Chapter 24 Lebanon, 2014

I came back and Crowley was standing there, that little smirk on his face.

And it was different.

I was different.

Dean tried to sit up, and pain, rancid and insistent, plucked through the nervous system that had been returned to him. Every second of the demon's excesses was present in the torn muscles, strained tendons, fractures and bruising, the deep, throbbing aches … and the memories.

They were as sharp and clear as glass. Turning his stomach if he looked too long. Pulsing behind his lids whether he was sleeping or awake.

He set his teeth against it all and managed to half-roll upright, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, the warm glow of the lamp keeping the black shadows at the edges of the room at bay.

The water slid down his throat and soothed the dryness, a temporary but painful side-effect of the demonic cure. He had no idea how or why it'd worked, that cure. He hadn't been transformed in Hell. Crowley's wafflings on the nature of human souls and the powers of the Mark had been just that – waffling – and he'd been pretty sure the King of Hell hadn't had a fucking clue as to how he'd been able to bring his soul back from wherever it'd gone on dying, or imbue it with the power of a demon. Not just any demon either, he thought, remembering the way Crowley's underlings had cowered back at the sight of him. Something special.

Special because of the Mark.

Swallowing another quenching half-glassful, he wondered about that. Cain'd said he'd become a demon. A Knight. And had trained other Knights. He hadn't gone into details and Dean still didn't know exactly what it'd meant. Was relinquishing life the only thing the Mark needed to take over completely?

He looked down at his arm. The scar was there, raised and reddened, but quiet for now. He didn't feel the driving need, boiling through his bones and blood, to kill anymore. Didn't feel much of anything anymore, he thought, unsure if that was a relief or something he should be worried about. It might come back when he wasn't feeling as if he'd gone one-on-one with Godzilla and been pounded into the pavement for several weeks. Or maybe the Mark needed the Blade to generate that unendurable need.

Shaking his head cautiously, he thought not. He'd killed Saint-Clare with the Blade, long before Abaddon. Killed him and Sam'd talked him down and he'd been mostly fine until the Blade had gone through the archdemon's ribcage and buried its tip in her heart.

Finishing the water, he looked longingly at the jugful on the nightstand that Sam'd left there for him. The damned thing was full and couldn't've weighed more than a few pounds, but he knew it would cost plenty to lift that sucker and pour himself another glass.

Some distantly recalled phrase about mountains and coming and going prompted him to inch along the edge of the bed. He stopped, his lungs heaving like bellows, when he was close enough to drag the jug to the side of the nightstand and transfer the straw from the glass to the jug. It would take some time for all his parts to get back to working the way he expected them to, he decided, leaning forward a little to catch the end of the straw between his lips. He sucked down a huge mouthful and felt the sweet moisture flood mouth and throat.

Sitting back, he looked at the far wall of the room, shrouded in shadows, the weapons hanging on the wall curiously sinister-looking despite his familiarity with them.

What he'd done in Hell had never let him go. What he'd done over the last seven months had been worse. A lot worse. No innocents had died by his hand, he'd been able to control that much, at least. But kill he had, by the hundreds and every kill was branded in his mind. He'd corrupted, taking out his fury at the limitations of demon flesh on those he'd sought to find relief. He'd lied and thieved and whored and none of it had meant anything … at the time. Most of it had slid away without reaction or response, lacking in the one thing a demon could feel, Crowley'd said, the one thing a demon needed – it's food and drink.

Pain.

The kills had satisfied that. Not one a clean ending to life. His torturing up here had been far less agonising than what he'd been able to do down in the pit, but here it was for keeps and wanting it or not, their pain had satiated. Had satisfied.

Don't be so full of yourself, Sammy. 'Cause, see, from where I'm sitting … There ain't much difference from what I turned into to what you already are.

Flinching a little from that memory, he couldn't unknow it, couldn't take it back. What Sam'd done, filled with desperation in the last few months, had shocked him, though he had memories of laughing about it at the time.

Who cares what you meant?! That line that we thought was so clear between us and the things that we hunted – ain't so clear, is it? Wow. You might actually be worse than me!

