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annabethbigbangFar, far below, a young man throws his arms out wide, and the city starts to burn.
The pillow is soft and fluffy in the woman's hands, her smile sweet.
Every word is a benediction, spoken in a voice not heard for centuries.
Lucifer has been waiting for his time, and his time is now.
There's one he's already Chosen.
He's going to pierce the skin and make the apple bleed.
Lucifer's risen, and Dean is looking straight at him. He should have seen this coming. He should have understood what all of those signs meant. They were like neon signs flashing above Sam, and yet not one of them suspected. And he should have known that Sam would be the perfect human vessel for a millennia-old fallen angel.
Sam is still looking at him, hand outstretched, like he's planning to help Dean up, which, frankly, was not the reaction he was expecting. More death and destruction, less consideration of Dean lying on the floor.
"You--" Dean struggles to breathe, to speak through the constriction in his lungs. "Get the fuck out of my brother, you foul piece of angel refuse."
Sam actually looks hurt, his eyes broadcasting pain even though there's still no depth to them. He drops his hand and gets back to his feet, walks to the bed and sits down. His hair looks like there's mercury shadows flowing from the ends, and Dean has never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
He figures that's probably the point: if you were going to be the Devil and try to tempt people into evil, the more attractive you were the better your chances of success.
"I'm not possessed, Dean," Sam says wearily. He runs his fingers through his hair, and the atmosphere in the room shimmers like a heat wave. "But you can test that theory if you like."
Dean staggers as he gets up, stands on wobbly knees and stares at Sam.
"And what would be the point of that?" he snarls. "If you really are Lucifer -- and I have my doubts about that -- then why offer me the chance to send you back to Hell?"
"Because you can't." Sam offers a rueful half-smile. "I've been sealed, but now I've been freed. Go on, Dean. Try to send me back to Hell."
"I want my brother back," Dean growls. "I want your filthy stink off my brother. I want you out of my brother."
The door crashes against the wall, and Bobby is standing there, a pack over his shoulder and an expression on his grizzled old face that Dean has never, in his life, expected to see. Bobby throws the pack down to the floor and comes closer, a flask of holy water in his hand.
"You're not comprehending, Dean. I'm not a spirit. I needed a human body, and I have one. Your brother -- he's gone."
"This -- this is--" Bobby stops, flat-out amazement on his face, mixed with a healthy dose of fear. Sam's shining silver in the room, like a beacon of light. "She did it?"
Dean walks on unsteady feet over to Bobby, claps one hand on his shoulder. "This is impossible," he says quietly. "Sam was human. Sam was born to human parents. How could he become this -- this thing?"
"Because Sam was special," Sam -- Lucifer -- answers instead, and for the first time it starts to sink in that maybe this is absolute truth, maybe Sam is truly gone.
That thought makes Dean feel empty and cold, like his guts have been scooped out and replaced by blocks of ice. There's gotta be something he can do -- he's not going to let Sam be swallowed up by evil -- he swore to save him. And he's still not ready to give that up.
"Sam had all those powers," Bobby says slowly. "Sam was becoming something for months, Dean, I guess we can't be all that surprised that there was a pot of rot at the end of the rainbow."
That seems like an odd thing for Bobby to say, but Dean is somewhat preoccupied by the fact that the broad-shouldered, long-haired young man who used to be his brother is currently the risen form of the Adversary, sitting in their motel room like he's perfectly innocent and not the ancient embodiment of all evil.
"This is still impossible. Sam was human, Bobby. He was my brother." Dean knows he sounds ridiculous, knows that he's making no sense because he can't force his brain to acknowledge reality, but this is just so fantastical, so out there it's like being told aliens are real and have landed on the Impala.
"You get a free pass, Dean, but just one. I'll even hold still quietly, all you have to do is try to send me back to where I came from. Although I gotta say, there's a lotta demons out there that'll be over the moon with joy that I truly exist, that their faith has been rewarded. Isn't that more than you can say about your angels, Dean? Have they ever even seen their God, the one they obey, the one they pray to?"
