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The drive back to Lebanon was quiet and tense, each brother lost in his own thoughts. Even Dean’s third favorite Led Zeppelin album (Led Zeppelin II on cassette) couldn’t completely drown out the tension in the air leftover from their earlier conversation. Dean kept glancing over at his brother, who had his nose firmly fixed in a thick old book about Celtic mythology.
Pieces of the conversation kept replaying in his head.
“You seriously think the sister of God is my deepest darkest desire?”
“She isn’t?”
“No, she can’t be!”
“Why not?”
“Why? Because if she is, that means I’m…”
“Means you’re what? Complicit? Weak? Evil?”
“For starters, yeah.”
“Dean, did you honestly think you had a choice in the matter? She’s the sister of God, and for some reason she picked you and that sucks, but if you think I’m gonna blame you or judge you…I’m not.”
Why had Sam’s reaction to his confession been so…unexplosive? Could he really be that ready to accept that Dean held a deep, irresistible attraction to Amara, who was one of the oldest, most powerful beings in the universe? And evil, he reminded himself. She’s also evil. She wants to consume everyone and everything, which definitely makes her evil. The fact that he had to remind himself (again) why they were fighting Amara made his insides lurch. He gripped the steering wheel more tightly and counted down the seconds until they would be home again.
Much later that evening, after a post-hunt dinner of Chinese takeout in the bunker library, Dean was reclined on his bed, this time sipping a beer and listening to Presence (on vinyl), which he considered to be one of Led Zeppelin’s more underrated albums.
Later, as he turned the album to the B side, he heard a knock at the door.
“It’s open,” he said.
Sam shuffled quietly into the room, a leather-bound book clutched in both hands. “Hey,” he greeted awkwardly. “Feeling any better?”
Dean took a swig of his beer. “Would you?”
Sam frowned back at Dean. “No, I can’t say I would,” he replied. “That’s, um…that’s actually why I wanted to talk to you.”
He stepped forward, looking down at the book in his hands, his grip tightening. Dean realized it was Sam’s journal. “There’s some things I haven’t…” Sam sighed and started over. “I marked some pages for you to read. I was hoping maybe…” He stopped and shook his head. “Just…just read it and come see me when you’re done, okay?”
Dean tried to read Sam’s face to see what was making him so nervous. “Okay,” he said, taking the journal.
“Okay,” repeated Sam as he backed out of the room. “Good. Great. Okay. Um…I’ll be in the library.”
As Sam closed the door, Dean turned to the first entry marked by a little orange post-it note and began to read.
May 2009
It has been three days since I set Lucifer free and started the Apocalypse. I have no idea if Dean will ever forgive me. I already know I will never forgive myself. I don’t think this weight in my gut will ever go away.
I’m still trying to unravel everything that happened. It felt like I was on that airplane only moments after killing Lilith. The part that confuses me the most is what I felt after Dean killed Ruby. The blinding white light was getting brighter, and Lucifer was getting closer. I was absolutely terrified…but I also felt something else. It was like the light went right through me, like it went straight to my core. It felt like an electrifying energy resonating through my whole body.
I remember hearing Castiel’s true voice once, how it was a painful screech that made my teeth vibrate. But Lucifer’s voice…The only word I have to describe it is…divine. It was commanding and chilling, but also beautiful and alluring. I was completely paralyzed by how overwhelming his presence was. I wanted to bask in that voice forever.
I know that the presence I felt was the devil, but all I could feel in that moment was the Lightbringer, God’s brightest archangel.
I know he needs to be stopped. I know we need to kill him. The only question is…how?
June 2009
I met Lucifer last night. This whole time I thought I was dreaming about Jess, and I was actually talking to the devil. I want to kill him just for using that against me.
He told me that I was his true vessel, and that I would eventually say “yes” to him. He sounded so sympathetic, like he actually cared. His voice felt just like it did back in the convent: as if every cell in my body would do anything to get closer to it, like I would sacrifice anything to please it.
Why am I like this? Was I only created to be Lucifer’s perfect vessel? Only someone tainted by evil would feel anything remotely positive about the devil, right? No one in their right mind would find the voice of Satan beautiful.
I can’t keep saying “no” to that voice on my own. I need Dean.
January 2010
I hate Lucifer.
He killed all those people in Carthage. He caused the deaths of Ellen and Jo. He wants to kill every human on the planet.
So why do I feel so drawn to him? Why do I feel compelled to listen to everything he says? How did he know that I would have continued standing there listening to him forever if Castiel hadn’t pulled us out of there?
His certainty scares me. It was like my protests and threats meant nothing. I told him I was going to rip his heart out, and he casually told me that I would say “yes” to him within six months, and that it would happen in Detroit. I wish I could say I knew he was wrong.
I know I hate Lucifer. But I also crave him. I need him like I need air. It feels like being dosed with siren venom, except the intoxication gets stronger every day. His voice makes me feel like if I say “yes” to him, I would finally feel complete. Whole. At peace.
I’m relieved Cas got us out. I’m relieved that Dean was the one with the Colt and not me. I don’t think I could have pulled the trigger if That Voice had asked me not to.
Dean closed the journal softly, breathless from what he had just read. The weight that had been sitting in his gut felt inexplicably lighter, his mind still reeling with a hundred new realizations.
He didn’t move for several minutes. Then, somewhat abruptly, he leaped up and jogged over to the library, where Sam was researching on his laptop. As Dean approached, he snapped the laptop closed, turning his whole body towards Dean, waiting stoically.
Dean placed the journal next to Sam on the large table. He dropped into the chair next to Sam, then forced himself to look his brother in the eyes.
“You’re not weak,” began Dean. “You’re not evil, or tainted, or any of that other crap. And it sucks that he picked you. I’m sure as hell not gonna blame you or judge you.” He sighed. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this six years ago when you needed it.”
Sam’s eyes shone and his shoulders sagged with palpable relief. “Thanks,” he muttered thickly, the corner of his mouth turning up.
Sam slid a fresh bottle of beer to his brother, who popped the cap off against the edge of the table. Neither said a word as their drinks slowly emptied, both appreciating their easygoing camaraderie more than ever before.