Not brothers anymore.
Sam wouldn't save him.
His little brother would let him die.
What do you do with that?
Dean drained the last bit of rot gut and laid on his bed. He could hear his… He could hear Sam walking around in the library down the hall.
The thing was – this was his life. Was he selfish? Yes. But each fucking time he'd saved Sam, that asshole had found a measure of peace. Of happiness. And it wound up the prick didn't want any of it. Nothing of what Dean had worked so damn hard his entire life to provide.
Sometimes, life simply wasn't worth it.
Dean shrugged his jacket on and stepped into his boots. You know what? Fuck this. Vessel of Michael? Forty years in hell? An angel that kept leaving him and a brother that didn't want him? Fine.
He grabbed his keys and wallet and walked into the library. Sitting at a table was the man Dean had gone to hell for. The man he had run from a burning building with, the man he had sold his soul for. The man who wanted nothing more to do with him.
Dean turned without a word and walk towards the garage. With a touch to an old button, the garage bay door opened. The barrel Dean had placed just outside the door stood ready. Stacked inside with wood and kindling, Dean poured just a little liquid fuel to help before he flicked a lighter in. The whoosh of fire usually gave his pyromaniac side a little rush, but he was just cold at the moment. He reached down and picked up the cast iron camp stove that had come from who knows where. The Men of Letters had the strangest shit.
Placing the stove in the open flame, Dean nodded. It wouldn't take long for the fire to reach the right temperature.
He sighed and turned back inside. His eyes lingered for a moment on Baby. He wasn't going to take the Impala. Baby could retire here in this swank garage. Maybe some hunter would one day love her as much as Dean did, but frankly… Right now he needed something different.
Opening the trunk, Dean looked over the trove of weapons. Very few belonged to him alone. Most were either handed down, spoils of war, or flat out stolen. Ah, his sawed off shot gun. He remembered John buying it new and teaching a twelve year old Dean how to saw it off and file the edges smooth so it wouldn't scrap his skin if he needed to hide it under clothing. He grabbed it and a box of normal shells.
He dumped the cell phone he'd been carrying through the open driver's side window. He'd carefully copied a couple of numbers he knew might come in handy, though he had no intention of using them. He was leaving, but he wasn't stupid.
He stood next to the car that had been a part of his life longer than even the man upstairs and pulled his keys and wallet out. Careful not to scratch the paint, he put the keys on the hood and opened the worn wallet.
First he pulled out the tattered picture of him and his mother. It occurred to Dean that she might be the only person in the world that had accepted him and loved him unconditionally before he had a chance to fuck it up. Well, he's managed to rip apart the last shreds of the family she'd made. He didn't really want that reminder anymore.
Mary's picture was placed next to the keys.
It was the work on only a moment for Dean to find the keys to a fully gassed up motorcycle. The leather jacket he found in a small closet near the door to the garage had held some biking gear. Helmets, jackets, and even some sort of weird saddle bags that could fit on the seat and hold stuff. Dean had made use of those last night – packing toiletries and such. Hey clean underwear was damned important.
John's jacket was resting on his freshly made bed. The dirty sheets were in the drier already and the room had been cleared out and cleaned. Dean wasn't going to leave so much as a stray crumb of dirty for Sam to worry about. Clean break. Get it?
He started up the bike and let the loud roar fill his ears as he strapped the helmet on. The headphones he'd plugged in his ears started with the first song his 'road trip' play list.
Carry On My Wayward Son… Yeah. Wayward just about covered it didn't it. Wasn't much of a son, couldn't keep a woman, and even got left by his fucking brother. Peace when he was done his lily white ass.
Dean walked the bike to the opened bay open and stopped. He took the amulet from around his neck and dropped it in the iron stove. It took a minute, but the edges of the metal started to melt.
Nothing of any sentimental value for Sam to use to search for him then. Not that the asshole would even try. The car and the picture of Mary might be possible items, but Sam wouldn't use the photo because it would have to be destroyed. The car was too big. Bam. Done.
And so it began. The Mark of Cain was in the world again, free to roam and without an anchor.
One brother killed by another. One literally and the other figuratively.
As the sound of the motorcycle faded in the cool morning air, the markings on the amulet wavered before giving up and melting into a meaningless pool of metal.
"And to what do I owe the pleasure of your summons?" Crowley asked. The man in front of him was barely more than a shell. Demons could see souls as clearly as angels. How else would they know which souls were worth bargaining for?
"I want to make a deal," the elder Winchester stated much to the King of Hell's shock.
"Excuse me? The last deal I made one with you didn't end so well for me. Pardon me if I decline. But thank you for thinking of me," Crowley straightened his jacket preparing to leave, but the hunter laid a hand on his shoulder.
"You misunderstand me. I'm not offering my soul,"
"And what else could I possibly want from you?"
"You have a campaign to win. I have a very particular set of skills you could use," was the only response.
"Ah. And what about the Moose?"
"I see. And in return?"
"In return, you make me untraceable. I want to hunt, and I want to do it without worry. I want funding so I can stay off the grid. And last, but not least – I want that jawbone," Dean said without emotion. Whatever had happened had broken the hunter. That much was clear.
"You want the jawbone, funding, and to be untraceable?" Crowley clarified.
