as the fire turns to ice, jagged and running through his body. The cold cuts deeper, it turns Dean’s muscles brittle and snaps them, and when he heaves in a breath, he can feel his lungs freezing.

“Join with me,” Lucifer entreats on the other side of that ice. “Let me take away the pain, and the sorrow, and the guilt...”

When the pressure shifts a second time, it isn’t pain that wracks Dean’s body; it’s emotion. It’s every negative, hurtful thing Dean has ever felt, rebounding on him, magnified and amplified to the power of infinity. Dean’s breath bursts out on a sob. He curls into himself helplessly on the floor, trying to make himself small enough to hide from what he’s done, what he is, and—

“Get away from him.”

Warm, gold-tinged power bursts through the room. It slams into Dean, catching on his skin and twining through the lines of the tattoo on his back in familiar, intimate greeting. Relieved, Dean reaches back, finding Sam through the opening connection—hurt, fuck; Sam’s hurt—and then sits up and opens his eyes.

Sam is leaning on the doorframe, dripping blood on the carpet from what look to be a hundred different wounds. Dean can’t understand how he isn’t collapsing under the strain, but Sam’s expression reveals no hint of the exhaustion or pain Dean knows he’s feeling. There’s only anger there. Only low, simmering rage.

“Lucifer,” he says. “So, the whispers are true; you’ve found your way out of your cage.”

Instead of responding, Lucifer moves in a blur of voluminous robes. The air stirs around Dean and he finds himself jerked upright. A knife pricks at the underside of his throat while a strong, overly hot arm (fuck, he’s baking from the inside out) forms a bar across his chest.

“Careful, Sam,” Lucifer warns. “A blow from me, wielding this knife… even you might not be able to turn back the clock on that one.”

No panic shows on Sam’s face, but the connection is open and singing between them and Dean feels it surge inside of him anyway. Dean doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite so much fear on his own behalf—he doesn’t think he’s ever felt so much fear period. All of Sam’s emotions seem sharper than normal, actually, maybe because with the looming threat of Lucifer he can’t spare any attention to modulate just how much Dean gets from him.

And there’s… there’s so much there. Beneath the brighter flare of panic, Dean’s catching thousands—millions—of facets coloring what Sam feels for him. Desire, need, elation, peace, confidence, awe, guilt, lust, hope, longing, affection, trust, hunger. Other shades of emotion that Dean can’t even put name to. But it all boils down to the same thing, to an overwhelming, single-minded love that consumes everything in its path like a rolling wall of fire.

Dean feels burnt in the face of that much emotion. Dazed and stunned. It takes all of his willpower to turn his mind away from that flood—to think. Lucifer and Sam, and Dean’s caught between them like a bit of meat between two starving dogs. The Devil and the Dragon.

Maybe it’s just the heady rush of his brother’s emotions, but right now, with Lucifer at his back and Sam before him, Dean is having absolutely no trouble figuring out which is the lesser of the two evils.

Hanging loosely onto Lucifer’s arm, Dean struggles just enough to be believable and reaches through the connection toward his brother.

Reaching through the link for Sam feels sort of like swimming upstream through the middle of a raging rapid, and Dean quickly gives it up as an impossible feat. Instead, while Lucifer backs him toward the sliding door, he concentrates on widening their connection, ignoring the pain and the fragmenting sensation that accompanies the effort. It isn’t anything near as agonizing as what Lucifer was tossing at him a few minutes ago; won’t be as painful as whatever Dean will go through if Lucifer somehow figures out how to pull a vanishing act with him.

And it’s working. Chunks of the protective walls that surround Dean, that keep him separate from Sam, crack and then crumble, speeding the inflow. Sam rushes in, and in, and somehow there’s still more of him, even though Dean’s skin and mind ache from the toofulltoomuch sensation.

Sam, he thinks, trying to gain his brother’s conscious attention. Sammy.

Sam’s golden, burning eyes shift minutely to meet Dean’s, and for several unbearable moments the press of him really is too much. Sam’s presence swells inside of Dean, it burrows deeper, into places that ache at the slightest brush, and then digs beyond even that boundary. Dean’s mind strains away—too much, this is too fucking much—and then, miraculously, Sam pulls himself back in a retreating gale that leaves Dean’s head reeling.

