Chapter Text
“The dog that weeps after it kills is no better than the dog that doesn’t.
My guilt will not purify me.”
–Unknown
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Light.
There’s always a light before he realizes it.
Light before the end.
The end of a life.
The end of a chapter.
The end of him.
A light that beckons. A light that burns
The light above his crib—his mother, golden and glowing before the flames swallowed her.
The light above his bed—Jessica’s hair catching, embers licking her skin.
The light of a semi’s headlights— rushing forward, cars colliding.
The light of the moon—cold and distant as a blade slid down his back.
The light of Lillith’s palm—white-hot but harmless… until it's reflected in Dean’s lifeless eyes.
The light on the ground.
The light in his blood.
The light.
The light is spreading, stretching— blinding .
Sam reaches for it.
He has always reached for it.
“I do.”
“What?”
“I do pray every day. I have for years”
The light has always been out of reach.
Always.
Always.
Always.
“Sam Winchester, the Boy with the Demon Blood.”
The light…
The light burns cold .
.
.
.
“ Sam! ” Hands on his shoulders, gripping tight. A voice, sharp, desperate.
“ Sammy ”
He gasps—his vision snapping into focus, the pounding in his skull fading just enough for him to hear —Dean.
The light explodes in front of them, making the walls tremble and slowly enveloping everything in sight. He did this.
Sam did this.
He didn’t know.
He didn’t fucking know.
The air thickens with sulfur, then a humming fills the space, and Sam feels a yank forward, gripping his jacket. Then his boots are skidding against the stone floor, and Dean is barking orders—
“Go, go! ”
The entrance is ahead—heavy wooden doors of the church—their hands reach out as they barrel forward. Sam’s gut twists as he watches Dean reaching for the handle and shoving—
Nothing.
The doors won’t budge.
“Son of a bitch!” Dean snarls, his shoulder slamming against the wood, over and over, not stopping as if he could break through it by sheer will alone. Sam throws his weight into it too for all its worth—nothing happens still, and Sam feels more than emptied out, but he still tries .
The light behind them surges, pressing against his back, searing into his spine like a hand clawing at his ribs.
It’s wrong— so wrong .
It radiates through the room and leaves his nerves on edge. An encroaching static threatens to intrude on his brain. His body is burning and thrumming with something, and he wonders if Dean is feeling this, too. Can he feel the sheer unholiness in this place? Inside him?
Sam’s hands are shaking, and he knows he can’t let Dean die.
Not here. Not now.
“ You’re a monster.”
Not because of him .
He looks at Dean, and Dean looks back, and whatever Sam’s face says, his brother understands it instantly.
“Don’t,” Dean warns, but it's too late.
Sam presses both palms to the door, fingers curling, body burning with a live wire, and sure, he wasn’t able to kill Ruby before. Perhaps he had burnt himself out killing Lillith—opening Lucifer’s prison—but this. This he can do.
He doesn’t have to think much about it.
Doesn’t have to focus on a demon. On order. On control.
Just getting them out.
And before even a second can pass, the doors blast open with a boom , the wood crumbling at the end of the hall.
Distantly, he can feel something dripping down his face.
Cool. Wet.
Blood.
He doesn’t think much about it, though, as Dean grabs him again and drags him through the church and out into the night.
The cold air hugs him then—a sharp contrast against the steady burning underneath his flesh and the pounding in his head. His heart rate isn’t as fast as before, but it's still high and he can feel his body giving out—was it too much power? Too much blood? Is he finally going to die now?
Dean runs with him, but Sam’s legs are unsteady, steps dragging even as Dean tightens his grip on him. “C’mon, move —”
The Impala is just ahead, and Sam can see it.
Home.
The only home he’s truly known.
“ If you walk out that door—don’t you ever come back .”
He’s falling.
He has to be falling.
The heat is inside him now, curling up from his stomach, winding through his ribs. It’s dire not fire—it’s not burning—it’s worse. It’s seeping. Burrowing into muscle, into bone marrow, into his soul. The sensation latches onto him, sinking deep .