"You close your filthy mouth," Dean snarls again. He walks over to Sam. To Lucifer, he reminds himself. "I am going to force you out of my brother's body, because you don't belong there."
He shrugs, eyes unearthly and focused on Dean. "I wouldn't piss on an offer like this one, Dean," he says.
"And what offer is that?" Dean leans down, hands on either side of Sam's thighs, their faces almost touching. Never let it be said that Dean isn't brave.
"I'll tell you as soon as you do what you have to do to be satisfied. And don't be so sad, Dean, Sammy's become something greater and more powerful than you ever could have imagined."
Dean wonders why Bobby's so quiet, and when he turns back to him, Bobby's holding a book open, eyes filled with sorrow.
"I'm sorry, Dean," he says, and starts to read. Dean recognises the exorcism ritual, the one that he and Sam have used hundreds of times, the one that Sam had memorised and could recite with perfect inflection.
Dean backs up, watches closely, but there's no indication it's having any effect whatsoever. He picks up a holy water bottle of his own and splashes some of it on Sam's chest, but all that does is make the silvery light surrounding Sam pulse brighter, and when it settles down again, Sam's clothes are still completely dry.
Bobby reads, and Dean watches, and nothing happens. Nothing happens. Sam -- Lucifer -- bored, examines his fingernails. He purses his lips on a soundless whistle, and Dean realises that Sam -- Lucifer -- isn't actually breathing any more. And, well, he's never seen a possessed human be able to do that before.
Bobby finishes up the exorcism, and the silver light is still present, the form of his brother still more beautiful than he's ever beheld, and the room is filled with an atmosphere the likes of which he's never felt.
Sam -- Lucifer -- turns to Bobby. "You have five minutes," he says. "I know Dean loves you, so you have five minutes to make yourself scarce. After that, anything that happens is your own fault."
Bobby looks at Dean, and Dean realises what this means. Lucifer isn't said to be merciful, and if for whatever reason he's willing to be considerate of Dean, then Bobby's only recourse is to leave.
"Go," Dean says, voice crackling. "Go, and don't look back. I'll be fine."
"Are you--"
"Go," Dean repeats, "and hurry."
And Bobby does as he's told, leaving Dean alone in a room with the centuries old incarnation of evil.
"What are you playing at?" Dean asks, when Bobby is gone. "If you're supposed to be so evil, why be so accommodating? Why not just kill us both?"
"Because -- it's complicated to explain. You're a prodigy, Dean. You're already more than half-way to being just what I need. And simply because Sam is gone doesn't mean what Sam loved is any less sacrosanct."
"That makes no fucking sense," Dean swears. He points a finger at Lucifer. "If Sam is dead and gone, then why do you care if he loved anyone?"
"Sam's not dead and gone, Dean. Not the way you mean. Sam is -- more. Sam is me and I am Sam. And I'm making you an offer, Dean. Come with me. Join me. The other side -- the angels' side -- has lost, Dean. The world is going to be my playground to do with what I will, and you are the only person I will not harm. This is your last chance, Dean: take it or leave it."
The worst part is the almost overwhelming desire to go along with it, to be a part of Sam no matter what Sam is, but Dean buries that desire ruthlessly. He didn't spend the better part of a year trying to win this war just to go over to the other side when the going got tough.
"I'm leaving it," Dean says, and waits for the brilliant flash of white light that means his life is ending. Lucifer, though, looks genuinely surprised.
"But you -- this is the best offer you're going to get." He turns round in a circle, like he's thinking. "You can't win, Dean, it's all over already. Staying with that side just means that sooner or later you're going to be washed away in the same ocean of blood as everyone else."
Dean doesn't understand why he's trying so hard to recruit him, doesn't understand why Lucifer, if he's so evil, would spend so much time just talking, but it occurs to him that the longer he can keep Lucifer in one place, off-balance and holding a discussion, is more time he has to figure out how to save Sam.
And Dean's not ready to write Sam off just yet. That would be inexcusably shallow.
"Then I guess that's what's gonna happen," Dean says in resignation. "I can't join you. I can't go down that road."
