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The taste of blood still resided in his mouth. It was like a butter knife, metallic and dull. And his head throbbed, with a constant cloud of confusion and blood lust, a dark blanket over his mind. His brother , he thought dimly, like a faint beacon, miles away. The room was dark, and a body lied on the floor, the blood sprayed across the room, especially on the flannel layers of the man. The knife he held was covered in it, still warm and wet, similar to the warmth and humidity of the room. His eyes flicked across the drab walls. A prison cell. That’s where I am , realization hit.
He looked down at himself, the dark clouds receding, the mental alarms and real alarms blaring, clearing it faster than the thought of his own brother. And he ran, somehow evading the guards, but looking back, he saw the truth. More dead bodies, more blood, more death. He was a monster. But the throb on his arm was gone. He passed more cells, the numbers decreasing at an astonishing rate.
Then light. It was bright. And sunny. It was still sickly warm, this time the sun glaring down, like a punishment from God. And he was still covered in blood. What happened? He knew what happened. The parking lot was spacious and the grass was as green as his eyes. It was at least empty, but the hotel was too far for him to not be seen. He looked down at himself again. What he thought was a knife, was bone. What did I do? He knew what he did. People were appearing on the sidewalks, out for a nice leisurely walk. He needed out, to be away from questioning eyes, away from a probable arrest. I can’t afford to be on the CIA watch list again . And with a sigh, he started to pray.
Help came. His black haired, blue eyes angel came for him. Anger and concern were laced in his eyes, as if he was a child that wandered off in a shopping mall. And then he was back. At the hotel room with his angel and his brother. His brother was tall. And angry. He was like a tsunami crashing down.
“Dean, how could you be so stupid?”
I’m sorry Sammy. I don’t even know how I got the blade. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m not in control anymore. He didn’t say any of these, but his angel heard him. And tried to speak for him, despite his anger and disappointment, saying, “Sam. He can’t he-,”
“No, Cas. I don’t get it. How are you defending him? He needs to stay put until he can control the Mark.”
“How can he control this when it’s controlling him?”
Cas always sticks for me. Everything was hazy, the colors all blurred, the blood still fresh on him. Everything sounded like a mush underwater. I’m on a bed. It’s soft. Cas is always there for me. And then, nothing.
When he awoke, the room was empty. Sure there were the two beds and desk, but no people. His head hurt like he was hungover and he could feel his heartbeat, and with that the Mark pulse. When he looked down, he was wearing the same clothes, still covered in blood, now dry. Red splotches were on anything he touched, mainly the bed. The lights were on and the wallpaper was boring too. The room was cold, not uncomfortably hot like where he was before. The paucity of the First Blade wasn’t surprising. It was dark outside, the clock said it was 8:27. He sat in a pensive state, just on the bed, not willing to contaminate anything else. His thoughts were like a stormy sea that he tried to take a short trip on, but got stranded for hours. They would spill onto him and push him around. And then, a lighthouse, a light out.
“Dean, hey, I got you food, but you should shower first.”
Dean was out. He wasn’t going to drown in his mind. Sam continued, “Cas left. He went to go hide the blade, but he’ll be back soon. After you clean up and eat, we’ll talk.”
Dean didn’t want to talk. Or, at that point, shower. But he was starving. His stomach was a deflated beach ball, waiting to be filled. As if knowing what he was thinking, Sam said, “You have to shower before you eat. And change your clothes.”
He sighed and took some clothes with him to the bathroom. The walls there were blank and the floor was still wet from someone’s previous shower. His reflection was gaunt and was as bad as he felt. Blood literally was everywhere, like how wet one would get after a day at Disneyland, sweat and water from rides. He stripped his clothing, one by one, gingerly setting each blood stained article away from the new clothes. He turned the water on scalding hot, as if trying to erase the skin that was there when it happened. The pain was like a buzz in the back of his head, noticeable, but ignorable. He shampooed his short blond hair and scrubbed his skin until it was a raw red color.
When he stepped out, the cool air greeted him like he forgot a payment. With the blood off, his reflection was different. The circles and bags under his eyes were prominent and he looked weak and drained. He quickly put the clean clothes on and used a towel to carry the old ones, not sure if he would attempt to get them clean or just trash them.
Sam was waiting for him, with his food out on the table. A bacon cheeseburger with fries, like he was trying to appeal to Dean, make him feel better before the interrogation. He sat on the chair and started eating, not saying a word. He polished off the burger and fries, but managed to still spill some ketchup on his shirt. Just after I showered, too. Sam watched him eat and continued to wait until Dean was ready.
“You know you can’t keep holding it in like this. Has keeping things from each other every led to something good?”
Dean knew the answer. He knew that he had to tell his brother. But what do I say? That I don’t remember half of it? That I wasn’t in control of myself? That I was weak? He finally opted to say, “Honestly, Sammy. I don’t even know what happened. I remember standing in the cell, holding the Blade, and the body on the floor. The alarms were ringing and I dashed out of there. But there was a trail of bodies. A whole trail of people. Sammy, I don’t know if I can do this. I’m losing control and slipping up and…”
He broke down, crying, emotions breaking through the numb shell, entering Dean in a flood. It was expected weeks for Dean to keep this to himself, but it all spilled out in a day. So Sam tried to comfort him, saying, “It’s okay Dean. We knew it was stupid for you to take on the Mark. If we’ve known-”
“That’s the point. We didn’t. It was a risk we had to take to stop Abaddon. It was worth it then, so it has to be worth it now.”