The only thing that hadn't been truthful, that he'd known would cut his little brother deeply, had been the crack about being worse than him.

There was nothing in this world worse than what he'd become.

Killer. Outcast. Unclean. Monster. Demon. Torturer. Murderer.

What was he now? Not a hunter. No more than Gordon had been a hunter, twisted and driven by a revenge that had eaten him down to the marrow of his bones and had turned him long before the fang had gotten to him.

Human?

Technically, he guessed. Red blood. Clear eyes. He looked down at his arm again. Maybe not.

Not a demon. Not any more. Whatever the cure had acted on, he thought it might've broken the connection between the Mark and Hell.

Your, uh… guilt-ridden, weight-of-the-world bro has been M.I.A. for quite some time now. That had been the truth.

When they'd started, he'd been astonished – no, too tame – astounded was closer to it – by how he'd felt.

Free.

Weightless.

No responsibilities at all.

No guilt.

No emotions.

No pain.

For the first couple of months, he'd been tripping, he thought, leaning toward the jug again as he felt the dryness inch back up his throat. Tripping the light fantastic and not a fucking care in the whole, wide world. He could do anything he wanted and he'd done everything he'd wanted, not thinking of consequences or repercussions, not thinking of anyone but himself.

It'd taken some time to realise that everything felt hollow – like a dream or a prop or a story told by someone else – and that'd coincided with the Mark's awakening, playtime over, work to be done. Even for a demon, apparently.

In some ways, it'd been better. In others, worse. Not at the time, he remembered. He'd seen them all, seen them with a sense other than the five he was used to. Seen them and followed them and wiped them out, licking the blood spray from his fingers and lips afterwards. Nothing could touch him.

Working hard had meant partying harder but the novelty had worn off and he'd realised that the only way he'd get any pleasure from what he did was through inflicting pain. That hadn't mattered so much to begin with. Then he'd needed more pain. And then more. And somewhere, inside, where maybe flickers and vestiges of his human soul had been hiding, waiting and watching, he'd known it was never going to be enough. He'd become demon through the Mark, but it wouldn't take that long to blacken his soul sufficiently to walk into Hell without feeling the heat or the suffering. To needing the pain as a source of sustenance, instead of a source of pleasure.

And he'd started ditching Crowley then.

Just watching. At first. Hidden against the night-time sky and watching from a distance. Then getting closer. He'd told himself it'd been by choice, but he didn't think he'd had much choice at all. He'd needed and he'd reacted, both man and demon in accord, though he'd had no idea of why it'd happened like that.

He didn't understand the alchemy behind those times but the rage diminished and the Mark quietened and he could breathe again and he didn't want to know why. Not then. Not as a demon.

Now … now it was too late. He'd dreamed again of the dark room and the bright light, that voice that wasn't a voice, that spoke somehow inside of his mind but wasn't him either. Nothing that voice could say could convince him that there was a chance of redemption now. He'd almost believed … before. Almost, but not quite.

He looked around the still room and dragged in a deep breath, feeling the muscles covering his chest twang and protest, the cartilage between his ribs throb and twist. He wasn't going to improve if he just lay around all the time, and the pain was good, the pain reminded him that he was human, that he was mortal, that he could die. He forced his legs to work, take his weight, keep it balanced and pushed back at the cacophony of demanding data from his nervous system, breath hissing slightly from between his teeth.

Just to the door and back for today, he decided, swaying a little as he let go of the bed. Just get the blood circulating.

It'd felt as if Sam had superheated his blood, with every injection. Felt as if his brother had been injecting acid into his veins. Agony had eaten through every cell and there'd been nowhere to turn for escape, it'd been inside, unreachable. Unbearable. He hadn't been able to tell if the Mark had fought back. Sam hadn't said anything about Crowley shrieking in agony, but then the King of Hell was a self-confessed masochist and maybe he'd been enjoying it until the balance had swung more to human and less to demon.

His muscles were shaking and he wondered if this was going to be such a good idea. If he face-planted, his brother would be in here in thirty seconds, demanding to know what he was doing when he was supposed to be resting.