"But you already have, Dean, don't you remember?" Lucifer says persuasively. His very voice and form is coercion, but Dean refuses to be taken in by it.
"That doesn't count. It doesn't mean anything," Dean says, trying hard to believe it himself. Because maybe, just maybe, if he says it with enough conviction it will be true.
"Dean," Lucifer says gently. "You loved every moment. This will be just like that, but without the initial pain and torture, and no-one will be able to hurt you. I will be protecting you, and for anyone that hurts you, my wrath will be swift and merciless. Come with me, Dean. Come with me."
Dean looks up through tears that have fallen like a curtain over his eyes. This is not what he wanted, to be faced with the option of staying with his brother, the last of his family, or being left alone to face what's coming. And Sam -- Lucifer -- sounds so earnest, so much like he's telling the truth. Loving even, which is not what Dean would have expected.
But he has to turn it down. Even without the angels' expectations, Dean has to turn it down.
"I can't, Sam, I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm going to find a way to save you."
"That you can't do," Lucifer says. "It's already far too late for that, if it was ever possible. I'm sorry, Dean." And he stands up, a cloak of silver whirling around his body, and opens the motel room door. "You still have a choice, Dean. Come find me when you're ready to deal. And don't wait too long -- I'm not going to bring you back to life if you die before that happens."
The door shuts silently, and the air in the room settles, cold and devoid of anything. Dean stares hard at the door and thinks about Sam's -- Lucifer's -- last words.
He can bring people back to life?
The thing is, Dean knows things are gonna change. He expects it kind of like the way he expects the Impala to guzzle gas. What he doesn't expect is that it will start so dramatically, within hours of Sam walking out the door.
He's lying on the bed in the motel room where he last saw Sam -- Lucifer -- and his head aches, his skin feels too tight, like it'll crack if he smiles. Not that he has any reason to smile, though. He covers his face with his hand, tries to block everything out, tries not to remember the way Sam looked.
He knows Sam isn't really in there any more, but he can't think of him as Lucifer, he just can't. It's too much like a betrayal, like he's letting Sam down somehow. And, eyes open underneath the weight of his forearm, he can't see anything but darkness, and maybe that's the point.
Sam offered him the world on a platter, the chance to be with him forever -- Dean wonders if this means Sam is immortal now -- and Dean spit on the chance. But it's more than that. Dean thinks back to every single thing he's ever known about Lucifer, and realises that he's pure, undiluted temptation.
How much of that offer was real, and how much of it was an attempt to get Dean to give in? To do evil, to become evil, because it's what Sam -- Lucifer -- wanted? Dean wants to believe that Sam would never do something like that, never deliberately put Dean's immortal soul in danger, but then again, he has no idea how much of Sam remains, if there's any of him left at all.
It's making his brain hurt, to try and discern the truth in the lies, like looking for gold in silt. Lucifer wanted him, but why? Because Sam loved him, or because it would be entertaining -- and diabolical -- to turn Dean evil? What if that was the plan: turn Dean, so that he took pleasure in helping to annihilate everything good in the world, and then vanish like a puff of smoke, leaving Sam behind, heart-broken and devastated by Dean's choices?
The more he thinks about it, the more he's both amazed he managed to resist at all and positive that he shouldn't have taken that offer, no matter how tempting. The only thing is...
Bobby told Dean long ago that Lucifer was apparently irresistible.
So: how did Dean do it?
It takes a minute, but Dean starts to notice that his brain hurts more and more, his skull feeling like it's being peeled away, pain like he's only felt once before in his life: when Andy telegraphed a vision into his brain to help him find Sam when Sammy was missing, wandering Cold Oak, South Dakota.
And that's when it starts: little flashes at first, white lines, static and fuzz like he's looking at a television set without cable, but then it starts to resolve into actual images, and the very first one is of Sam -- Lucifer -- standing tall like he's larger than life, silver still clinging to every pore, and then he bends down, and it all explodes in Dean's brain--
Sally Masterson is twenty years old, and she's spent her entire life in this stupid one-note town. But this is it, she's getting out, she's gonna take a train and go make a name for herself, maybe become a model. She's always heard, from everyone, how beautiful she is, how unusual, and how much money she could make if she marketed herself just right.
