* Set between 10x22 and 10x23. READ AND REVIEW.

Everything was coming crashing down, and the Mark was thriving off of all the raw, agonizing emotions.

Charlie was dead. He'd beaten Cas to hell (figuratively). He'd killed that young, innocent Styne kid. He'd almost killed himself under that Werther curse. He'd hurt Charlie. He'd almost killed Metatron. He'd killed all those men who, guilty or not, were humans who he had no business murdering. Ever since being cured of being a demon, he'd thought the worst was over. That he'd hit bottom and it was only up from there.

But he was losing his grip on his control, or desire to control the Mark's urges, and the need to kill was becoming too powerful to control. He needed to stop himself. He had to die.

"But if you die, you're back as a demon. Square one, Dean." Alastair hissed in his ear.

Dean looked up, staring past Alastair at the bottles that were scattered across all the surfaces of the motel room. Sometimes alcohol suppressed Alastair's visits. Other times it increased the likelihood. Unfortunately, the latter seemed to be the case tonight.

"There's a way." Dean whispered to himself, pretending he was actually talking to himself and not arguing with Alastair, "There has to be."

"Why not just give in? Take a ride with black eyes again, huh, Dean? It felt good last time, didn't it? You felt free. For the first time in your life, you were your own man," Alastair kicked a bottle that was laying on the carpet, "Or, your own demon, rather. But you were doing whatever you wanted for you. Maybe it was actually a perfect fit."

Dean stood up from the bed, closing in on the Alastair he knew wasn't there. Looking down at the bottle that hadn't moved when Alastair kicked it, only further confirmed the fact. But still Dean argued back.

"I'm not gonna be a demon. Not again. I'm not gonna let myself hurt anybody anymore."

Alastair rolled his eyes. He crossed the room, leaning against the doorframe to the bathroom.

"What'll you do then, torture buddy? You gonna keep hunting? Pretend like that's enough to sate you? 'Cuz, Deano, I gotta tell ya, that bloodlust..." Alastair appeared inches from Dean's face where he growled, "It's insatiable."

Dean turned away, distraught. He felt sick, he was terrified. He scratched unconsciously at the Mark and said,

"That's not true. No. No, I can... I can keep it in check. I just have to keep hunting... And-And-"

"And what, Dean?!" Alastair laughed, his voice was dark and cruel, but clearly the truth, "You remember your pal, Cain, who gave you the Mark, right? Did he keep it in check, hm?" Another unnerving, malicious laugh, "He had it practically since the beginning of time! And once he started, he couldn't stop. You're no different. It's useless. You can't win."

Dean sat down on the end of the bed, bowing his aching head, sweat was collecting at his neck and hairlines.

"How do I make it stop?"

Alastair sighed, heavy and nasal.

"Dean... When you die, and you will, and you become a demon again, and you will, you won't feel like this anymore. You won't feel anything anymore. Just power. Just calm."

Dean felt tears in his eyes, and strangely, though maybe not so as it was his own subconscious, Alastair's tone became uncharacteristically gentle.

"It'll all be over. Death surrounds you now. Just get to the point where it won't eat at you anymore."

Dean looked down at the Mark, and said so quietly, he almost just mouthed it,

"Death."

Back to his usual, cruel and taunting self, Alastair replied,

"What's that?"

"I can ask Death a favor. I can ask him to kill me. Permanently."

The thought of dying without leaving things on good terms with Sam made Dean feel the fear the generally accompanies death, but otherwise, he felt at peace with this idea.

"Well, that's a great thought, Dean," Alastair interrupted, "But since when is it ever that easy?"

Dean stood up to face the figment of his fucked up imagination, but said nothing. His eyes just demanded further explanation.

"Death knows you and your brother better than any human since Old Testament. He knows Sam won't let that stand."

Dean felt the idea click, and he closed his eyes, defeated.

"He kills me? He kills-"

"Sammy boy, that's right."

The reality of this tight spot hit him hard. Stay alive, maybe, eventually they'll find a cure, but more likely, Dean will go postal and eventually become a demon again. Die, and Death will see to it that Sam goes down with him. Once and for all.

Not Sammy.

The room spun. Dean staggered, catching himself on the dresser.

"That's right, Dean, you die, Sam dies alone and scared. You're a package deal. Of course," Alastair was gone but the hiss of his voice seemed to come from all directions, "You could save him the pain and fear, and kill Sam yourself."

Kill Sam yourself.

Dean felt the floor beneath his knees. He felt his head hit the ground. Darkness came over him, but still, rocking his brain, cracking him to his core, was the knowledge that his own mind had suggested he kill Sam.

What felt like seconds later, but in reality had been several hours, the cripplingly grating sound of Dean's cell phone cut though the brief moment of calm unconsciousness.

It hurt. Everything hurt. He felt like absolute shit.

He crawled his way to his feet and staggered to the bed to sit down. He checked his phone and saw Sam had been desperately trying to reach him. Sam. He felt sick again. He felt that little idea poking into the forefront of his mind. Kill Sam yourself.

He swallowed some old beer in an attempt to calm himself. Then swallowed the rest. He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus on reigning in the Mark. Forcing himself to make the decision to find a hunt so he could keep this in check.

"You really think you can stop yourself?" Alastair crooned.

"I'm good." He told himself and not Alastair, "I'm good."