Dean, Sam thinks, and the word pulses into Dean’s head along with a rustling undertone of minesaveyousafedon’tworry. Dean starts to give his head a shake to clear it of the echoes, remembers the knife, and settles for shutting his eyes as Lucifer drags him back another step.

You’re stronger than him, Dean says silently, concentrating to make each of the words clear and audible.

For a moment, there’s nothing, but then Dean hears, I’m tired. And, in a flurry of after-whispers, wearyweakhurtscaredloseyoucan’ttheyhurtyousleepresthurts.

As the whispers fade, Dean opens his eyes and takes another, closer look at Sam. He’s clearly holding himself up by sheer willpower alone, and the blood flow still hasn’t stopped. His right arm looks burnt as well, steam rising from it in snaking tendrils. Some of his exhaustion is from the pain he’s in (and Christ, Dean wants to bash heads in over this, he wants to get over there and check Sammy out already), some of it is from fighting Lucifer’s ‘distraction’. But Dean thinks a good deal of it has to do with the speed with which Sam tore himself from that distant battle and came here.

Sam is here now because Dean called him. If something happens to him, if Lucifer manages to kill him, it’ll be Dean’s fault.

And Lucifer seems to be catching on to the fact that Sam isn’t operating at full capacity, because he’s stopped moving away.

Fuck, if only Dean could do something, but he doesn’t have any weapons, and the knife dimpling his throat is a little too close to his jugular to try for it. He’s helpless again, helpless and waiting for the end just like he was when that demon tossed him into the wall. His right side still hurts, actually; throbs like it’s going to be one big bruise if he lives to see tomorrow, and—wait.

Dean struggles to keep his face blank in the face of his revelation—Lucifer might not be able to see him, but Ruby is visible out of the corner of Dean’s eyes, and she’s just enough of a bitch to call out a warning if she thinks he’s going to try something. Once the hopeful surge has passed, Dean relocks eyes with his brother.

Take down the wall.

Sam’s eyes narrow minutely and, through the connection, Dean feels him harden in instinctive denial.

Jesus Christ, Sam, Dean thinks. The severity of their situation colors his thoughts with frustrated exasperation. I’m not going to use it to fight you. Just—let’s take this asshole together, and then you can put it right back up. I won’t try to stop you.

Dean can’t lie to Sam like this—not mind-to-mind—but for some reason Sam is still hesitating, looking like he’d rather let Lucifer kill him than do what Dean asks. It doesn’t make any goddamned sense—until Sam’s reasoning slips inadvertently through the connection and suddenly everything comes clear.

Sam isn’t worried about what Dean is going to do once he’s allowed free range with the power in his head. He’s terrified of the sort of combatant target it’s going to make him.

“Goddamn it, Sam,” Dean mutters, tightening his grip on Lucifer’s arm with a reflexive surge of righteous anger.

Lucifer responds by digging the knife in deeper, drawing blood and sending a brief, unpleasant shock through Dean’s throat and jaw. The air suddenly smells like copper-tinged sulfur. Sam’s eyes narrow further on a crackle of fury that wraps through Dean’s insides. Sam stands straighter, moving away from the doorway with a strong, steady step. The shadows in the room—by the wardrobe, under the bed—swell and rush to him, coming obediently to heel as the air around his hands flickers with gold and red-tinged lightning.

The wall in Dean’s head comes down.

For an instant, Dean is too distracted by the filthy, polluted wash of yellow through his thoughts to do anything with it. His stomach heaves, sickened, and the yellow-eyed demon’s face swims before his eyes. That familiar, hated mouth twists in a mocking grin.

No, Dean thinks, struggling out from beneath the flood. You’re locked up in a box, you son of a bitch.

The demon’s face recedes again, and the glow seems cleaner, more manageable. Dean reaches into it, pulling the power closer, letting it infect him. One side of Sam’s mouth twitches up and Dean sees himself reflected in his brother’s expression: knows that, with this much power running through him, his eyes have to be almost as bright as Sam’s.