She's pretty sure that Josh meant selling her body on the street, but everyone else was probably sincere, so she packs a bag, withdraws some money from her bank account, and makes her plans.
That's when she meets
him though, gorgeous dark hair, incredible hazel eyes, bone structure to die for and he's all over her. He tells her his name is Sam, and that he'd like to make her an offer.She figures it must be a modelling offer, so she grins and holds out her hand. When he takes it, he puts it to his lips, a kiss like butterfly's wings brushing across her knuckles, and smiles. His dimples are so luscious it hurts.
"You're such a beautiful young lady," he says, and she nods; of course, she knew that already. And he holds onto her hand. "I'd like to make love to you," he says.
She wasn't expecting that, and she'd been such a good girl, saving herself like her mama said she should, but this guy is so gorgeous, and he's tall and she's never had anyone like him ever give her the time of day, even with her so-called beauty.
So she gives in, and he makes her crazy, laying her down on her feather bed, but he doesn't get undressed, and he doesn't undress her completely, and she's just about to ask why when he straightens up, lips curved down, and she says:
"What's wrong?"
"I just can't do it," he tells her, and nothing seems right in the world any more. "I thought I could -- you know, Josh paid me a lot of money to sleep with you, but I can't do it. Such a whore; you'd give in to anyone, wouldn't you? And so damn homely I can't even bear to look at you."
She grabs for the blankets to cover herself, bra and panties, ashamed. She'd thought he really wanted her, and now this? Her confidence is shaken to the roots.
"J-Josh?" she asks. "Why would he do something like that?"
"Because he knew you'd put out, and he gave me so much money, but I just can't. You make me sick to even look at. And you -- you'd sleep with anyone. I can't countenance that kind of behaviour."
He leans down, so beautiful, and she aches from wanting him, wanting him to touch her, to take her, to cover her with that long, lean muscled body, and his breath is -- well, see, that's the strangest thing, he's right next to her ear, but she doesn't feel his breath as he whispers into it.
"You'd be better off dead," he says. "No-one really wants you around."
When he leaves the room, she's left alone, shivering despite the blankets, anxious and desperate for his hands on her. But he told her the truth.
She'd always known that she wasn't anything special, always known that no-one wanted her around, knew, too, that Josh was full of shit when he told her he wanted her body, even though she'd sworn she'd never give it to him.
She doesn't even really know why, but she finds herself on Josh's doorstep, still only half-dressed, and when he opens the door, she flings herself into his arms, kissing sloppily.
He takes her to bed, and she learns what it feels like to be filled up completely, just as she learns what it feels like to be so damn empty when it's over.
It's not hard at all to slip into his bathroom, search under the counter, and find the drain cleaner.
It's even easier to drink it. She doesn't taste a thing as it goes down.
Dean's always prided himself on being stoic and strong, but he kind of wants to cry as the vision recedes. It's a thousand times worse this time, so much different from watching a grainy video where Sam, possessed by Meg, slit Wandell's throat. But this time -- so coolly deliberate, so manipulative, he coerced that girl, who never had a prayer of resistance, and sent her right into her grave.
She'd been pretty, too, the type of girl Dean would have slept with, the type of girl that really could have made it big, until Sam showed up and wrecked that for her.
It's that, more than anything, that turns Dean onto believing maybe Sam is truly gone. Lucifer didn't seem so dangerous when he was standing in front of Dean, but now, Dean knows he miscalculated. Lucifer -- using Sam's 'dewy sensitive eyes' -- is incredibly dangerous to anyone else but Dean, it seems.
And Dean can barely even contemplate what it means to have seen it all, like he's tuned into the channel of Sam's brain, having visions like Sam used to have, although he's pretty sure it's not for the same reason.
Dean never should have let him go off. Dean should have accepted his offer, anything to keep a closer eye on him, to try and mitigate the damage he could cause.