His head lolls. His fingers twitch.
No. Not now.
Not now—
He wants it.
He can feel it.
It gnaws at the back of his throat, slithers down his spine. A yawning empty ache that’s clawing to be filled.
His mind goes blank—not like static. Not like a dead channel at another motel, his dad would leave them at growing up.
They’re burrowing.
Maggots under his skin—under his skull.
They’re squirming.
Whispering.
He should be dead.
He should’ve died killing Lillith.
Lillith should’ve killed him.
Dean should kill him.
“ I’m done trying to save you.”
Shouldn’t he?
“You’re nothing to me.”
Dean.
Dean.
Dean.
His body jerks.
His vision tilts.
A face enters his view—
And Sam lunges.
⛧ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⛧
Dean wants to scream.
Wants to put his fist through a goddamn wall.
Yeah. Hitting something sounds really good right about now.
It’s all he’s wanted to do since he clawed his way back topside—
Since he found out how bad things had gotten—
Since he realized just how badly he fucked up.
Monster. Demons. Angels.
Hell—he even hit Sam .
And isn’t that just something?
Looking back, Dean’s sure he wants to hit himself for letting the angels, demons—that bitch Ruby—push Sam away. For pushing Sam away himself, shoving him so far that he actually believed their bullshit. For every goddamn word that came out of his mouth like it was righteous, like it was justified—as if Dean hadn’t been the one to sell his soul in the first place, to leave Sam alone while Dean broke the first seal—
He wants to hit himself for even thinking the angels seriously wanted to help.
Nothing is ever that simple. Angels are dicks—evil, conniving, smug dicks. And they used him, same as Ruby used Sam. Same as Hell and Heaven used them both.
Fucking liars.
And the worst part?
It worked.
Sam killed Lilith.
He killed Lilith using his demon blood-fueled powers.
Now—Lucifer him fucking self is rising.
And Dean well… Dean’s fucking pissed to say the least.
It doesn’t even go away when he hears Sam’s broken apology after he ganks Ruby.
Not even after Sam blasts the church door open.
He’s not sure it will.
Not for a while, at least.
But he has a job to do now. So feelings be damned as he drags Sam outside and to the impala—but clearly Sam is unsteady on his feet. Dean doesn’t know if it's from the blood itself, early withdrawal, or having just used his powers, but he still goes on. Especially as the whole church becomes enveloped in unholy light. Lucifer’s light .
The fucking Devil himself.
Dean barely makes it to the Impala before Sam collapses against him, his whole body going slack like his strings just got cut.
“Whoa— hey !” Dean grunts, catching him before he face-plants into the dirt. Sam’s weight is dead against him, all sharp angles and long limbs, and Jesus Christ , when was the last time Sam actually slept? Drank or ate anything besides demon blood?
His brother had refused any food when they had him in the Panic Room at Bobby’s when he was lucid. And the water they had left down there had been seemingly untouched when Dean discovered Sam to be gone.
Surely Sam has to be running on fumes now? Especially after killing Lilith—especially after starting the apocalypse, is left unsaid.
Dean swears under his breath and shifts his grip, yanking Sam up as best as he can. The guy’s a goddamn giant, and right now, he’s got all the stability of a newborn deer. Even after everything, Sam still knows how to make himself appear small, though.
He can see how the light from the church is beginning to crack forth more into the world, its shine seeming to crawl toward them.
“C’mon, man, move .” Dean isn’t even against hiding the desperation in his voice because out of all the times to pull this shit of course it’s now.
Unsurprisingly—Sam barely reacts. His breath comes hard and fast, and he’s shaking—Dean can feel the tremors rolling off him, see the way his fingers twitch like he’s reaching for something.
“Sam, I need you to work with me here, alright?” Dean huffs, dragging him the last few feet. “We gotta move before Lucifer decides to give us a big ol’ welcome to the apocalypse speech.” Even he’ll admit that jokes in poor taste but let a man joke dammit.
