A/N: Going through old files, I came across this and realized I'd never posted. I wrote it as a bridge between "Book of the Damned" and the promo we saw for "Dark Dynasty," so the shelf-life of this story was extremely short. Entirely AU now!

Redux

He roused tied to a chair. Wrists, ankles, chest. He could not count the number of times he'd been in this position, and it pissed him off. It signalled failure, even if he was overpowered. Even if he was unconscious when he was shoved into the chair and imprisoned, unable to protest, unable to fight, unable to stop the entire process of captivity. It meant that someone had gotten the upper hand, and if there was anything Dean Winchester hated, it was someone getting the upper hand on him.

Well, there were a lot of things Dean Winchester hated.

His mouth tasted like ass. Even licking his lips, trying to rid himself of the taste by working his mouth didn't entirely overcome it. And his neck ached with a dull throb where the jugular vein ran. He felt numb. Weak. Drugged.

An empty room, save for the chair. A single window shrouded by closed blinds so that the only illumination was muted. He tested the ropes, found them expertly tied. Noted that the long sleeves of his twill shirt had been pulled back, bunched above his elbows. In fact, his forearms were bound underside up so that his palms were displayed. The Mark lay livid upon his flesh.

He heard movement behind him. The man came around into his field of vision, smiling. Fair-haired, blue-eyed, bearded. Young. Good-looking. Relaxed. Dressed neatly in a fashionable suit. "You awake now, son? Yeah, so you are. Good. We're gonna make a phone call, you and I. To your brother. And he's gonna bring that Book."

Dean frowned. "What book?"

The Southern drawl was pronounced. "Book of the Damned, son. It belongs to me and mine."

So. A Styne. Captivity made more sense now, but the reason for it didn't. "What the hell did you do to me?"

"Animal tranq," the man replied. "Shot you at a distance, so we didn't have to go all up close and personal. I am a careful man. I know what you did to my brother Jacob."

Definitely a Styne. "The Book is gone. My brother burned it."

The young man smiled. "No, he did not. I got a little something that proves it."

Dean shook his head. "I saw him do it. Saw it on the fire. It's gone."

"My name is Eldon," the Styne said, "just so you know who kills you. And yes, the Book remains in the world. Here, I'll show you." He took from his back pocket a flat, round case, flipped it open. Displayed it to Dean. "See that? It's a compass. A spell compass. It finds the Book no matter where it is. Now, all it can do right now is spin, just like it's doing, because your brother's got that Book warded out the wahzoo. If the Book was truly destroyed, well . . . the compass wouldn't work at all. So you see, I know it wasn't burned. And I know your brother's got it. And I know, too, that he'll bring it here to save his big brother. Because that's what family does."

Dean stared at the compass, at the interlocked metal points that shifted restlessly, spinning within the case. It made no sense, but the compass was indeed reacting to something.

Jacob Styne had known about the Mark of Cain. Probably Eldon did as well. No sense in hiding anything, and he figured it was true anyway. "It's the Mark."

Eldon Styne looked briefly at the livid blemish, then shook his head. "It's not keyed to the Mark. Only to the Book."

Sam had burned it, Dean knew. He'd seen it. Sam had tossed the cloth-wrapped book into the flames just as Jacob Styne attacked.

Unless he hadn't.

Dean lifted his gaze from the compass, met Eldon Styne's eyes. "He burned it."

Styne closed up the compass, returned it to his pocket. "There's one way to find out, I figure." This time what he removed from a pocket was recognizable to Dean: his cell phone. Styne turned it on, scrolled through, thumbed Sam's name, then put it on speaker.

Sam picked up right away. "Where the hell are you? You went out for pizza six hours ago."

Eldon Styne smiled. "Your brother's a little tied up right now. And I do mean that literally."

There was a moment of silence. Then Sam spoke again, and this time his tone was cold and controlled. He didn't ask a multitude of questions, didn't protest, didn't make threats. "What do you want?"

"A little light reading. Book of the Damned."

"You're a Styne."

"I am. Jacob's brother."

"I destroyed the Book."

"Son, you did not. But you go on sayin' that if it makes you feel better. Because you'll prove yourself a liar when you bring it here."

"I burned it. Ask my brother. He saw me do it."

"Oh, he thinks you did, yes. He saw you burn something, I do not doubt. Which means you've broken his trust, but I'm not worried about that. I just want the Book. So be a good boy and get it, bring it to me."

"Proof of life."

Dean very nearly smiled. Except he figured he knew what was coming next. Probably a punch or two, an attempt to get him to confirm to Sam that he was indeed Styne's prisoner. Just having his phone wasn't enough.