He's about to get up, go look for some aspirin and his cell phone, when there's a cool hand on his forehead.
He never expected to see her again, and she looks different, still so lovely but not the same girl, and Dean only knows who she is because he recognises her smell, which is kind of weird. (Maybe it's the smell of her grace, his brain supplies rather unhelpfully.)
"Anna," he says, voice gravel-rough. He struggles to sit up, and she helps him with slender hands.
"We tried to warn you, Dean," she says, but she sounds sad. "We didn't know this would happen, of course, but we did try to tell you."
"There wasn't -- we tried so hard. But, but -- Sammy. I need my little brother back."
"He's doing terrible things, Dean, and you'll only ever see a fraction of them. The humans -- they can't discern his otherworldliness, don't realise what a danger he is to them. He'll start off petty, Dean, persuading them to make dangerous choices, but it is only a matter of time until he brings his full force of demons forth and the world starts burning in hellfire."
"He's not -- I failed. I failed, Anna. I killed my little brother."
Her hands are still cool as she strokes them over his forehead. "You know what you have to do, Dean, don't you?"
"I won't do that," he says, and knows it's true. There's nothing -- nothing -- that can make him do that to Sam.
"We're not even sure it's possible, Dean, but if there is a way, you have to find it, and stop him."
"No," Dean says, even though he also knows she's right.
"I'm sorry, Dean," she says. "I'm in the doghouse, as it were, so I can't stay. But I had to come -- had to tell you I'm sorry."
"Anna--" he says, but her hands are gone, his forehead feverish, and she's gone, and he's grasping at nothing.
It won't be the first visitation, nor the first impassioned plea to stop Sam -- Lucifer -- from wreaking havoc.
Dean resolves not to do it, anyway. He could save him. He still could.
Alyssa Trenton's only just been married a year. Her husband, Vince, has a successful business, and their new baby is the biggest blessing of her life. She smiles down at little Grey, tickles his tummy, and she's never been so happy in her entire life.
She's home with only the baby for company when the doorbell rings. And when she answers it, there's a tall young man standing on the steps, his eyes hazel but a little bit strange, and he smiles at her, dimples cutting into his cheeks.
"Your husband sent me," he says. "I work for him at the plant. He wanted me to check on you because there's reports of a man with a knife roaming the neighbourhood."
Alyssa's entire body goes cold. Her baby is just in the other room, and what if that man comes here? What if he hurts Grey? She wants to run into the nursery and pick up the baby, but the young man comes closer.
"My name is Sam," he says. "Trust me?" And she does, immediately. She warms up to him, and he walks into the house. There's a strange sort of aura surrounding him, like mystical energies and she can almost make it out, but not quite.
"Come meet Grey," she hears herself saying, and she turns, leads the way into the nursery. And Sam follows her, she can hear his heavy footsteps. She has no idea why she's taking this stranger to see her beloved child, but somehow it feels right, so she does it anyway.
He's so beautiful that she finds herself wishing he'd been the one to father her child. The one to make Grey special and beautiful and unique.
But when Sam bends over the crib, she feels suddenly off-balance, like her heart is beating wrong, anxiety and fear clogging up her arteries.
"Wait, stop!" she says, and her legs feel so heavy she can barely move as she tries to run forward. She gets just close enough to see him open a vein in his wrist with a fingernail, blood dripping down into her precious baby's mouth, when he turns.
She slides up the wall, screaming, her midsection feeling like it's on fire, and she's reaching, clawing at the air, when Sam steps back.
"I'm sorry, beautiful one," he says, and he's got Grey in his arms. "You ought to be more careful about who you let in the house. Not that it matters any more."
He takes Grey with him when he walks out of the room, and the last thing she knows is the incinerating heat of the flames as they spring up around her, while she stares down at the floor.
Dean opens his eyes, finds himself on the floor, his eyes aching and his head feeling like it's on fire, like someone has opened up his skull and started gouging out pieces of his brain.
And, oh, God, Sam.