He reaches for the car door—intent to throw Sam in the back, unsure if the front would be the best place to have him in this state.
But Sam suddenly jerks.
And for one split second—
Dean sees black.
Shit.
Dean doesn’t even have time to think much before Sam lunges.
It’s fast. Faster than Dean was ready for.
One second, he’s hauling Sam up, trying to get him in the car—
The next, he’s being slammed against the side of the Impala, Sam’s hands on him, fingers digging into the collar of his jacket, shoving him back, hard .
“Sam!” Dean chokes out, struggling against the grip. “What the hell—?!”
Sam’s eyes—fuck, his eyes—
Black. Ink black.
Dean’s stomach drops.
And Sam—well, he growls—genuinely growls at him.
He hates how familiar this scene is.
“Sammy, snap the hell out of it!” Dean practically yells. But Sam’s not hearing him.
He’s still breathing hard, muscles tensed like he’s about to go again, and Dean knows—knows—if Sam had an ounce of juice left in him, if he had anything to give, Dean would be flying ten feet back, spine-first into the goddamn pavement. Or no, he’d probably be able to snap his neck with a single thought. The thought of any of that as a very true possibility does nothing to ease the nervousness Dean feels in his veins, and he barely has time to duck when Sam swings.
He barely manages to twist out of the way, grabbing Sam’s arms and wrestling against him, trying to shove him off. But Sam’s strong. Stupidly, inhumanely strong. Even without his freaky psychic shit, his veins are pumping with demon blood and he hates being honest but he’s bigger—taller, and for a horrifying second, Dean actually thinks he might lose this one.
But Sam is sloppy. Weak.
And Dean?
Deans taught him almost all he knows.
So when Sam surges forward again, Dean grits his teeth, shoves Sam’s weight sideways, and slams him up against the Impala. A taste of his own medicine.
“Sam!” Dean snarls, gripping Sam’s jacket, trying to get him to focus, to see him. “It’s me!”
Sam thrashes, trying to push forward, but Dean keeps him pinned, ignoring the burning in his arms, the way his body screams from the effort.
“I’m here, Sam—I’m here—”
Sam’s breath hitches.
“—It’s Dean—”
His body jerks, like something is pulling at him, and for a brief moment—Dean sees it.
A flicker. A recede in the black.
Sam’s hands go to his wrists, encircling them, and it seems like they don’t know whether to push Dean away or cling to him.
Sammy walked his first steps today… and he walked towards Dean.
“Sammy,” Dean says again, voice lowering, softer now. “We have to go.”
Sam shudders—then suddenly, like the fight drains out of him all at once, he collapses.
Dean barely catches him in time.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters under his breath, manhandling Sam toward the passenger seat. He hauls the door open and shoves him inside, one arm still bracing against Sam’s chest just in case he wakes up swinging again.
“Stay down, dammit,” Dean grits out.
Sam doesn’t answer. He just slumps back against the seat, breath shaky, face pale, eyes squeezed shut.
Dean exhales hard and glances at him, pulse still hammering, before he wrenches open the driver’s side, slides in, and shoves the key into the ignition.
They need to move. Now.
The apocalypse is here—and Dean steals one last glance at Sam, jaw clenching before racing away from the light.
⛧ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⛧
Dean gets about one hour of quiet—well, if you can call the ragged, shaky breathing from the backseat quiet .
He also tries praying to Cas because, surprise, his phone is busted, which means calling Bobby is a no-go. And pulling over to find the payphone? Yeah, not exactly a great plan, considering the whole apocalypse thing. Not to mention his brother—his very much not okay brother— is currently curled up in the backseat looking about two steps from feral. Sam’s not exactly in a state to be seen in public, and Dean’s not about to risk losing a finger digging around for a phone on him—if he even still has one.
If he does have one?
Well. That means he heard the voicemail.
And clearly, it didn’t change a damn thing.