Styne stepped close. He did not punch Dean. He simply pulled a knife, snapped it open, and sliced deeply into both of Dean's upturned arms.

He could not restrain the blurt of shock and pain.

"Now, Sam," Styne said, "your brother's had a little accident. But you bring that Book, and we'll see to it he receives proper medical attention." He tilted the phone toward Dean. "How about you explain to your brother what's happened to you."

Dean didn't even attempt to prevaricate, nor did he ask his brother whether he had the Book. Something else took precedence, an emotion that went far deeper than the knowledge that Sam had lied to him, had failed to burn the Book. It was raw, primal fear.

'I can't be that thing again.'

"Sam—he's cut me." He tried to steady his voice, but couldn't quite accomplish it. He remembered too much. Knew what he'd been, what he'd done. "Sammy—it's bad. You know . . . you know what'll happen if I bleed out." He swallowed heavily. "You know what will happen."

Because the Mark would, at all costs, protect itself. Resurrect him. Resurrect—that thing.

Sam, who also knew what he'd been, what he'd done, asked simply, "Where do I come?"

Styne told him.

It was an abandoned house in a bad part of town. Sam heard the yapping of a neighbor's dog from a distance, saw someone sitting idly on a porch with a bottle of booze three houses down. He knew better than to expect any assistance even if he asked for it; and he wouldn't ask. This was for him to deal with. You didn't involve civilians unless there was no other choice.

He'd grabbed the warding box from the dungeon, automatically double-checked to make sure the Book was in it—yes, still there—then immediately left the bunker in one of the old Men of Letters cars Dean had gotten running again. He parked across the street, knowing Styne and/or his goons were likely watching, removed the book from the box, raised it into sunlight so it was visible. Then he walked across the street, topped the steps and made the porch, held back as the front door was opened before he even knocked on the screen door.

They let him in, patted him down. "Not armed," Sam said, because he wasn't. Too much was at stake. "You've got my brother."

He had no play, no plan. None. It was all about getting Dean out safely, getting him out before . . .

Eldon Styne had no idea what Dean could become, if he died. Letting Styne have the Book was something Sam did not want to do, based on what he'd learned of the dynasty, and in other circumstances simply would not do, but he saw no choice. Not in this. Not with the Mark on his brother's arm. It was the immediacy of things that dictated his actions.

It was, as always, his brother.

Maybe the Book contained the answer to lifting the curse of the Mark of Cain. It's why he hadn't burned it. But if Styne killed Dean, none of it mattered.

Three Styne goons. He wondered if they were "juiced," as Dean had described the one he'd killed in the convenience store. He was surprised when none of them took the Book from him. They left him holding it, escorted him up the stairs to the second floor. All three had guns trained on him. If any of them fired, Sam was a dead man; he recognized the handguns as routinely carrying .45 caliber rounds.

One man opened the door, swung it open. Another applied his hand to Sam's back and pushed. Sam walked into the barren room.

No, not barren. Dean inhabited it. He was seated in a chair with ankles, arms, and chest tied to it, and he was bleeding from both wrists.

Sam knew that might be their deliverance, if Styne didn't know the truth. It had been twenty minutes since the phone call. What many didn't know was that cut crosswise, wrist veins and arteries generally clotted before a person bled out. It was lengthwise cuts that resulted in death.

Inwardly, he flinched. Dean had bled a fair amount and it showed in his pallor, in the tension around his eyes, not to mention the blood puddled on the floor. His jaw was clenched, but his lips were open; Sam knew his brother was pulling air in through his nose, then exhaling through his mouth to manage the pain, the weakness that he undoubtedly felt from bloodloss.

"There, now," someone said from inside the room, and Sam saw the man move into his field of vision. "Hand it over."

Sam held out the book. Watched a gloved hand take it. Then the man set it down on the floor, pushed it aside with a booted foot.

"If you've touched it," the man said, "you're tainted. It takes a powerful spell to use this Book without succumbing to it. But even touching it marks you."

Sam had touched it. Dean. Charlie. Perhaps they should have taken more care.

He looked at his brother. Dean was not sending any kind of signal. His eyes were very still, pupils spreading to engulf the green. Blood ran from his wrists, much had already run, but it was not an arterial spurt, or a gush from veins. The blood was clotting. He wasn't dying.

"Let him go," Sam said. "You've got the Book."

Styne smiled. He was not dark as his brother Jacob had been. He was fair-haired, light-skinned, bearded. Only in the Southern drawl did he sound like his brother.

"I've got the Book," he agreed. "But I've got more than that, don't I?"