Which strikes a chord, actually, and Dean fumbles for his cell phone, dials Bobby with one hand still pressed to his temple. He realises, as he's sitting breathless on the floor, that his nose is bleeding sluggishly, slipping into his mouth when he breathes.
"Dean?" Bobby says. "Are you all right?"
"I think I know what Azazel's endgame was," Dean says, and his voice sounds thick and clumsy.
"You have any idea where Sam is?" Bobby says, bypassing Dean's initial bombshell.
"Listen, what if this is what that yellow-eyed bastard wanted? Groom some kid, feed it his blood, and then break all the seals. Oh, Christ. That makes more sense than it should."
"You mean -- you mean that he waits for the kid to grow up, and he was telling the truth about leading the demon army then. He just didn't specify how."
"That's it exactly. If Sam is -- is Lucifer, then of course he'd be leading the army. You think Sam knew that?"
"I don't think so, Dean. If Sam had known, do you think he wouldn't have tried harder to keep the change from happening?"
"I gotta find him, Bobby. I can -- I can see shit now, like what he's doing. I dunno why, but he just pinned some poor young mother to the ceiling and kidnapped her baby -- after he fed it his blood."
"Well, that definitely ain't good," Bobby agrees. "I don' know how you know that, kid, but if'n you're tapping into his brain somehow? You need to figure out where he is."
"I'll call you if I need you," Dean says, can feel the little persistent tickle of pain start behind his right eye. "Bye, Bobby."
He disconnects the phone without waiting for an answer, wipes carelessly at the blood on his face with the back of his hand.
Any second now he's going to tune back into Lucifer TV, and he'd kind of like to be alone when it happens.
He's enough of a freak as it is already.
Matt Henderson has never been so much in love in his whole life. Jenna is the most beautiful woman he's ever been around, with her tasty strawberry lips and lustrous blonde hair, and she just agreed to marry him, said it would be her pleasure -- that she loved him so much.
He's shopping for her ring when the man walks in, smooth long strides and hair that curls slightly at the ends, pretty eyes and Matt's not ashamed to admit that every once in awhile he's found another man attractive. But that's all over now, this is for Jenna, he's gonna make her so happy.
He's gonna provide for her, make sure she has everything she could ever want, and he can't wait till they're married and she'll finally lie down and spread her legs for him. He loves her, of course he does, but sometimes he wants to feel her body surrounding his, wants to touch her, but she says she promised to wait.
So he'll wait.
The man steps up next to the counter where Matt is standing, points to a ring with a two carat diamond set in it. "I think she'll like that one," he says, and shoulder-checks him.
"And you are?" Matt asks, perfectly reasonable question. The man looks up and smiles, and Matt's overcome by how much he kind of wants to take this man back home -- which is strange, because he's never actually taken his fleeting attractions that far before.
"You can call me Sam," the guy says, and holds out his hand. "But I have to tell you, Matt: I'd love to take you home."
"But, Jenna--" he says weakly, still staring at Sam's mouth. "I gotta -- she's gonna be my wife."
"Oh, that?" Sam steps even closer, but Matt can't feel his breath when he next speaks. "Jenna's been sleeping with her best friend for years now. She only needs you because it's not acceptable to her family to fuck another girl."
"Wha--what?" Matt can feel everything he's ever wanted slipping away. It seems too plausible, now that he thinks on it: all those sleep-overs, all those glances at each other, the way she won't put out -- he feels his heart seize up in his chest.
"I think she'd still like that ring, though," Sam says. "But if I were you, I wouldn't let her know that you know. Just marry her, Matt, like you said you would. Make an honest woman of her so that she can have an alibi when she sleeps with her best friend."
Sam claps him on the shoulder, turns and moves away.
Matt doesn't buy a ring. Matt buys a gun.
He goes home, and finds Jenna lounging around the living room with Colette, and he stands in front of them both.
He raises the gun. He fires twice.
He'll never get the blood out of his carpets.
It's the middle of the night, and Dean hasn't had a vision in hours, which means either Sam is asleep, or he really does only get snatches. (Does Sam -- Lucifer -- even need to sleep?) He's heart-sick, though, thinking about the young mother on the ceiling, or the two girls shot down in cold blood, or even the young man who was completely taken in by Sam's -- Lucifer's -- lies.