Dean grits his teeth and shoves the anger down— not now . He can’t let himself lose the small composure he’s got left. So instead, he grips the wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him together, knuckles white as he pushes the car faster toward Bobby’s. Because Bobby’s the best they have right now— the guy with enough experience and sense, and, unfortunately, a panic room that might be the only place to keep Sam from completely losing it.
Not permanently, of course.
Just long enough to get his brother back and then, if they somehow survive that, figure out what to do about the Devil roaming the Earth now.
And maybe—just maybe—have a real talk with Sam.
Even if the thought alone makes Dean’s stomach churn.
“You’re going to be fine, Sammy,” he mutters, voice rough. “Always gotta be a pain in my ass, don’t you?”
He flicks his gaze up to the rearview mirror—expecting to see Sam still out cold, maybe twitching a little, like before.
Instead, all he sees is Sam starting to shift more, causing Dean to tense. He watches as his breath quickens, his hands twitching harder before he starts thrashing .
Of course, Dean’s first instinct is to yank the wheel and pull to the side of the—luckily empty—road, but before he can even do so, the wheel moves on its own, tires screeching at the force of it and causing the car to swerve.
“No, no, no— fuck —” He fights against it, trying to steady the car, but Sam’s powers have a death grip on it. Dean risks a glance back—Sam’s whole body is taut like a wire ready to snap, fingers clawing at the leather like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.
“Sam, stop!” he yells, and suddenly the Impala stops swerving, the unnatural pull fading just enough for Dean to yank the wheel back under control. The moment he has an opening, he swerves off the road and slams the car into park.
His heart hammers in his chest. He takes a second—just one—to catch his breath, hands still tight on the wheel.
Then—movement.
Too fast.
Before Dean can even process it, Sam lunges at him from the backseat, teeth bared, eyes black.
Dean barely gets his arm up before Sam crashes into him, shoving him hard against the door. His head smacks against the window, a burst of white-hot pain shooting through his skull. Sam’s fingers dig into his jacket, yanking him forward like a rag doll.
“Fuck—Sam! Get off—”
Sam isn’t listening. His grip tightens, knuckles bone-white, strength inhuman. Dean tries to throw him off, but Sam shoves him down against the seat, pinning him with his full weight.
Dean’s hands fly up, trying to push Sam’s arms back, but Sam’s stronger—too strong. He thrashes beneath his brother, boots scraping against the floor of the car, but it’s like trying to move a damn boulder.
Then Sam’s hand is on his throat.
Dean chokes, his air cut off in an instant. He claws at Sam’s wrist, gritting his teeth, every muscle straining. His vision spots for a second, black creeping in at the edges. Sam’s face is twisted into something unrecognizable—wild, animalistic, lips curled back in a snarl.
Dean’s mind screams at him to do something—anything—before Sam crushes his windpipe.
So he does the only thing he can.
He lets Sam choke him just long enough to shift his weight, then he yanks his knee up— hard —into Sam’s ribs.
Sam jerks with a sharp inhale, his grip loosening just enough for Dean to rip free. Dean surges up, throwing his whole body forward, slamming Sam against the dashboard.
For a second, it seems like it might work—Sam stumbles, bracing himself with one hand, shaking his head as if trying to clear it.
Then he whirls, snarling, and rams into Dean again.
This time, Dean is ready.
He grabs Sam by the front of his jacket and twists, using Sam’s own momentum against him. They both slam into the backseat, limbs tangled. Dean throws a punch—it connects with Sam’s jaw with a sickening crack, but Sam barely flinches. Instead, he laughs, low and guttural.
Then his hand is on Dean’s shoulder.
And before Dean can react, Sam’s grip tightens—and flings him backward.
The world spins.
Dean crashes into the dashboard, his spine jarring on impact. His breath leaves him in a wheeze, but he doesn’t have time to recover. Sam is on him again, fingers digging into his collarbone, pressing down with bruising force.
Dean snarls and twists, bringing his elbow up and slamming it into the side of Sam’s head. Sam grunts, grip slipping for a second. That’s all Dean needs.
