Chapter Text
Sometimes good people gotta die for the greater good.
The phrase still echoes in Sam’s mind, long after Dean had turned his back on him and strode angrily out of the library, leaving him alone to stare at the sole content of the manilla folder in his hands: a picture of Mary holding a baby Dean.
You don’t know these people? Well hell, maybe you know this one. Tell me, what’d she die for?
Every instinct in him screams that it’s not right, turning people into unwitting sacrifices for the sake of their mission, but Sam feels his resolve collapse just as Dean must have known it would. There was a time when Sam could have pushed back, would have steadfastly held to his convictions, but the disastrous consequences of past failures have his moral compass spinning, directionless. There’s no real point in sitting here pretending to deliberate any longer, he knows the decision has already been made. He’s going to attempt the third Trial even as Crowley carries out his threat to kill everyone they’ve ever saved, and their faces will haunt him every night for the rest of his life.
He’s just not quite ready to face that reality yet.
“Sam?” Benny’s quiet voice pulls him away from his mental preparations to yield to Dean, and he looks up into eyes divided by a crease of concern.
“I guess you overheard.” Sam says, a corner of his mouth twitching up.
“Ain’t a room in this place where I couldn’t hear Dean,” Benny replies, taking a seat across from him. “You gonna go through with it, then?”
Sam drops his eyes, nodding reluctantly.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you don’t seem like you’re entirely on board. Something eating at you?” The vampire freezes, realizing the irony of the question, and barks out a sheepish laugh. “I mean, besides me.”
Sam finds himself smiling, and who would have thought that they would be able to laugh about their ill-fated confrontation from months ago? Something loosens in his chest, and he realizes that he’s willing, eager even, to voice his misgivings to someone who’s not Dean.
“It’s just… I’ve been here before. Letting a good person who was just in the wrong place at the wrong time die for everyone else’s sake. Or at least that’s what I thought I was doing. I told myself back then that the ends justify the means, you know? But doing that, it turned me into something—something I never wanted to be, something Dean never wanted me to be, and now… I guess I’m having trouble seeing how the line I was so wrong to cross back then is supposed to be the right move this time.”
“You want to back off, then?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Uncertainty usurps his decision again, the echoes of a nurse begging for her life, a bartender slumping to the floor with his bullet lodged in her gut reverberating in his head. If it were just him, he’d choose to stand down and live out whatever time he had left in his self-destructing body before he’d allow one more innocent bystander to die in the name of the ‘greater good’. The versions of himself that were capable of doing that—the black-eyed junkie, the cold-blooded hunter without a soul to keep his ruthlessness in check—weren’t the brother that Dean wanted, the one that he deserved. But this isn’t just about him.
Dean is so certain that they need to go forward no matter the cost, needs this win badly enough to invoke Mary’s name once again, something he hasn’t done since their quest for vengeance against Azazel. Something he hasn’t done ever since Sam tried to make a suicidal run into an inferno just to get one more shot at the demon, and Dean had to hold him back.
It means that this is important enough to Dean that he wouldn’t hold Sam back this time.
“I don’t know if I can trust my own judgment. It doesn’t seem to matter what I feel or—or what choices I make… they always turn out wrong anyway,” Sam says at length, knowing even as he says it that it’s just an excuse.
“Letting Dean decide is still making a choice, isn’t it? If you go against your gut and let those people die, you gonna kick yourself any less no matter the outcome?”
Sam looks at Benny sharply; he’s just voiced exactly what Sam was trying not to acknowledge. “Probably not,” he’s forced to admit.
But the thought of denying Dean this victory amounts to betrayal. He promised this to him, and for more than just to get back at the demons that ruined their lives. He promised to show Dean that there’s something out there for him other than an early grave, that there can be something for them after hunting. Which will be a whole lot more believable if he can wipe all the demons off the board.
His mind made up, Sam sighs in resignation. “Look, this is bigger than me just having to live with my own conscience. Dean’s got it in his head that he’s just a… a soldier, a disposable grunt or something. He’d throw his life away in a heartbeat on an opportunity half as big as this, go out in a blaze of glory or some stupid shit just for the chance to try, because he’s convinced that’s all there is for him.”