He rolls over, looking for the codeine for his head, when there's a knock on the door. So he stumbles out of bed and opens it without thinking, and Ruby's standing there, her dark hair obscuring her face.
"I'm sorry, Dean," she says, and Dean's getting kind of sick of everyone's apologies.
"Did you know?" he demands, and she ducks her head.
"I had -- I'd heard things," she says.
"You told me you didn't know what was coming!"
"I couldn't tell you, Dean, besides, I wasn't even sure. And -- demon -- remember?" She walks into the room, arms crossed. "It's not over yet, Dean." She reaches into her boot and holds up her knife. The demon-killing knife.
"That -- what's that for?" Dean can feel his body grind to a halt, every last system on stand-by.
"It's the only thing. It'll work on him, Dean, even though he's technically an angel. It's his only weakness."
"I'm not using that on my brother," Dean grits out. She taps the knife against her thigh, sets it down on the table.
"It's the last chance, Dean. He's not gonna stop until the world is an ocean of blood and fire. Until his demons overpower everything and take over, Dean. This shit he's pulling now? These are just parlour games for him. He's gonna get bored, and real soon. And then? He's gonna bring Hell to Earth -- and don't forget what that was like."
Blood and screams, skin hanging in strips, guts and entrails scattered around his feet, everything scented of fire. And he'd smile, hold up the next implement, come in so close they could smell the bloodlust on his breath.
And they would scream and scream as he flayed them apart, as he dangled their organs, their intestines, in front of their weeping eyes. And then he'd snap his fingers.
And start it all again.
"And that's all I can do?" Dean can't believe he's even considering it. Can't wrap his mind around the idea that maybe he's the only salvation for the world, and all it takes is being Cain to Sam's Abel. All it takes is destroying the one person he's spent his whole life protecting.
Once he thought he couldn't do it. But if there's no other choice: well, this is no choice at all.
"There's nothing," Ruby says. "The demons are all talking, and they are getting all excited to be free."
"And you're not lying to me this time? There's truly no way I can save him?"
"Dean, aren't you listening?" she says, exasperated.
Dean grabs the bottle of codeine, swallows two. "You know what, Ruby? Go to hell. I don't believe you. I'm gonna save Sam."
"When you figure out that that's a pipe dream, Dean, you have the knife. And he trusts you. That's not gonna change."
Dean's reaching for her, almost without thinking, like he can shake a different reply out of her, but she opens the door and walks out.
"Good-bye, Dean," she says just before the door swings shut.
And Dean spends the next few hours drinking beer and glaring at the knife, thinking about Sam -- Lucifer -- and wondering if he has the balls to do it. If he can ever overcome that prime directive that drives him, settled firm on his shoulders by John when he was just four years old, and ice Sam like it means nothing.
The beer goes down warm, and Dean struggles against every single cell that's begging for him to just give in. He could be with Sam forever, and all he has to do is give in. All he has to do is what he did in Hell: torture souls for the pleasure of it.
Dean's not sure what's wrong with him, but the idea doesn't seem so abhorrent now. Being with Sam--
Standing at Sam's side, being powerful, being happy, never suffering again because Sam -- Lucifer -- wouldn't allow it.
Never being at the mercies of the demons' games. Never watching his brother die again. Never having to hunt evil, because he would be one of them.
It's honestly the hardest thing Dean's ever done to push that sweet persuasive pull down to where it can't hurt him. And he knows it's because of Sam -- because of Lucifer. He wants Dean, wants him for his own, and he's still trying, even from wherever he is, to tempt him into falling down those stairs, into finding himself in darkness.
Dean shoves the darkness back down deep into his soul. Lucifer's not going to win: Dean's not going to do that again. Whatever he did in Hell -- that's over. He won't do it here on Earth, no matter how attractive the options look.
Because when the Earth burns -- and Dean knows it will -- Dean's not going to be at the heart of it. He's not going to stand next to Sam and smile as it all goes up in flames.