Sam felt movement beside and behind him. Felt hands clamp down on his arms. They were twisted behind him, forced upward so that he found himself on his toes in an automatic attempt to escape the pressure. His right shoulder still twinged from the dislocation months before, still was vulnerable. And a gun muzzle was pressed against the back of his head.

"Let him go," Sam said tightly.

Styne moved swiftly. He stepped behind the chair, locked his left hand into Dean's hair, yanked his head back. "I don't think so," he said, and sliced Dean's throat open from left to right.

"No!" Sam screamed, even as the goons hung onto him, held him in place; did not allow him to go to his brother.

Jesus, so much blood . . .

He felt the slow surge. This time he knew it. The first time, he had been lost in the darkness, lost in confusion, in disbelief. Crowley's voice had found him, guided him through the darkness, until he surfaced. Until he found himself alive again.

No Crowley this time. But he felt that surge, recognized it, knew what it betokened. Knew he lived again, such as life was.

Knew what he was.

Styne had killed him. But the Mark would not allow death. He was brought back, revived. Redux.

'Knife me, smite me, throw me into the freakin' sun . . .'

But Cas was not present to do any of those things.

'I can't be that thing again.'

But he was that thing again.

The slash across his throat healed itself. So did the cuts in his wrists. He was whole again, undamaged. But he was not human.

Styne had released him, stepped away. Dean—no, the demon - hung there against his ropes.

He could feel Sam's heartbeat. From across the room, he heard it, felt it. Knew his brother's fear.

'You act like I want to be cured!'

'Personally . . . I like the disease!'

' . . . maybe it was the fact that my mother would still be alive if it wasn't for you. That your very existence sucked the life out of my life!'

He remembered it all.

He remembered Cas, too: 'You know, only humans can feel real joy, but … also such profound pain. This is easier.'

So much easier not to care. For those weeks, he had been pain-free, carefree, for the first time since his mother had burned.

He lifted his head. Opened his eyes. Gazed upon Eldon Styne.

Saw Sam's flinch: Oh yes, black eyes.

"There it is," Styne said. "That's what I heard about. That's what I wanted." He bent, picked up the Book with his gloved hand. "Do you know what I can do with you? Use you, son. Like a drone. Like a nuke. I can aim you, son. Because I've got the Book, and you've got no choice."

He felt good. He felt lazy. Felt a river in his soul.

Crowley had tried to control him. Crowley had tried to aim him. And for awhile, he'd accepted it. He needed to kill, because the Mark demanded it. Even when he'd broken with Crowley, he'd agreed to kill for him. Because the Mark demanded it.

Sating that desire had been better than sex.

Dean stared at Styne. Let the slow smile build. Didn't even look at Sam, because Sam didn't matter.

With gloved hands, Styne opened the book. "You're mine."

Dean shredded the ropes. Shattered and stood up from the chair. Took three steps to Styne, grabbed the Book from his hands, threw it across the room. Then he broke the man's neck even as a twitch of fingers sent the three goons holding Sam smashing into the walls. Then he crushed their necks, too, without laying a hand on them.

There. That was done.

He looked at his brother. Tilted his head a little. Shifted his eyes from black to green. "I hope to hell you've got purified blood in the bunker."

Sam's breath ran harshly out of his mouth as his eyes widened.

"Come on, Sammy. What is it?—a little Latin, lot of blood? Let's not waste any time. And let's not put a hammer anywhere near me, okay?"

Sam was breathing hard. "You're okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. I'm a demon. But we can fix that, right?"

'Personally . . . I like the disease!'

"Yeah," Sam said. "We can fix it. Dean—"

"Not a whole lot of time, Sammy. What's left of me is fading. Let's get the hell out of here."

Sam picked up the book. Made sure it was wrapped. Looked at his brother, and hesitated. A world was in his eyes.

"You want to yank my lame ass out of the fire?" Dean asked. "Well, you can. Again. And I'll curse you for it, because that blood-cure hurts like hell. But it's better than the alternative."

"Why this time?" Sam asked. "Why this time are you not giving in?"

"Because I know what I lost, last time," Dean said. "Yeah, Cas was right: it's easier not feeling the pain. But it's also the coward's way out, and our father didn't raise either of us to be cowards." He closed his eyes, fought the surge of the Mark, of the otherness that lived in his soul. Opened his eyes—green eyes, not black—and looked at his brother. "Sammy—I can't lose you. Not again."

After a moment, Sam smiled. "Okay. Let's go. We've got a date with a dungeon."

"Crap," Dean muttered, but he followed his brother out of the room.

He'd follow Sammy always. To hell and back.

He'd already gone with him to heaven.

~ end ~