Sam looks down at the picture again, guilt welling up in his throat. “I guess it’s my fault. Moving on with my life when I thought he was dead sure as hell didn’t help any. I just don’t know how else to get through to him that his life matters, that he’s worth so much more than the job.”
“You ever consider just telling him? Last I checked you both got working mouths and functional ears.”
Sam scoffs. “I’m sure you’ve figured out by now that Dean’s more of an ‘actions speak louder than words’ kind of guy. I have to do this for him. It doesn’t matter what it costs, I can’t let him down this time.”
You didn't need the feather to fly, you had it in you the whole time, Dumbo.
Ruby’s words from four years ago reach across time to remind him of the consequences of his choices. She was right, it was never the demon blood, it was always him. His choices. He wonders what crossing that same line again will do to him this time—reawaken his long-dormant powers? Destroy the part of him that kept the soulless persona in check? He wonders whether Dean will still accept him afterwards. But in the end it won’t matter, because hundreds of more lives will be saved than lost, and Dean will still have a brother that he wants.
He’ll have Benny.
******
At first, Benny’s not sure why it bothers him so much, Sam giving into Dean and going along with something that so obviously goes against his grain. The reality is that it’s a no-win situation, and sometimes in life your only choices are bad or worse. But Sam’s capitulation had sent a pang through him, a dim echo of some emotion waking from a coma, like he was watching a piece of him die in real time.
It finally occurs to him that it’s a feeling he’s already acquainted with. It’s the same feeling he got the moment he realized that everything he loved about his Andrea was gone, leaving behind an obscene mockery of the woman she had been. The pain of that eclipsed even watching her being torn apart, because it meant that nothing of her survived the corruption, not even her soul.
It’s obvious that not only does Sam know in his heart that what he’s preparing to do is wrong, he’s doing it for entirely the wrong reasons, and Benny can’t just sit by and watch him destroy himself over it.
Benny isn’t surprised to find Dean in the kitchen, one empty beer bottle on the table in front of him, another half-drunk one in his hand.
“Sam come to his senses yet?” Dean asks without looking up.
“If you mean, ‘is he going through with it,’ the answer’s yes. But it’s got nothing to do with sense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, obviously annoyed, but taking the bait.
“You and me, we’re alike. We’re survivors, soldiers. We’ll do what’s gotta be done without a thought to anything but the end game. But Sam’s not like us, is he? What you’re asking him to do—condemning innocent people to death for the chance of winning a battle… that don’t sound like the puppy-eyed baby brother you kept going on about while we were stuck in Purgatory.”
Dean takes a pull from the bottle he’s holding and shakes his head. “I wish we had the luxury of letting Sam take the high road, I really do. But we’re not talking about one demon, or a few, or a hundred. We’re talking all of them, every single one in existence, trapped in Hell forever. Do you even get what that means?”
“You sure that’s what this is about? A numbers game of a few dying now so more might live later?” He looks directly into Dean’s eyes, challenging him. “Or is this really about getting revenge for that woman in the picture?” Benny narrows his eyes and says quietly, “You sure that’s what she would want?”
Something cold and threatening sparks in Dean’s eyes as he thumps the bottle onto the table and slowly stands, and Benny knows that look, knows he’s wading into dangerous waters.
“Oh, that’s rich coming from someone who hitched a way back from the monster afterlife to wipe out his entire nest over a girl.”
The jab hurts as intended, but it also tells Benny that that his aim was true, he’s exposed a nerve. That he needs to help Dean take his blinders off and see past his thirst for vengeance, get his emotions out of the way of his rationality.
“You can call me a hypocrite, call me whatever you want, but we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about Sam, and you need to listen. When you sent me to go fetch Sam back from Purgatory, we were ambushed at the portal, and I swore there was no way we were both making it out. By all rights he should have left me behind, but he risked everything—his own life, the second Trial, all of it—to convince a miserable son-of-a-bitch like me to give life one more shot. That’s the Sam you told me about, and that Sam wouldn’t do this. Tell me I’m wrong.”
Dean’s expression softens and he blinks doubt-clouded eyes. An internal struggle plays out on his face, and for a moment it seems like Dean is about to relent. Then his expression hardens again, but it’s more resolve than anger.