Sure enough, Ruby makes a startled, alarmed noise, and yells, “He’s—”

Dean doesn’t let her finish the warning. Acting on instinct, he shoves down on Lucifer’s arm while pushing the knife from his throat with a clumsy burst of power. It isn’t the most elegant display, but the sting of the knife disappears and the bar across Dean’s chest loosens, and that’s good enough for him.

He pushes forward, pivoting as soon as he’s out from the circle of Lucifer’s grasp and catching hold of his knife hand. Lucifer puts his other hand on top of Deans’, trying to force the knife toward him again, and Dean clenches his jaw and focuses on pouring strength into his muscles.

“You don’t actually think this is going to accomplish anything, do you, Dean?” Lucifer asks. There’s obvious strain in his voice, but Dean is burning through power with draining speed, and the tip of the blade is still inclining in his direction. Lucifer’s skull-head grins at him with heat-cracked teeth.

“Yield,” Lucifer insists. “It would be a pity to scar that face before I have a chance to wear it.”

Right about now would be a great time for the cavalry to show up.

“Sam,” Dean manages through clenched teeth as his arms start to shake with the strain.

“Sam’s a little busy right now,” Lucifer says as the knife edges forward, toward Dean’s face. “It’s just you and me.”

Taking a chance, Dean rolls his eyes back and to the left, looking for his brother. He’s terrified he’ll see Sam collapsed on the floor, but Sam is still upright and in motion; ducking underneath a wild knife slash from Ruby before coming up with a strike of his own. The blade in Sam’s hand is the color of honey, the edge trailing brighter golden sparks, and Dean can feel the effort it’s taking to maintain the blade and stay on his feet, let alone fight.

Lucifer’s right. Dean’s on his own here.

And he’s losing.

“Son of a bitch,” he growls, pouring more of that glowing, sullen light into his arms while searching frantically for more to draw on. It’s becoming despairingly dark and empty in Dean’s head.

“Say yes and I’ll let Sam live,” Lucifer promises. “My word to you, I’ll leave him unharmed when I walk out of here.”

If Dean thought Sam would stay unharmed, that might sound tempting, but he knows his brother. He knows that the moment Sam recovered enough to stand, he’d be on his feet and hunting down Lucifer, searching for ways to take Dean’s body back, to reclaim him.

Somehow, Dean doubts that second meeting would end with Sam still breathing.

The knife looks obscenely huge now, the tip shaking less than an inch from Dean’s right eye. Then Lucifer’s death-grin widens and the blade angles away, moving for Dean’s cheek.

“Wouldn’t want to blind myself, now would I?” Lucifer says as the knife slips closer.

“Dean!” That’s Sam’s voice, rough and filled with alarm—Sam must be looking at him, must be distracted, fuck, and Dean’s about to tell his brother to keep his mind on his own battles when power surges into him through their connection. It sizzles in his muscles, electrifying, and before Dean has even had time to blink, he’s forced the knife back the other way and driven it up through the soft underside of Lucifer’s jaw. A second, more purposeful shove sends the blade higher, through mouth and bone and brain.

A red and gold lightning storm erupts in Lucifer’s mouth, which is opened in a surprised ‘O’. His murky eyes bubble; the remaining flakes of skin patching his skull burn red and then crumble to ash. It’s probably the most disgusting, riveting thing Dean has ever seen, but he can’t focus on Lucifer’s death (please God let him be dying) throes. Behind him, Sam grunts—a pained sound that says he’s been hit, of course he has, he just wasted whatever energy he had left on Dean.

Dean jerks the knife free without thinking about it, whirling around and sprinting toward Sam where he’s slowly collapsing to his knees with his hands curled protectively around his side, where Ruby’s knife is still buried to the hilt. Ruby is sneering down at him in triumph, hasn’t yet noticed what her own victory cost her on the other side of the room, and Dean’s strides lengthen as she starts to look up.

The skin of her arm is warm beneath his hand as he grips her, jerking him toward him and holding her close. It isn’t as warm as the spill of her blood, though; a warm flood that pours out between their bodies as he forces the knife into her stomach and then up beneath her ribcage. Her body is already shaking—it’s a deathblow, Dean knows that instinctively—but Dean’s past necessity as he twists the blade.