Resting, he thought sourly, taking another small step and feeling the boost of anger give a little energy to the step. He could hardly shut his eyes, knowing what would appear behind the lids and half the time he was seeing those memories when he was just lying there, trying not to think about anything at all.

Three days. It'd been three days since he'd opened his eyes and looked at his brother without feeling that searing indifference to Sam living or dying. To anyone living or dying. It would take the rest of his life to figure out how to pay for it all.

If the Mark kicks up again, the rest of your life could be pretty short. The thought slid in and he stopped his forward progress, eyes closing and fists clenching. He'd deal with the Mark when he could get himself out to the car and take her for a drive, he told himself. Without the demon juice and the high voltage compulsions, he wasn't likely to feel it for awhile.

Sliding his foot across the floor, he took another step, sweat rolling down his face and the back of his neck, damp through his hair and trickling down his chest and back. Just another couple of feet and he could turn around, he told himself.

He was aware of what he was doing, even when he pretended to himself that he was just getting on with it, just putting one foot ahead of the other, same as he'd always done, keep moving or die. While he was barely able to hobble across the room, it wouldn't matter. Once he could get around again, get back into shape, it wouldn't stay down. Wouldn't stay mostly quiescent and buried and leaving him mostly alone.

You act like I want to be cured!

He hadn't but he'd still been mostly demon then, he thought. The trouble was, he wasn't sure he wanted the cure, even now. Not caring, not feeling … that'd been as much peace as he'd ever gotten in one hit. The Mark hadn't tested him, not really. He'd felt no remorse for those kills and he still couldn't. On the point of the Blade, he'd watched them die, murderers, molesters, those who could never be touched by law or justice, despite the fact their hands were elbow-deep in innocent blood, the ones who'd watched from the shadows, hiring muscle to do their dirty work for them. Thieves and rapists and those who'd stolen more than just money, who'd stolen lives and dreams and hopes, the Mark had been seething with the injustice of them living and breathing. Crowley'd been going off his brain, telling him he'd been cutting deals short, and he hadn't cared about that either.

Human enough to get out of the 'cuffs and across the trap. Not human enough to want to face what was waiting for him.

He reached out and his fingers touched the door, clutching at the dark wood as he forced himself to take the last step and lean up against it. When that last shot had gone in, he'd thought he was dead. There'd been nothing, not even pain, just a suffocating, airless blackness that'd seemed to be reaching into him, finding every last sorrow, every last regret and drop of guilt and winding it into a shroud that Sam could bury him in.

He couldn't say to Sam – or anyone else – I never wanted to be that, I never wanted to be that way. It wasn't the truth. His heart had started beating again and air had rushed out of his lungs and back in, filling them up and everything had come back, that old load, that hated, familiar weight … crushing him under it. Choices and mistakes. Blame and judgement. Guilt and responsibility. The losses and the hopeless knowledge that he'd never dealt with them, never grieved and let go, couldn't let go, couldn't them be forgotten, couldn't forgive himself for them, had to keep them close and make up for it somehow.

He hadn't wanted to be demon but he'd wanted to be free. Where, exactly, did that leave him?

Pushing off from the door, he looked at the twelve feet separating him from the bed. One foot in front of the other. Like always. Just deal with today and figure out tomorrow when it turns up.

It took twenty-one steps to get back across the room and the muscles in his legs and back and abdomen were twanging like piano wires by the time he let himself fall onto the side of the bed. A few days. That was all it would take.

Rolling onto his back, he pushed and shoved himself higher on the bed, gritting his teeth against the aches and pangs and twitches. A few days of being here, trapped with his thoughts and his memories and the way that all felt, and he'd be ready for the nuthouse, he thought.

Looking up at the ceiling, he thought of the dark room and the voice that wasn't a voice. If he'd been so goddamned important in the scheme of things, why hadn't someone helped him, he asked that voice silently. Why hadn't someone stepped in to stop him from taking the Mark from Cain?

It wasn't an answer, just an echo, a bare recollection.

Free will.

Dean closed his eyes and turned his head away from the light. Free will. He'd chosen. He'd have to pay. No one was going to rescue him from his own decisions.

END