Chapter Text
Dean was chained to a post in an evil magician's mansion and completely unaware of what he should be doing next.
So, as always, he stalled.
"Oh, you're a really sorry piece of work. You know that? Holed up in here, doing nothing. You bitch about the Men of Letters. You're way worse."
Magnus promptly ignored his attempt at defiance. He held up the First Blade, inspecting it with a professionalism that was mildly disturbing. He turned his gaze to Dean and grinned. "Should we fire it up? What do you say?"
"Go to hell," Dean spat.
"Oh, come on, Dean. This is the object of your quest! Tell me Henry Winchester's grandson isn't curious to see if it works," Magnus persuaded. "Give me your hand."
Dean didn't move.
Magnus' demeanor changed from patient and kind to cold and greedy in a matter of seconds. "Give me..." he grabbed Dean's right hand and the shoved the handle of the Blade into it. "...your hand."
The Mark instantly began burning and throbbing, flooding Dean's veins with fire and adrenaline, forcing every muscle in his body to go rigid. He closed his eyes as his hand shook with the force of it. He felt rage boil inside him, screaming for release, for blood. He opened his eyes, unseeing, as he felt something else.
Power.
Then it was all too much, and the First Blade fell from his trembling fingers. Dean leaned back against the pillar, breathing heavily.
Magnus picked up the Blade, his usual slimy grin replaced by a small, victorious smile. "That's it. Good. Next time, it'll be easier. You'll get used to the feelings, even welcome them."
Dean barely heard Magnus over the pounding in his head.
He knew there was something wrong here. Something wrong with how much Magnus wanted him to have the Blade, how he felt when he held it.
Something wrong with how much he already wanted to feel it all again.
But maybe wrong didn't matter anymore, if it meant an end to at least some of their problems.
He was finding that a lot of things didn't matter anymore.
It was the dead of night, and Dean was lying awake on his bed. He knew Sam was asleep right now, but he couldn't bring himself to relax completely. Not yet.
If he closed his eyes, he could still feel the power flowing through his veins. It was addictive.
And he hated it.
He hated knowing that the First Blade had so much control over him. That he was so susceptible to this Mark on his arm. That he was so weak.
He couldn't risk anyone else in this war. Sam and Cas had already suffered enough, and they were all he had left.
Once he got the Blade back from Crowley, he'd take on Abaddon alone. And Metatron. And anyone else who needed killing.
He didn't think Sam would get in his way. But if he did, Dean would do whatever he had to in order to keep his little brother safe. Because despite what Sam thought, that was still his job.
So he would take on this burden alone.
And hopefully, in the end, that would count for something.