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The box sat, mute and still, bolted to the floor of the basement, and Dean took it apart with the ten-pound sledgehammer he kept in the trunk of his car. He had intended to be methodical and calm, because this was something that needed to be done, to prevent the possibility that it could re-activate if somebody were to shut the small door. Now, no more people could kill themselves for the siren’s song in the empty cabinet. Every now and then it hit him, a broken thought that refused to sink in—that Sam almost killed himself tonight to shut it down.
The steel bell clang of the box was loud and resonated in the crawlspace, and before Dean knew it, he was throwing all of his strength behind the hammer, ripping the safe off of the bolts on the floor, bearing it down onto the concrete. Relentlessly pounding the broken door until the cogs rolled around, singing a metallic warble as they spun and settled. Shattered glass hung in the air like glitter.
Dean breathed hard looking down at the twisted framework, his bones trembling, chest tight. He’d hit his father’s car like this, once. Right after John had died. He had felt guilty after his rage was spent then, when the impala sat helpless, wounded, dented in the sun. Right now Dean wouldn’t weep, his eyes didn’t sting with tears, but he still felt hollowed out, bereft.
And that was just it. The spell could have given him anyone to tell him to kill himself, and it hadn’t been John. It hadn’t been Cas, or Sam, or Jo, or any of the dozens of humans who had bled and died for the Winchesters. It had been Benny. Dean dropped the hammer and knelt on broken glass, shivering and pressing his palms to his forehead.
Of course it had been Benny. If his life had taught him anything, it was that Dean’s happiness would always vanish and shrink by inches. Benny, who he’d used to save Sam. Benny, who he’d trusted—the friend who willingly went against his vampire nature for Dean—who he’d never, in a million years, call a coward.
Dean had wanted it to be real. At the core of him, he wanted the simplicity of purgatory and everything Benny had said was exactly right, even if the notion was so fucked up that he couldn’t even admit that he’d liked it there. And Benny, or the idea of Benny, had promised him friendship. Why had that been so hard to walk away from? He’d known it was bullshit in the instant that the pine needles crunched under his boots, before the first monster even showed, before Benny hugged him tight to his chest and had the audacity to smell exactly right.
He’d thought often about what the real Benny would say about him being the bearer of the mark of Cain, the heir to the father of murder. He still wasn’t sure, but he knew he’d never find judgment within those eyes. Benny wouldn’t let him go, or take the low road. Hell, he’d stopped him in purgatory—the first time, the real time—from eating his gun and promised, promised to help him find Cas. And Benny came through, even though Dean always felt like he was a few hours away from losing it again.
Things would never be the same; he could never step twice in the same river. The memory of it would have to be enough.
He didn’t think this would hurt so much.
Dean pushed himself to his feet and walked up the stairs, hammer resting over his shoulder. He remembered Frank, who’d said the most beautiful and twisted thing to him when they’d been alone.
He muttered it to himself as he looked through Suzie’s house, eyes gliding over the remains of her tiny, boxed-in life. “Decide to be fine ‘til the end of the week. Make yourself smile because you’re alive and that’s your job. And do it again the next week.”
The mark hummed on his arm, not agreeing or disagreeing, just waiting.