The pained flinch Ruby gives as lightning twists through her eyes isn’t quite as satisfying as he wants it to be.

Dean’s ready to twist the knife again, maybe get a better response, when Sam groans at his feet. He drops Ruby immediately, bending to get a hand on Sam’s arm—the idiot is actually trying to get up.

“Whoa,” he says. “Don’t move, man. Just—just hang on, okay? I’ve got you.”

Sam lifts his head, shaggy hair parting around his face, and the eyes that meet Dean’s are gold and alien and, despite the pain shadowing them, triumphant.

Awash with cold, Dean opens his hand and staggers back, tripping over Ruby’s body and falling onto the floor. Sam’s power throbs through him, weak but still with that undercurrent of joy.

And it isn’t like Dean forgot who—what—he was fighting for. It’s just… the boy king didn’t seem quite as real as his little brother, when Lucifer was staring him down and threatening to take everything away.

Moving slowly and stiffly, Sam gets to his feet and withdraws the knife from his side. Fresh blood pours out, soaking his side and pant leg, but Sam doesn’t seem to notice or care. Dropping the blade, he turns away from Dean and moves toward Lucifer.

As Dean tracks his brother’s movements with his eyes, he sees that Lucifer isn’t quite as dead as Dean was hoping. The charred remnants of the body are still twitching. Lucifer’s hand is flopping at the rug in a weak attempt to pull himself somewhere. His attempts redouble when Sam crouches beside him.

“The thing that you dumb bastards can’t seem to get about me and Dean,” Sam says, glancing back in Dean’s direction with a weary smile. “Is that neither one of us is going to let anything pull us apart. Not you, not those holier than thou brothers and sisters of yours, not God.”

Reaching out, he rests a hand on Lucifer’s jaw. Steam rises at the contact, and Lucifer’s body jitters. There’s a horrible, rattling scream coming from Lucifer’s ruined throat.

“Do you think I’m going to stop having so many petitions for my consort’s head once yours is on display for everyone to see?” Sam asks, tilting his own head to the side. “Because I think maybe I will.”

Sam tightens his grip—Dean sees the muscles in his brother’s arm tense—and Lucifer’s scream rises to an earsplitting volume. Dean lifts his hands hastily to his ears, trying to block it out, but it doesn’t do any good. On some level, Lucifer’s death cry is echoing through his brain, echoing inside of him where Dean can’t block it out. It seems to build and build until all Dean can see are the horrible, brutal things he’s done—in the name of Dad, of Sam—until he can taste damnation in a thousand stolen kisses, in the sweat on his baby brother’s chest as they fucked around out behind Pastor Jim’s on a lazy summer day. Every memory in Dean’s head is turning sour and decayed, painted in the ugliest, meanest light possible, and if this doesn’t stop soon, he’s going to claw his own skin off in an attempt to distract himself from the corruption.

Don’t, Sam’s voice orders, almost casually, and Dean’s hands freeze where they are. His entire body locks up on him, swaddled in the restrictive bonds of Sam’s power.

Lucifer’s scream goes on and on, until Dean is shaking all over, eaten through with the conviction that he’ll never be clean, never be whole, never be saved. Damned, and dirty, and desecrated.

“Hey.”

Christ, he’s never—he has to throw up, he has to—

“Dean, baby. Look at me.”

Dean opens his eyes, obedient to that voice even in the midst of everything else, and his weakness—his pollution—makes him want to weep. Weep harder, actually, because he’s already sobbing, and shaking. There’s a small pile of vomit near his right thigh that must also be his.

“Up here, Dean.”

A hand touches Dean’s cheek, drawing his eyes up, and Sam’s bloodied face is there. Sam’s eyes are peering at him, shadowed with pain and exhaustion, but still with a deeper gleam of concern that cuts through some of the lingering stain from having to listen to that sound—which is gone now, Dean realizes. At the conscious acknowledgement, his thoughts and memories start to even out again, tarnish rubbing off and blight flaking away.

“Sammy?” Dean whispers. He isn’t sure what he’s even asking, but Sam’s hand caresses his cheek and that feels like the only answer he needs.

“You okay?” Sam asks. “Did they hurt you?”