And Sam just hugged him, unsure of what to do, waiting for Cas to come back. Even he could tell that Cas would help, somehow.
Cas returned not too long after that. He took a look at Dean and embraced him in those hugs, where they’re literally crushing each other, but having each other was all that mattered. When they let go, Dean took a look at Cas. His trench coat was clean, somehow not covered in the blood that had once covered Dean. Cas would probably be the only one strong enough to stop me when the Mark takes over. The thought sent a pang through Dean, as though he wouldn’t want to put his angel through that.
Maybe a week passed, maybe a month. Dean didn’t know. They were back in the bunker, which was organized and clean and spacious. It was much more enjoyable than those unpersonable hotel rooms. Good memories were embedded into the bunker. Dean spent most of his time in his room, reminiscing on all the good memories he had, back before Hell, before they were anything more than hunters, or in the kitchen, cooking to distract himself from the Mark and all the problems that were upsetting the sea of thoughts. His clothes were all covered in the remnants of ingredients, his steady hand occasionally failing him when the sea tried to drown him. But none of this sated the Mark. I need blood.
He found a case. The signs were all there, cattle mutilation, strange weather patterns, and of course, the weird deaths. They brought Cas along as backup, incase it happened again. They tracked down the demon, found that it wasn’t trying to even make deals at all, just enjoying killing the civilians, one by one. Sam saw the connection of how the victims were chosen, most to least crimes commited, a bit ironic. Then the hard part. Everyone knew Dean needed it, or well, the Mark needed it, but if the Mark would let go and calm down after that was another question. They decided to take the risk.
It was dark and they spray painted a Devil’s Trap under a large carpet, where they left the victim stand as bait. He was scared, standing there like a feather, waiting to be knocked over. The demon, obviously not the most experienced one, just walked straight up to the victim, over confident with his abilities to kill. And then, he was trapped and powerless. The moment he saw Dean saunter in, he knew he was gone. At this point, who didn’t know about the infamous Dean Winchester, the man that held the Mark of Cain? He pushed him into a chair and tied him down. Then, with a face of a sadistic killer, he took out Ruby’s knife, his eyes holding the same glint as the knife. Dean took his time, as if he were the one with the advantage. He held knife in his hand, the handle warm like the air around them. The room had it’s lights mostly off and the heater on. I need to kill him, but taunting him, it’s, it’s just as fun . The blanket over his mind was back and he couldn’t think. At least I’m partially aware . He knew he’d still feel worse now that he knows what he does. It was a slow and messy process. He would drag the knife against the demon’s skin, watch as the blood would flow out then pour holy water over in. And repeat. Sometimes he injected bits of holy water into the demon. With every second, you could hear the demon’s screams and yells for mercy, to just be killed. The carpet was stained with blood, ruining it and Dean was once again covered with it. It was worse than last time. And finally, when it felt like the demon had been drained of it’s blood, he died. He felt the blood on his face and saw it on his clothes, everywhere. The knife was sticky and warm from the stabs and the demon was well beyond dead. The body looked mutilated with an assortment of cuts and stabs. His head was throbbing, but his arm wasn’t. He could no longer feel the pulse of the Mark. All he could see was red, all he could feel was the sticky warmth pressing against him. It was too warm, the blood, the room, but the stares were cold, and scared. And he needed out. Out of this claustrophobic room that was too warm and too dark and just too much like it. Out of this life of pain and anger and more pain.
The bunker was lit and cool, Cas had teleported him. I’m not going to get my Baby contaminated with me . With a blink, Cas was able to remove the blood off himself and Dean, leaving them both spotless. No more red. They were alone and it was quiet. A ringing in his head he didn’t know he had stopped. Cas is too good for me . And they stared at each other, dull green eyes meeting bright blues ones, both too tired to talk. The heavy cloud was shifting around Dean’s mind, the sea in a rage. He couldn’t think, everything was overwhelming and blanketing his mind. And then he felt something soft against his lips and everything froze. The room before too cold was now fine and this brought light within his mind. It brought him out of the blank state of shock. Everything felt like a glow that gently enveloped him. Realization didn’t hit him until a few seconds. Cas is kissing me. I’m kissing Cas. I’m free. They let go for air and Dean could think clearly, neither frozen nor drowning. Maybe Cas is the beacon, not Sam.
Dean felt clean. Even his soul felt the cleanest it has ever felt since hell. The taste of Cas was still in his mouth, something he didn’t know he longed for until this moment. It didn’t coat his mouth like blood, leaving him feeling dry. It instead was like a pleasant aftertaste or the lasting flavor of mints. The bunker was clean, no blood in sight, just like Dean. The room was cool and the walls were adorned with love and care. Sam was still driving the Impala back, but home never felt so great. And somehow, he had hope