“Look, I know how hard this is gonna be on Sam. Trust me, I know. And no, it’s not just about revenge. Monsters? There’s a reason they hunt humans, it’s all about instinct and survival, predator and prey. That I get. But demons? With them, there’s no other purpose besides cruelty and suffering for its own sake. Because they like it. We’ve finally got the chance to put an end to that, right here, right now, and no one else can do it but Sam.”
Dean looks suddenly exhausted, scrubs a hand down his face. “We’re so close, Benny. We can’t just take a knee on the one-yard line, whatever line we’ve gotta cross to do it. This is too important.”
A vision of the husk masquerading as Andrea falling to the floor replays behind Benny’s eyes, and he has to turn away from Dean. He’s never gone against his friend before, knows exactly where that leads, but he’ll be twice damned if he’s going to stand by and watch the best part of Sam get snuffed out of existence without a fight. He adjusts his cap and takes a breath.
“Dean, you need to hear something.” Benny turns back, knowing that he’s about to push the limits of Dean’s friendship with what he needs to tell him.
“After I turned Sam, while you were off getting supplies before we gave him the cure, I couldn’t lie to Sam about his chances. He knew damn well he was worse than we let on, and he deserved the truth. And I didn’t think I could live with you losing your brother, so I… I offered to make the change permanent.”
“You what?” Dean’s explosive reaction is predictable, and Benny holds up his hands and speaks quickly to forestall his impending tirade.
“Look, you seemed perfectly okay with me being a vampire as long as humans were off the menu. He told me about the demon blood, and he was able to kick that. Hell, he’s still kicking it, every damn day. I never would have made the offer if I thought for one second he couldn’t handle the hunger without losing himself.”
Dean’s gaze bores into Benny. “He said no?”
“Obviously. Didn’t even consider it for a second, but not because it was his choice. He said no because it was yours, because he’d rather die than become something you didn’t want him to be.” Dean’s eyes soften, and he visibly relaxes. “You might want to think on that before you push Sam into this, cause if you trade away the lives of everyone you saved, that little brother you couldn’t wait to get back to?” Benny shakes his head slowly. “That ain’t who he’ll be anymore. You sure he’s still gonna want to make it through the last Trial?”
Any residual anger drains out of Dean as he sinks back into his chair, leaving behind simmering frustration, and he throws his hands up. “So, what? We let Crowley win? We let demons keep making their deals for souls, possessing people, ruining lives?” There’s the faintest flicker of fear before Dean finishes, “And what about Sam? If we don’t finish this, we don’t know if he’s ever gonna get better.”
“Are those really the only choices you got? Sacrifice people to finish the Trials or surrender to Crowley? Hey, me and my old nest, we dealt with plenty of hunters in our day, and you and Sam are the best damn ones I ever met. I watched you outsmart monsters so dangerous that God created Purgatory just for them. You telling me you can’t think up another way out of this, chief?”
Dean pinches the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache and lets out a sigh bordering on hopelessness. “We’ve got six hours before Crowley offs his next victim. The ritual takes at least eight hours, not counting how much time it takes for us to find a demon to cure, and we can’t even get near any of them. Crowley’s taken them all off the board.”
“Dean…” comes Sam’s voice from the doorway. Benny’s not sure how long he’s been there. “They’re not all off the board. Who do you think is planting the hex bags?”
The comment draws Dean up short, and his head snaps towards his brother.
Sam drops his gaze and shakes his head. “We have no way to know who he’ll go after next. Sorry, it was a dumb idea.”
“No,” Dean says, his eyes unfocusing to the far distance. “No, it wasn’t. We know that bastard, we just need to think like him.”
Some circuit seems to trip in Dean’s brain and he takes out his phone. “If it’s who I think it is,” Dean says, his mouth bending into a savage smile, “Crowely’s gonna wish he’d stayed in Hell.”
******
There’s a method to the way Crowley chooses his victims.
The chronological order in which the Winchesters had saved them didn’t matter, but they had to be memorable, and each subsequent death needs to hurt with increasing intensity. Needs to hurt Sam, in particular, since he’s the one carrying out the tasks.
The first was chosen for being the first one the Winchesters saved after reuniting from years of estrangement, just enough of a zing to be an emotional shot across their bow. The next was for her pure kindness and guileless innocence. There wasn’t a mean bone in Jenny Klein’s body, exactly the kind of person who didn’t deserve such a horrific death, exactly the kind of person to trigger both brothers’ deep-seated protective instincts and maximize the sting of their failure.