Dean’s right side still feels like a mess, and there’s a wet sting around the gash on his flank, but he shakes his head anyway. He’s had worse, and… and he’s just starting to realize that he isn’t wearing a shirt, which means Sam should be able to see that he’s cut, should notice. He sits up, coming out of his daze a little more, just in time to catch Sam as he collapses forward.

“Sam?” he says, alarmed. “Sammy?”

Adjusting his hold on his brother—Christ, Sam is slippery, slick with way too much of his own blood for comfort—Dean gives him a tiny shake and is rewarded with a sliver of gold peering up at him.

“C’mon, Sam. Don’t do this to me,” Dean mutters, but the gold sliver rolls back, showing white, and Sam’s eye shuts again.

“Goddamn it!” Dean swears, doing his best to manage his brother’s suddenly dead (not really, though, he’s breathing, he’s breathing) weight and lying him down on his back on the floor.

Sam’s hand is in the vomit, though, and his left foot is resting on top of Ruby’s body, and Dean… Dean can’t fucking do this here. Swearing again, he forces himself to his feet and pushes his arms underneath Sam’s body. His first few tries to lift his brother are utter failures. The third ends in him dropping Sam from the unimpressive height of five inches, which has the effect of bringing him around again and making him cry out in pain.

Fucking great.

“Dean?” Sam says, sounding confused. “M on the floor?”

“I’m trying to get you to the bed, but I can’t lift you,” Dean answers, curling one hand underneath his brother’s shoulder blade. “Can you hold it together long enough to help me walk you over?”

Sam doesn’t answer him with words, but he does start struggling to sit up, which Dean guesses is response enough. He hurriedly moves around so that he’s crouched to his brother’s left, then ducks even lower, pulling Sam’s arm up and around his shoulders.

“Hang on, okay?” he says, and waits for Sam’s fingers to curl weakly around his shoulder before heaving up.

Sam still isn’t being the greatest assistance, body mostly limp and awkward, but somehow Dean manages to get them both upright. Sam sways next to him, right arm coming around as well to cling to Dean’s side.

“I got you,” Dean murmurs as he hooks his own arm more tightly around his brother’s waist. “Just gotta put one foot in front of the other, okay, man?”

“Kay,” Sam grunts. And then, as Dean is navigating Ruby’s sprawled corpse, he adds, “Love you.”

“Yeah, I love you too,” Dean says, distracted by Sam’s inability to put his feet anywhere Ruby isn’t. “Forward a couple inches. Little more, further. Okay, step.”

“Everyone’s always trying to take you away.” Even worse than the exhaustion in Sam’s voice is the perplexed hurt and fear. Dean’s chest clenches.

“I’m still here, Sam. I’m not—I’m not going anywhere.”

He doesn’t add that he can’t. It doesn’t exactly feel like the moment to be pushing any of his brother’s buttons.

“I know I—I know I hurt you. I try—try to control myself.” Sam’s head lolls sideways, his mouth open and panting against Dean’s chest. “S difficult.”

“Yeah, I know; I’m irresistible. Come on, man; I need you to help out a little more.”

For a few steps, Sam rallies and moves almost on his own, but then Dean is left supporting almost all of his brother’s weight again. Biting back a swear as pain shoots through his injured side, he locks his eyes on the bed and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and carrying Sam with him.

“You’re so… bright,” Sam mumbles. “And beautiful. Like a butterfly. Did you like the butterflies?”

Not really, no. Clenching his jaw, Dean moves them further.

“Or—no, you’re—you’re like… light. You—touching you, inside, it feels… nice. It always hurts so much, where I burned, where I… hollowed out, but you—calm me down. Can’t think straight without you.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re not thinking straight with me either.” He doesn’t expect Sam to hear him—Sam seems to be rambling more than anything else—but Sam’s head comes up at that. His eyes open wider.

“It’s better,” he says, taking a little more of his own weight as they near the bed. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s—you make it better. If I could… if I can just get close enough, maybe…”

He trails off, slumping, and Dean’s grip on him slips. He clings, trying to haul his brother back up, but it’s pretty clear that he’s going to drop Sam if Sam doesn’t do something soon.