"I don't do starters Dean. I do clear cut deals for the benefit of myself. What might you want in the future?"
"Metatron dead. Angels off my God damned planet, and other than that? I haven't decided. It's a toss up between a bullet between my eyes, a whore in my bed, or a complete memory wipe."
For once Crowley kept his mouth closed. Dean had the Mark and without it, there was no way to kill Abbadon. On the other hand, the demon had seen plenty of people sell their souls for the sweet release of pain. The torture of Hell did not bother them – in fact many of them embraced the pain when the time came. Such wretches they were.
But for a hunter – the Righteous Man – to think of ending it all… Something was wrong in the order of the universe. Something that spoke of more than just the usual never ending fight for evil to win over good. Something had been thrown off kilter.
Normally, that would be a tick in the win column for him.
"What about your boyfriend?"
"Untraceable Crowley. From everyone. Remove his mark from my soul."
This was as unexpected as it was disturbing. Not because Dean Winchester wasn't a damned valuable weapon, but because things this good didn't come at such a small price.
"I make you untraceable, give you funds, find the jawbone, assist you in killing Metatron and in exchange you offer?"
"I offer to kill your detractors as needed and the only serious threat to your throne. I retain veto on your marks. Remove Cas' grace – don't forget. Do you want anything else?"
"I can't remove an angel's Grace, but I can hide you. And I'm sure I will be thinking of more I want, like yourself. So let's leave this little bargain open ended shall we?"
"You understand I'm only offering services here, not my soul – right?" the hunter's expressionless face was more than a little disconcerting to the demon. Not that everything was happy unicorn rainbows on his side of the proverbially pond, but when a constant changed… The world seemed to change in unexpected ways.
"Well, it'll be interesting to see what services you offer up next then," Crowley smirked.
Dean said nothing. What the hell? Dean was weapon, and he was dangerous. All the best weapons tended to be more than a little lethal to the person who wielded them.
"Lay one on me and let's get this show on the road," he motioned for the hunter to come closer.
What happened next was lightening quick. Crowley found himself slammed against the wall of this flea ridden motel room with Dean mother-fucking Winchester pressed against him from thigh to chest.
"Shut up Crowley," the hunter snarked before he kissed the King of Hell.
It wasn't like most kisses – simply a brush of lips to seal the deal. This was brutal and punishing. There was no pleasure in this contact, only fury. What exactly the hunter was enraged over would be fun finding out, but in the meantime, Crowley had a deal to complete.
He pulled his lips away and brushed a swift kiss to that strong jaw before settling into a bruising kiss on the nape of Dean's neck. It was the work of only a moment before a delightful bruise blossomed on the tender skin.
"And now you're hidden. My mark," Crowley waited for Dean to explode over the location and the method. If anything would send the man off, this would be it. Dancing around his homoerotic angel for years wasn't enough to bring out his inner queen, so he was unlikely to let this pass easily.
"I need some money, a cell phone with a way for us to stay in contact, and a list of your targets," was the only response.
Bloody fucking hell.
"Sam!" Cas yelled through the bunker. Sam closed his eyes for a moment. The last couple of weeks had been awful. Dean was… Dean. There just really wasn't a lot to say about that situation right now. It was Sam's hope that a few months of tough love would end with Dean learning his lesson about respecting boundaries and…
"Sam Winchester. Where are you?" bellowed the frantic voice of the angel.
"Right here," Sam snapped. Screw research for now. Maybe Dean should put his fair share of time in the library. Sam would have to talk to him about that.
The angel raced to the table; his face was pale, and his breathing labored.
"He's gone," Cas panted.
"Who's gone Cas?" Sam thought of all the possilities. God or..
"Yeah, he went out a couple of hours ago," Sam stared at the angel with concern.
"My link to him has been clouded. I cannot feel his emotions nor can I find him," Cas almost yelled.
"Wait, you snoop on Dean's emotions?" the tall man asked.
"You are difficult to talk to Sam Winchester – I will say this slowly, so take notes if you must. Your brother, the man who you told was not your brother anymore, has left. He has magical help in obscuring my mark on him. His cell phone is in the Impala which is in the garage. There is a pot of melted metal I believe was his amulet and here," the angel handed over the dog-eared photo of Mary and Dean.
"This was on the hood of the Impala. Congratulations Sam Winchester. You're an only child now. How proud you must feel to finally be free of such a burden," Castiel, Angel of the Lord sneered at him.
"How can he hide? What…" Sam felt like a wall had just crashed down on him.
"There appears to be demonic influence. I would be able to tell more, but the magic is aimed at me specifically."
"He left?" Sam managed to say. "It was a fight Cas. I mean, yeah I was mostly serious about some of it, but I didn't want him to go…"
"Regardless of what you wanted, it is what you have wrought," Cas said before he flew away.
Three days later, the bodies started to fall. The demons opposing Crowley didn't know what had hit them. It took the King of Hell by surprise the first time he'd given Dean a task; the man was ruthless and almost inhuman when he fought. That would be the influence of being on the rack…
As the hunter dropped the last of nine demons that had tried to attack Crowley, he turned and asked the last question Crowley had expected…
Oh, great things were afoot. Great things indeed.
AN – I was so upset after 9.13 this is what happened. I could write a bigger story, I just needed to get it out. Wanna see more?