Chapter Text
Sam grit his teeth as he struggled to hold Dean back, even with Cas' help. Despite their efforts, Dean grunted and broke away, pivoting to face Sam who stood between him and Gadreel.
Sam put out his hands placatingly, but his stance was defensive. "Drop the blade, Dean."
"Move," Dean growled. The look on his face was pure rage, pure animal instinct.
"Dean. Look at me," Sam insisted in a last ditch effort to ground his brother.
Dean surged forward. "Sam, move!" Then Cas was tackling Dean from the side, and Sam leapt to grab Dean's right hand.
"Let it go! Let it go." Sam grappled for the Blade. Dean scowled, glaring at Sam before training his gaze on Gadreel. The distraction was enough that Sam was able to pry the Blade from Dean's fingers.
Dean fought the whole way to the dungeon, and Sam tried not to wince at the inhuman sounds wrenched from Dean's mouth.
Sam and Cas placed themselves firmly between Dean and the door once they arrived. Sam set his jaw, determined to put an end to this charade of normalcy he'd attempted to maintain.
Dean was breathing hard, eyes still alight with anger that seemed to have at least simmered down. He stalked a little closer to the door, casual, threatening. "The hell if you think I'm riding the pine on this one, guys."
"Something is wrong with you, Dean. And until we figure out what, this is where you have to stay." Dean was distinctly not Dean, and it hit Sam harder every time he realized it. Didn't Dean know that? Didn't he have the slightest clue that something was off?
Dean stared at Sam and Cas indignantly, voice raising quickly above calm and sane. "And you two are gonna do what? Take on Metatron yourselves? That's smart. Oh, no, wait. No, you--" Dean waved at Cas "--you lost your angel army. And you--" Dean turned to Sam "--now you're trying to lock up the one guy who has a shot at killing the son of a bitch! Hell of a plan, fellas!"
Sam exchanged a look with Cas. There was no reasoning with Dean right now. They turned and left the cell, sealing the doors behind them. Sam did his best to ignore Dean's increasingly desperate pleas as they walked away, but as his brother's voice broke on the word "Sammy," the younger Winchester found himself hurrying down to the library, leaving Cas to lock the door.
It was the same voice, the same word he heard in his nightmares, as he watched Gadreel destroy everything he thought he knew.
Dean was doubled over in a corner of the dungeon, propped up with one hand on the cement wall. He coughed and gagged, desperately trying to pull in a breath while spitting up bile and... was that blood? He wiped his mouth with his hand, coughed again, pulled it away red. Shakily, Dean made his way over to a cabinet, opening it to confront his reflection in the mirror within.
It was the same guy he always saw in the mirror, when he could bring himself to look. Except for the blood coating his lips, dripping onto his chin. That was new.
He grimaced at the deep, permeating feeling of wrongness inside him, stabbing at his gut and lungs and oh god his heart.
It wasn't hard to bust out of the dungeon and into the archive room--this was his bunker, after all. Then it was only a matter of collecting all the ingredients for the summoning spell, and it didn't take long for Crowley to appear in all his stumpy British glory.
"What's that smell?" Crowley asked, dusting off his hands and casting his gaze around the room cynically.
Dean pushed himself to his feet. "What the hell's happening to me, you son of a bitch?"
He didn't even try to keep the vulnerability from his face, his voice. For the first time in a long time, he knew there was something really wrong with him and he cared, dammit. And it wasn't just the coughing or the blood. It was him. And he didn't think he could handle it alone.
"Liquor before beer, bad taco? How should I know?" Crowley replied defensively.
"I can't turn it off!" Dean's voice was shaking, but he couldn't stop it, not with this aching need crawling under his skin. "Ever since I killed Abaddon, it's--it's like this whole... other thing. I get this high and I-I-I need to kill. I mean, I really, really need to kill. And if I don't--"
"You yak your guts out," Crowley interrupted, nodding. "It's the Mark."
"Meaning?" Dean demanded.
"It wants you to kill. The more you kill, the better you feel. The less you kill, the less better you feel."
"How much less better?" Dean forced out, struggling past the sudden vision of himself, leaping forward and hacking into Crowley, tearing him apart piece by piece, limb from limb with his bare hands--
"One would imagine the least-best better," Crowley said calmly.
"So dead?" Dean asked haltingly. Crowley shrugged in assent. Dean sucked in a shallow breath. "Well, Cain had the mark. He didn't die."
"Cain was a demon. Your body's not strong enough to contain the blade's power."
Dean looked away, clutching his right arm as if that would eliminate the pain within him. He couldn't--he didn't want to die, not anymore, not right now. God, he wanted--he wanted--
"What if I got rid of it?" Dean asked before he could stop himself.
Crowley raised his eyebrows. "You want to get rid of it?"
No.
Dean grit his teeth, felt his fear fade and burn away. "What I want is Metatron."
"Go on," Crowley urged, too calm, too casual, but Dean didn't care.
"But I have to get through that door, and I have to get to the Blade." Dean focused his gaze on the demon. "And you're gonna help me."
Sam entered the bunker library, Castiel and Gadreel right on his heels. For once, he thought the general situation seemed to have improved.
Until he noticed the Blade missing from it's box.
Sam ran up to it, as though a change in proximity would make the Blade suddenly appear. "Oh, no."
"What's that smell?" Gadreel wondered aloud from somewhere behind him.
"Sulfur," Sam gritted out, clenching his jaw in anger.
Crowley, you bastard.
Cas went up to check the dungeon, but Sam already knew Dean was gone. He tried calling him, but just got his voicemail. Typical.
"Dean, pick up the phone. Call me back. I'm not kidding, all right? Don't do this. Not like this." Sam hung up, feeling a familiar if long-forgotten combination of worry and anger gnaw at his belly.
Honestly, when he looked back on the last few months, he was surprised Dean hadn't run off sooner. Or, run off again. But this... this was different. There was something wrong with Dean, and Sam needed him here.
"Are you sure it was Crowley?" Cas asked.
"Who else would he summon? I mean, he and Crowley have been bromancing over the Blade ever since Dean got the Mark." Which, Sam had to admit, irritated him more than a little.
Gadreel tilted his head inquisitively. "The Mark?"
"The Mark of Cain," Cas answered.
"So that's what Dean cut me with--the First Blade," Gadreel realized. "In a way, that could be useful."
Sam looked up sharply, feeling the knot of worry in his stomach turn sour with unease. "What?"
"Well, Metatron is more powerful than ever, but if Dean has the First Blade and the Mark, that might give us our best chance."
"You're joking, right?" Sam stood up. "An hour ago, we were ready to throw Dean into a padded cell, and now you say he's our best chance?"
"Hear him out, Sam." Cas said.
Sam turned to Cas incredulously. "Oh, right. Excuse me. Sorry, guys. Sorry I'm a little less than eager to hear that our best chance is-is arming the warhead and hoping it hits the mark. This is not a bomb we're talking about. This is my brother."
The words seemed to resonate with Sam for a moment, ringing around in his head because he knew that he meant them.
But, he conceded later, they might not have a choice. Besides, Gadreel and Cas would help, right? He would help.
Dean wouldn't be alone.