“Maybe what?” Dean grunts, fighting to keep his brother upright. “C’mon, Sammy. Maybe what?”

The question has the desired effect. Sam’s hand closes a little more firmly around Dean’s shoulder, and Dean is able to adjust his own hold, hauling Sam upright again. The wound from Ruby’s knife seems to be bleeding again, if it even stopped, but Dean can worry about stopping the flow in a couple seconds, once Sam is down on the bed.

“Maybe you’ll love me.”

Sam’s tired, relentless obsession with Dean’s heart is the last thing Dean’s wants to be dealing with right now, and his voice is a little harsher than he means it to be as he says, “I already fucking love you.”

“Not enough,” Sam protests. “If you loved me enough, I could…”

They’re at the bed now, and Dean doesn’t waste a second in lowering Sam down onto the mattress. Sam goes willingly enough, crying out in pain only briefly when Dean has to pull him higher up onto the bed.

Now Dean needs some hot water, towels. Probably a needle and thread, if he can find anything like that up here. But the water first. He has to clean Sam up so he can see what he’s working with.

He crawls backward toward the edge of the bed, meaning to go get the necessary supplies, and Sam grabs his wrist in a surprisingly strong hold.

“I have to get some stuff, Sam,” Dean says, trying to peel his brother’s fingers away. “I’ll be right back.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Sam says. Suddenly, he seems… present, in a way that he hasn’t been since those last few days Before. He seems terribly aware and horrified, staring at Dean with eyes that—fuck, is that brown showing through the gold?

“Sammy?” Dean whispers, his heart lurching up to beat in his throat.

But Sam’s eyes shut again, and his fingers open, hand falling away. He slumps back against the mattress, unconscious or asleep, Dean doesn’t know.

He has to take care of Sam now—has to stop the bleeding, patch up the worst of the damage—but for several long moments, Dean can’t make himself move. He doesn’t want to risk being away and missing—

Missing what? a hard, disillusioned voice demands. Your brother? He’s right there. He’s been right there for the last however many years, ripping the world apart.

Dean’s eyes burn as he slowly, reluctantly, slides back off the bed. His throat aches, clenched tight and too full.

It wouldn’t hurt so much, he thinks, if he could just figure out how to stop getting his hopes up.

Cleaned up, Sam is a mess of cuts and bruises and burns. The stab wound on his side is the worst injury, and Dean has taken care of it as best he can without a needle and thread, which turned out to be impossible to find. As far as he can tell, though, the blade went in cleanly, missing any vital organs or bones. Actually, now that Dean is looking at the sum of his brother’s wounds, he thinks that mostly what’s wrong with Sam is exhaustion.

Apparently, not even Sam has an unlimited supply of power.

The bodies, Dean drags one by one over to the balcony and heaves over the edge. Lucifer’s desiccated remains are actually pretty light once Dean brings himself to touch them. It’s like lifting a scarecrow, all rustling leaves and empty clothes. The two male demons are heavy enough to make up for it, though, and by the time Dean goes back for Ruby, he’s dripping sweat. His side throbs, the cut along his ribs leaking stray dribbles of blood.

Ruby’s light enough that he could probably hoist her up over his shoulders and bring her over that way, but as Dean looks down at her scarred face—how she can look so damned smug even when she’s dead, he doesn’t understand—instinctive revulsion grips him. Touching Lucifer was bad, but that was only to be expected. Ruby, though… Hell, Dean almost got to liking her, when Sam set her as his keeper. It isn’t quite betrayal he’s feeling—he never forgot the false hope she kept feeding Sam that final year Before—but he’s disappointed enough not to want to have anything more to do with her than he has to.

He drags her onto the balcony by one foot, then sets his jaw and quickly heaves her up and over. She tumbles as she falls, hair streaming behind her in the air.

Dean turns away before she hits and, after a brief pause, staggers toward the bathroom. He needs a fucking shower.

The hot water feels fantastic on his skin. Even the sting of soap as he washes out the gash on his ribs feels good: makes Dean feel alive, and reminds him that he’s still breathing because of something he did, action he took. It’s refreshing enough that he doesn’t really mind the slowly recovering glow of power spilling over his thoughts.