He'll kill himself first.
He gets to his feet, intending to take a shower before he calls Bobby to confer with him, and then pain pierces through his skull like an iron spike, and Dean falls to the floor, body writhing, eyes unseeing anything except--
"You didn't know this would happen?" Sam's towering over her, pre-teen girl, long blonde hair, hands clasped as if in prayer. "You tried to kill me even as you were the one to set me free."
"I didn't know, Master, I'm sorry. It was -- Azazel swore what he'd done was nothing important. I didn't--"
"You didn't realise I'd need human form? Azazel did well. He found the strongest body and soul. He found a mind well-adapted to the strain that would be put on it. He set the stage, and you almost dropped the curtain too soon."
"Please, Master, forgive me. I am your loyal servant, I brought you forth. I released you!"
"You sent my brother to Hell," Sam says, and the silver around him pulses angrily. "You tortured my family and my human body. You'll suffer for that."
"Send me to Hell then, let me serve you. Let me prove my worth to you."
His hands in her hair, sifting through the strands, eyes flat and brilliantly cold.
"There's nothing you could do. You hurt my brother."
"I made him strong," she says. "I made him yours. One more look from you and he'll fall into line, Master. He'll do as you ask, take the world apart piece by piece. He was so promising in Hell."
"He turned me down," Sam says. "I couldn't impress upon him how much it meant to me. And that is your fault."
"How?" she cries, and Sam smiles, a wicked curve of his sinful lips.
"You are lying to me."
"I'm not," she says. "Please."
"It's true that grovelling is attractive to me," Sam muses, "but then again, I don't like liars in my arsenal. If I can't trust you -- how do I know you won't try to mutiny with your piddling demon followers?"
"Of course I wouldn't," she says.
"No, see that's the thing, you would. Lilith, you knew that I would rise in the form of Sam Winchester, and you tried to have my human killed so that I'd be powerless and you could usurp my place. That wasn't a wise choice."
"If that were true," she says, "then why would I break the seals when Sam Winchester was still alive?"
"Because you knew your initial objective had failed, and so, suddenly, you were ready to follow me. Doesn't matter. Fun's over now."
He holds up his hand, and it flashes silvery blue. Lilith screams, and her body turns into leaping flames, her skin bubbling, her eyes going cloudy, and there's a wreath of black smoke that turns just as much to flames and ash.
Sam smiles. "And then there was no-one to challenge me," he says, and lowers his hand.
When Dean opens his eyes again, it's bright daylight, sun puddling on the floor by his head, and he sits up, blood crusted under his nose, and discovers his head no longer hurts.
And Lilith is dead. Dean's actually perversely proud of Sam -- Lucifer -- for crushing her like a particularly bothersome insect. Even though the rest of what he's doing is so awful.
He tries not to think about Sam's words to Lilith, his declarations about Dean and how he punished her in part for what she did to Dean.
It lends credence to the original offer, lets Dean know that maybe Sam -- Lucifer -- was serious, and not just fucking with his head to get another damned soul to follow him. That maybe it wasn't just a temptation like any other he might have made, to anyone else; maybe Dean was, in fact, as special as Sam had said.
But none of that matters. Sam is gone; no matter what he says about Dean, that's not truly his brother any longer.
Dean turns on the TV and realises he's still in West Texas, the same room where Death visited them, the same room where Lucifer rose up, and as soon as the TV's on, his stomach clenches.
The news is full of tragedy, and maybe no-one else knows, but Dean knows that Sam is responsible for a lot of it, and when they start talking about bridges collapsing and fires destroying buildings all over the country, Dean knows what he has to do.
He calls up Bobby and tells him what he's seen, and Bobby tells him that the number of demon possessions is way up, and Dean is strengthened in his resolve. He hangs up without telling Bobby of his plans. There'll be time for that later.
He packs up their stuff, unable to dispose of Sam's things just yet, and stuffs it into the Impala's trunk. And then he hefts the knife, shoves it into a sheath at his hip.
He knows what he has to do.
