This is my entry for the Evil!Dean Ficathon hosted by the lj user vichan. This is part one of three. It takes place after the end of season two. Erm, unhappiness ahead. Title is from the third section of Allen Ginsberg's "Howl." Thanks for giving my story a shot!

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I'm with you in Rockland, where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a

Cross in the Void

--

The blinding pain splits his mind in two, an ache more mental than physical. But soon the physical pain appears too, a throbbing sharp twinge in the side of his skull. He claws for the dashboard, one hand clamped firmly over his face, trying to keep the light out, keep his brains in. He's falling down and away, and a girl is screaming as black smoke erupts from a man's mouth, and he knows the time is 2:14 and he sees a folder that reads "Westville Community College." That's all he gets to know before he's rising back up like a bubble in soda, impossibly fast then he bursts.

Dean has pulled the car over by now, is holding his brother still. Sam's kinda embarrassed to notice that he's been making a little whimpering sound. He reaches up and feels a knot rising on the right side of his head, probably from thrashing too hard and slamming against the Impala's window.

"We need to find Westville Community College," Sam pants. "There's a demon around there."

Dean looks at him for a long time, lips pressed together so hard they're white.

Sam stares blearily back at him. "Dude, what? Didn't you hear me, we've gotta go!" He leans his head against the window and slides his eyes shut as Dean puts the car back into drive.

--

"I thought those weren't gonna happen any more," Dean says, voice flat.

Sam's eyes flick up from the monitor and he notices that Dean hasn't touched his coffee. They're in Westville, searching the college database for someone matching the description from Sam's vision, and Dean's been uncharacteristically quiet the whole time. Going back to scrolling through students, Sam asks, "What weren't?"

"The visions. I thought, y'know, with the demon gone…"

"That I'd be magically vision-free? Guess not. Probably because of the demon blood or something."

Dean's entire body goes rigid. "The what?"

Sam acts surprised, and answers, "I didn't tell you? The Demon showed me the past. He fed me his blood the night mom died. I figure he did it to all of the others, too. It's probably why I get the visions, or why Andy could control people."

"Hell of a thing to forget to tell me," Dean hisses, jaw clenched so tight that a muscle can be seen ticking away there.

Sam shifts uncomfortably. "It just slipped my mind, okay? We've been kinda busy these past coupla weeks." And I knew you'd freak.

"Look, Sammy, if we know what it is, we know how to fix it," Dean breathes.

"Fix it? The visions are really helpful sometimes, Dean! How many lives do you think we've saved because of them?"

The older man leans back in his chair with a calculating look, but doesn't say anything further on the matter.

--

"Gimme your goddamn arm, Sam."

Sam scrambles backwards over the motel bed. "Like hell! Do you even know what you're doing?"

Dean lowers the knife a bit. "Been talking to Bobby, and he thinks there's a way to rid you of that demonic crap you got floating around in you. I'm telling you, it's only a small cut on your arm, nothing a couple of bandages won't take care of."

"Is this about that thing in Westville last month? Because, Dean, I thought we agreed that we were better off with the visions," Sam says, keeping an eye on the long hunting knife.

"We never agreed on that," Dean clarifies. "And they're getting worse, you know that. One of these days they're just gonna fry your brain, then what? We can still hunt things without the visions. We've got Dad's methods of demon-tracking, got a whole network at our disposal. You don't have to keep them."

Sam stares at him for a long moment, a motel bed separating the two.

"Sammy, please," Dean murmurs.

"They'll be…gone?" Sam watches as Dean nods. "And Bobby said this would work? What's the ritual?"

Dean pulls a steno pad out of his back pocket. "Just gotta make a couple cuts and recite this incantation. Piece of cake."

"Lemme see," Sam demands, reaching for the steno. Half of the tiny sheet was covered in Latin phrases scrawled in Dean's cramped handwriting. "'Lord Divine, purge the uncleanness from this Your child, cleanse him with Your holy Fire, make him worthy of Your Kingdom. Cast out from him the devils and the madness, that he may be Whole again in Your sight. I call upon Mary the Mother and all the Saints in this mine Endeavour, may it be favorable to You. In the everlasting Name of the Father I ask these things, Amen.' …Seriously? This is gonna work?" he translates aloud, eyebrow raised.

"That's what Bobby said," Dean snaps defensively, snatching back the notepad. "Besides, it doesn't happen unless we do the incisions." Suddenly he gives a lopsided grin. "And let's face it, at the very worst you'll still be Haley Joel. Worth a try, yeah?"

So Sam finds himself sitting on the edge on the bed, gritting his teeth as Dean creates a three-inch-long gash on the inside of his forearm. Soon the blood is flowing freely. Just as he's about to ask "what next?", Dean swiftly pulls the blade along his own palm and clamps his hand down across Sam's arm.

"What the hell are you doing?" Sam yelps.

Dean stares at the steno. "Gotta have contact with untainted blood or it won't work."

Sam tries to pull away, but Dean's got an iron grip. "You didn't mention this part earlier," he accuses.

"I guess it just slipped my mind," the other man snarls. "Calm down, it's gonna be fine. Everything's gonna be fine."

Sam takes a deep breath, then Dean starts speaking. Within seconds, Sam recognizes the Latin as something completely different from whatever it was that had been written on the steno. He tries to dislodge from Dean again, but there's a pressure building inside his skull, so sharp now, and he screams harshly. A feeling, a sudden feeling that this must not happen, stop him, kill him swells inside him, and he's clawing at Dean's arms and face with blunt nails, snapping at his throat, flailing his limbs in an attempt to break free. Dean just clings tighter, voice rising above Sam's furious wails.

Then it stops. Everything stops.

Sam falls backwards onto the mattress, breathing deeply. There's a quietness now, an emptiness that is so soothing. He feels like there has been white noise in his head this entire time, and it's just vanished, like someone switching off a television; or like the beginnings of a migraine have just suddenly disappeared, that he didn't even know he had a headache until it was gone. The only thing he wants to do right now is sleep, and he does: fully clothed, legs hanging off the edge of the bed.

It's the best sleep of his life.

--

The first thing he notices when he wakes is Dean's not nearby. This does not immediately worry him, until he recalls why it is he feels so good right now. He leaps to his feet, scans the motel room. Dean's wallet and keys are on the end table, and the deadbolt is in place. Dean's bed is pristine, the chair is unoccupied. Then a low keening whine, like an injured dog's, catches his attention. The bathroom door is ajar, and he hesitantly pushes it wider.

The dark room smells sharply of vomit, and the sliver of light from the motel room proper falls across Dean's sock-clad feet. Sam flips the light switch and a shrill screech explodes out of the room's other occupant so quickly that Sam nearly tumbles backwards. In the split second of clear vision he has, though, he sees Dean curled in a fetal position under the sink, hands clasped behind his head.

Stumbling forward in the dark, Sam crouches by where he thinks his brother's head is. "Dean? You okay, man?"

The sharp moan becomes more pronounced. "Hurts. Won't…won't stop, hurts so bad, blood all over."

"Dean?" Sam asks, more urgently. He can make out things in the low light now, so he reaches out to touch Dean's shoulder. "Dean, are you hurt? Do you need me to do something?"

A yelp meets his touch, and Dean's eyes fly open, pupils mere pinpricks despite the darkness, hands scrabbling over his face. "Sammy, they're all dying, Sammy, can't help, hurts, won't stop, everyone's dying, so much blood, Sammy, Sammy…"

Realization crashes down over him, and Sam thuds into a sitting position next to his shuddering brother. "You told me they'd be gone, Dean! You bastard, what did you do?"

Dean just sobs in agony.

--

To be continued.