Besides, he reminds himself as he climbs out of the shower and dries himself off, Sam’s going to wall it back up as soon as he wakes up.

And then what? another voice asks.

Dean’s hands slow where they’re toweling his hair. He frowns, not sure he likes where this new train of thought is taking him. Or maybe it’s just the tone of voice that leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He tries to think about something else, focuses his mind on replaying the lyrics to Zeppelin’s Black Dog, but apparently he’s too masochistic to let it go.

You think you’re going to ride off into the sunset together? the voice demands. Just hop in the car and tool around the country, looking for jobs?

No, Dean thinks back, but there’s a new, sick taste in his mouth now, because of course a part of him was thinking that. Oh, logically he knows it’s a stupid idea—he and Sam are so far past that kind of cowboying around the country, it isn’t even funny, and there isn’t exactly much of a country to save anymore. Plus there’s the tattoo on Dean’s back, penning him up here until he’s adjusted to the status quo enough to let Sam fuck him, body and soul.

But for a while there, fighting on his own two feet—fighting beside Sam—Dean almost felt like it might have been possible.

His chest sinks as he lowers the towel again, and his stride is a lot more subdued as he approaches the mirror over the sink and uses it to take another look at the gash on his side. There’s a tiny bit of blood still oozing now—probably because Dean was lost in his head when he was drying himself off, forgot to be gentle on his passes with the towel—but it doesn’t look bad enough to need stitches. Not that it’ll last more than a few moments, once Sam’s back on his feet.

Still, Dean really wishes he had some painkillers to take in the meantime, because it’s singing like a bitch.

“Pussy,” he snorts, meeting his eyes in the mirror, and then starts to turn away.

And freezes as his eyes catch on an unexpected curl of black.

Slowly, Dean tilts back the other way, looking at the dark lines that have spread down along the outsides of his thighs—Christ, how could he have missed that when he was showering before? The answer is obvious, though; he missed it because he wasn’t looking for it. Didn’t want to see it.

Now that he has spotted the change, he’s seeing it elsewhere as well: the tattoo has spread from his shoulders up onto the back and sides of his neck—sharp, sinuous curls. It’s difficult to get a good look at his back, especially when twisting at the waist makes him wince and sweat with pain, but what Dean can make out is even more intricate than before. There are blooms of color as well, now: gold and red edges licking through the lines like flames.

Beautiful, if only it weren’t his skin the damned thing is inked on.

Dean thinks back over the chaotic morning (tattoo wasn’t like this last night; Sam would’ve noticed, would’ve said something) and can’t pinpoint any moment when he felt it change. Which means it likely happened when Lucifer was putting the screws to him, or maybe when he was busy fighting for his life—for Sam’s life.

Yeah, that was probably the magic moment.

“Goddamn it,” Dean mutters, dragging tense fingers through his damp hair.

He isn’t frightened so much as shamed, guilt lying heavy on him like a second skin. Sam was in danger and Dean didn’t even hesitate; didn’t think about the consequences of fighting so doggedly to save his Boy King of a brother.

Lucifer might have killed everyone, but at least it would have been over. Sam, though… Sam’s intentions are a little more long term than the Apocalypse, and Dean knows it. That knowledge used to mean something, despite his love for his brother. It still does—still makes his shoulders hunch and his head bow and his stomach turn.

Just… not as much.

There are only so many times he can apologize to the world for loving Sam.

Dean wanders back into the main room and pauses, looking at the bloodstains on the rug. Most of those stains are fresh, but there’s an old one there as well, buried beneath the rest. Ben’s blood is there, and Christ, how can Dean still love Sam? How can he still want him, after what he’s done?

But when he looks at the bed, at Sam lying still and pale on bloodstained sheets, he feels a warm tug low in his chest.

Closing his eyes, Dean lets the shame wash through him. He accepts the humiliated guilt, the knowledge of his own weakness, his crawling, low soul.

He walks to the bed without pausing to put on any clothes and climbs in on the clean side, lying down near his brother—close enough to touch, if Sam needs it when he wakes up. His side throbs. His stomach swims with the jostling, hurtful thoughts of the world beyond this room—what Bobby would say if he could see Dean now.

What Dad would say.

It’s surprisingly easy to sleep.