He lunges, one hand scrambling for the glove compartment, nearly ripping it open as he fumbles for the iron cuffs.
Sam realizes too late what he’s reaching for.
He snarls, lurching forward, but Dean’s fingers close around cold metal.
With every ounce of strength he has left, Dean twists, yanks Sam’s arm, and slams one cuff down onto his wrist.
Sam recoils in pain, and Dean watches as red forms around where the metal meets flesh. That was not what Dean had in mind when grabbing them—but it's way too late to go back now.
His whole body spasms violently, muscles locking up, the black in his eyes flickering.
But Sam’s still fighting.
Even as the cuffs continue to burn against his skin, Sam thrashes, nearly bucking Dean off. Dean grits his teeth, shoving Sam’s arm down, using all his weight to wrestle the second cuff into place.
Click .
And just like that—Sam’s body seizes, the fight bleeding out of him in an instant. His limbs twitch, his breath coming once again in short, ragged bursts.
Dean waits for him to slump forward, maybe pass out like before. A part of him hopes he does.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, Sam lifts his head, and a slow, eerie grin spreads across his face.
It’s the kind of smile Sam used to give growing up—quiet, knowing, the kind he cracked at Dean’s dumb jokes or whenever he figured something out before Dean did.
But paired with pure, endless black eyes?
It chills Dean to the bone.
“I didn’t think you had it in you, Dean,” Sam snarks. It's the first sentence Dean’s heard him speak in the past hour, and it’s all kinds of wrong—way different from his spoken apologies at the church.
“Cuffing your own brother,” he starts, wincing at the burns, “gotta say you’re definitely not winning big bro of the year.”
Dean hates how pathetic the scene looks. His brother is clearly cuffed and restrained by the demon-proof iron cuffs in the back now, but still Dean can’t help but try to keep as much distance as he can in the Impala.
“Yeah, well, you tried to strangle me like what… three times now?” Dean grumbles. “So cut me some slack for wanting to make it to Bobby’s alive , dude. Now, you gonna play nice, or am I gonna have to knock you out?”
Sam just laughs at that.
The sound is hollow.
Dean doesn’t know why that makes him feel worse.
“What’s so funny?”
Sam exhales sharply, hanging his head for a bit as the laughter fades. “Just thinking, y’know,” he mutters.
Dean stiffens. “About what?”
Slowly, Sam lifts his head.
And that’s when Dean sees it.
The loathing in those black pits—cold, endless. But beneath it, deeper, there’s something else. Sadness . Resignation . The kind of twisted, self-destructive overthinking that has always been so Sam — his Sam .
“About how dad was right,” Sam murmurs. His voice is quieter now, less cruel. “You should’ve killed me when you had the chance.”
The air leaves Dean’s lungs.
Sam holds his gaze, unblinking.
“It would’ve been better for everyone.”
Dean’s mouth goes dry. His pulse pounds in his ears. Goddamit, Sammy.
He forces himself to breathe and speak past the lump in his throat. “Y’know, I couldn’t do that,” he says, voice rough. “You’re my little brother.”
Sam’s smile sharpens.
“I’m a monster ,” he says, matter-of-fact, with the same assurance he has when talking about lore or about a book he read. “A monster that broke the world.”
The laugh that follows is barely that. It’s shaking apart at the seams, cracking into something raw—something closer to a sob.
Monster.
A monster.
Dean had called him a monster in that hotel room before everything happened.
He hadn’t meant it. Not really. He had been pissed, pushed to the edge. He had wanted Sam to see what was happening, what he was doing, what he was becoming . But fuck.
For once, Dean doesn’t have any words he can find to say to that. Not right now. It’s unlikely this Sam—because he may appear like Sam, but he isn’t Sam, not really—would take kindly to comfort. Especially after he tried to kill him.
So instead, he swallows hard, drags himself back into the driver’s seat, and starts the car.
It’s a long way to Bobby’s after all.