The last had the extra bite of being the first woman Sam had made a connection with after the demonic murder of his first love. That one took more careful planning; they had to get there in time to watch her die in front of them, but without giving them time to find the hex bag. He’d really thought that would have been the one to break Sam, that he wouldn’t need to up the stakes by going after someone they maintained contact with, someone they currently considered a friend. But he hasn’t heard back from them yet, the clock is running out, and so here they are.
With smooth, practiced circles of his wrist, the King of Hell swirls the dark red wine to coat the inside of the glass, then savors the rich aroma released by the agitation. It’s very much like the way he appraised his target, gave her a little stir to open up her loneliness, her vulnerabilities, her desires. He knows exactly what she’s looking for, and in her desperation to fill the void that has haunted her for so long, he’ll find his opening.
“We do share something, you and I,” Crowley says softly to the short-haired brunette across from him, catching and holding her eyes in his intense but understanding gaze.
“What?” Jody asks, entranced, a shy smile playing at her lips.
Crowley takes a sip, relishing the smooth, full-bodied flavor before he swallows.
“Loss.”
Her smile fades, and delicious pain flickers across her face and her eyes go distant, reliving a horrible memory. “My son and my husband.” Her eyes, now saturated with sadness, seek his again. “How did you know?”
He reaches across the table to place a hand over hers, squeezes lightly, and becomes what she needs.
“I’ve lost someone too.”
Gathered tears overflow, and he knows she’s his. She blinks rapidly, looking away, and fails to notice him sliding the hex bag into her purse.
She laughs nervously, more an outburst of pent-up emotion than mirth. “It’s not a date till I’ve cried,” she says self-deprecatingly, sniffs, and wipes at the corners of her eyes in embarrassment.
He smiles and says gently, “So now you’ve cried.”
She reaches for her purse and excuses herself, as women do when they need to make sure the makeup they’ve applied so carefully to make that first, critical impression hasn’t smudged. After she leaves, Crowley reaches into his pocket for the small bundle he’s prepared for the ritual.
It’s all too easy.
“May I refill your wine, sir?”
He pauses at the voice, about to send the waiter away, but reconsiders. He has a full three minutes before the appointed time to carry out his latest promise to the Winchesters, and the wine is surprisingly good. He holds out his glass.
Click.
It takes him a moment to register the fact that there is metal encircling his left wrist, having been locked there by the now-grinning waiter. His would-be victim who was supposed to be putting herself together in the ladies’ room has returned to the table, looking not the least bit distraught. She dumps the burnt remains of the hex bag onto the table in front of him.
Unexpected as this turn of events is, it’s merely a temporary setback. Crowley calmly brings his free hand up to snap his fingers in a fatal gesture. It’s a cleaner death than he would have liked; Crowley has always found prolonged suffering to be a far better motivator than simple termination. But there’s a set timetable, and he has a reputation to uphold.
He snaps.
Nothing happens.
He snaps again. Again, nothing.
“What—” he gets out just before the wine glass is snatched from his fettered hand and its contents are dashed in his face.
“That’s for being a lousy date.” Jody’s erstwhile vulnerability has vanished, replaced by smug derision. “Did you really think I was stupid enough to fall for your cheesy accent and fake sympathy?”
Red liquid drips down his face and onto his very expensive, hand-tailored suit.
“What—” he starts again just before a fist smashes into his nose.
“And that’s for screwing with my friends.”
A different red liquid joins the first, and his nose actually hurts. A lot. And not in a way that he enjoys.
As his right hand reflexively flies to his abused face, the waiter locks the other half of the handcuffs around that wrist.
“Thank you kindly for your assistance, ma’am,” says the waiter in a honeyed Southern drawl, giving Jody a small bow.
“My pleasure. You can head out the back door through the kitchen, I’ve cleared the staff out for ‘official police business’. Anything else I can do for you, Benny?”
“You done plenty, chère, I can take it from here.”
Jody collects her coat and strides towards the front, a distinct bounce in her step.
Concern begins to seep around the edges of his tightly controlled composure as Crowley takes a closer look at the cuffs locked around his wrists, sees the finely engraved symbols.
