Chapter Text
act iii.
crisis
Sam grins, crooked. His shoulders are loose. He looks so tall. The way he taps his fingers on the side of thigh is all Dad, the quirk of the eyebrow, that’s all Dean. The set of his jaw is Mary, his nose too. His eyes, Dad used to say whenever he had a couple too many, are their grandfather’s. But that grin, God, Dean doesn’t know where he got that grin.
Dean hates it.
(Sam's smile sharpens, then, as if he’s read Dean's mind.)
“This isn’t you,” Dean insists again roughly, but his heart isn’t in it. Dad groans from the corner, but Dean ignores it, keeping his eyes locked on the thing that used to be his brother while his fingers itch for his gun. It's on the other side of the room, still stuck to the wall with whatever demonic bullshit Sam's channeling. Dean eyes it carefully. He just needs to find an opening. “C'mon, Sammy.”
Sam narrows his eyes.
“It’s Sam," he replies coolly, almost casually, but their surroundings betray him as the air around them seems to simmer. The pictures on the wall vibrate in a low hum. The air smells dark and wild like a lightning strike. It's more of a reaction than Dean’s gotten out of him in hours. He doesn’t understand. “I’m a king, Dean, show some respect.”
Dean barks a laugh. He thinks about mouthing off, of reminding Sam that he’s more boy than king, but with Dad still on the floor…
“But you’re a little right,” Sam says, shrugging one shoulder and leaning against the wall, balancing one foot on top of the other. Dean grits his teeth at the display. He remembers when Sam used to look up at him with those big brown eyes. how he used to think his big brother was Batman. Dean misses that kid. He would have died for that kid, and gladly. He doesn’t know where that kid went, can’t find him in the thing in front of him, no matter how hard he looks. “In a roundabout way. This isn’t me. Not really. This is just what our mother made me, back when she sold my life for John’s. I haven't been human since I was six months old, dean. And I admit I was angry at first, but now? Well, I can see the benefits.”
“Benefits?” Dean hisses, ignoring Sam's jab at their mother. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, this past week. God, even Dad had been muttering similar poison under his breath, after seeing what Sam could do. Dean wants to defend his mother, he does, if only because for once, his dad won’t do it for him. But it’s hard. She’s killed his brother. “Sammy—”
“It's Sam,” he snaps, vicious, voice low and dangerous. A lightbulb shatters. The walls shake. His eyes spark gold.
Dean falls silent, heart in his throat. That, more than anything, is what breaks him. Yellow Eyes was supposed to be a monster. Yellow Eyes was supposed to be a sadist, a killer, the living, breathing embodiment of evil. Yellow Eyes wasn’t supposed to be some sort of—of demonic reformist with a fiancée and a bachelor of arts in public fucking policy. Yellow Eyes wasn’t supposed to be his baby brother.
Sam takes a deep breath. Continues.
“Yes, Dean,” he starts again, clearly working hard to stay calm. That's new. Sam never used to rein himself in, before. “Benefits. Have there been any dead cattle recently? Any possessions? Any homes burned down, any mothers burning to death in their children’s nurseries? No. They know I won't tolerate it, and they won’t dare to cross me. You can hate what I am all you like, but you can’t deny that I'm doing some good work.”
“Good work?” Dean snarls. “Lee is dead, and your guy did it.”
For the first time since their dad tried to shoot him, Sam's eyes lose that cool confidence and his shoulders slump.
“I know,” Sam admits. “I know. And I'm sorry. But you have to understand, Anya's newly off the rack, and monster killing is literally the only outlet she has. He got in the way, and you don’t get in the way of a demon and their target, Dean, believe me. Believe me.”
He says that last part quietly, and if Dean cared about him at all, if he was actually Sammy and not some monster stealing his face, Dean would recognize the exhaustion in his eyes, would nearly gasp at that grave, knowing tone. But Dean doesn’t care, and this isn’t Sammy, so he pushes any thoughts of his baby brother getting tortured aside. He can't afford to dwell on that image, doesn’t know whether he even believes it at all, or if it’s just another manipulation.
So Dean swallows his noise of concern. He balls his fists to keep himself from reaching for Sam, from taking him into his arms and rocking him back and forth like he did when Sammy was five and nightmares about falling off of cliffs or circus clowns were the scariest things he could imagine.
“So what? You’re just gonna call it a, a rookie mistake? A man’s dead, but it’s okay, because the bitch who killed him is still learning on the job, she’ll be sure to kill the right person next time?”
Sam laughs in disbelief.
“I'm sorry, did I just hear you refer to a monster as a person? Way to change your tune. I seem to remember a fifteen-year-old Dean thinking very differently.”
Dean rolls his eyes. At least Sam's bitchiness remains intact, even if the rest of him was burned away. It's a small comfort. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”
Sam nods, his mouth still twitching. “Yeah, I do. Which is why she won’t be allowed on earth again until she gets a handle on herself.”
“Oh, and she’ll listen to you?” Dean scoffs. From the corner of his eye, he watches his dad make a fist, release it, and then tap his thumb against his palm once, twice. “C'mon, Sammy.”
Fist, release, one, two. Before Sam turned, it meant something else, but they’d changed their codes. Now, his dad wants Dean to keep up distracting Sam so that when John springs up with the holy water, he can go in with the silver.
Right, Dean thinks. Okay.
He moves slowly towards his side, but his caution is useless.
“Of course she’ll listen to me, Dean,” Sam replies patiently as Dean's silver knife slides gracefully out of its scabbard and into his waiting hand. He twirls it, eyeing Dean and John with a hint of humor and another glint of gold. “I'm a king. Don’t bother with the holy water, John. It'll only make me angry, and believe me, you don’t want to see me angry.
”And for the last time. It’s Sam.”
Dad begins to shout in a desperate mix of Latin and Aramaic. An invisible force pushes him down further, grinding his face into the wooden floor. He keeps yelling through the splinters on his tongue, blood bubbling out of his mouth, but Sam’s smile only grows.
Dean can only watch in silent terror. How did it ever come to this?