“What the bloody Hell is this?” Crowley spits out, his indignation and consternation at his plan going awry momentarily getting the better of him.
“Mighty powerful Enochian spellwork, I do believe. Your demonic powers ain’t gonna help you out of this, so you might as well behave and make it easier on yourself.”
Crowley clamps down on any further unseemly emotional outbursts and allows himself to be roughly manhandled out of his seat. He may have been caught off guard, but he certainly wasn’t caught unprepared. He didn’t get to be the King of Hell, after all, without having contingencies for any eventuality.
Crowley finds himself being propelled out the back door of the restaurant and into an alley, which is ripe with the smell of rotting food emanating from a nearby dumpster. Stumbling, he narrowly avoids stepping into something unsavory on the ground, gathers his dignity, and spins to face Benny-the-obviously-not-waiter. He opts to start with his go-to tactic of trying to flip this interloper against the brothers.
“So… you’re a friend of the Winchesters, I take it? You do know how their friends usually end up, don’t you… or did they neglect to mention that part? I can offer you so much more than a grisly death.”
Benny just smiles. “Heh, given my past associates, the Winchesters are a big step up. I’ll take my chances with them, thanks anyway.”
Obviously the carrot approach isn’t going to work, so Crowley proceeds to option two. He gathers himself and summons his King of Hell glare and a deep, menacing tone.
“Do you even know who I am, or what they’ve gotten you into? Do you have any idea what I could do to you?”
Now Benny laughs outright. “Oh, I’ve heard plenty about you. And from the looks of it, about the worst you could do right now is spit at me.”
“Only while these cuffs are on.” Crowley replies smoothly. “And, trust me, they’ll be coming off soon. If you know anything about me at all, you should know that I’m always several steps ahead of those flannel-wrapped morons.”
Right on cue, the three members of Crowley’s backup plan make their entrance. They approach from out of the shadows, shining eyes reflecting the single dim light in the alleyway, fangs bared and gleaming. He didn’t dare risk using his own demons as muscle with the Trials all having a common Hell-related theme, but a few handsomely paid vampires are just as good. Better, even; unlike the unimaginative underlings he’s surrounded himself with lately, they actually understand the power of theatrics.
Crowley steps back to observe as the trio closes in on his would-be captor.
When Benny reveals his own set of sharp-and-pearlies, Crowley’s eyebrows reach for his hairline. He hadn’t anticipated the pair of infamous hunters allying themselves with a vampire, but it’s still three against one.
“I’ll double the pay for whoever takes his head,” Crowley offers, still unruffled. The odds may be with his hired thugs, but it never hurts to sweeten the pot for extra motivation.
The attack is swift and brutal, a flurry of teeth and fists and snarls, and Benny is bloodied first. Then he manages to land a blow that sends one of the thugs careening into another and both go down in a tangle of limbs. Meanwhile the third has drawn a large, vicious looking blade. He narrowly misses decapitating Benny, who ducks under the swing, but then catches him in the face with the pommel on the backswing. As Benny stumbles back, the other presses his advantage and swings at Benny’s torso. Benny turns, trying to avoid the slash, but it still catches him in the side and a blood stain blossoms across the white button-down shirt.
The other two, having regained their feet, press in as Benny backs against the door, one hand pressing protectively over the ugly wound and the other one held up defensively, and Crowley looks on with eager anticipation of the kill. His death might not be as devastating as Jody’s, but he’ll do as an acceptable substitute for now.
Then Benny lets out a low chuckle as a grin spreads slowly across his face. “You three know who it is you’re really working for?”
The odd reaction to his own impending death is enough to give the others pause, and they halt momentarily. If there’s one thing Crowley’s learned, it’s that you never, ever, give them a chance to talk.
“I’ll triple the pay for all of you,” he shouts, desperate to bring a hasty conclusion to the skirmish. “Just cut off his head and get me out of these bloody things!”
But his henchmen hesitate, giving Benny his opening. “This here is Crowley. Thee Crowley.”
The one with the blade narrows his eyes. “King of Hell Crowley?”
His patience wearing thin, Crowley bites out, “Yes, yes, I’m Crowley, thee King of Bloody Hell. This is Benny, who is definitely not a waiter and definitely is a good buddy of your enemies, the Winchesters, and these are Larry, Curly and Moe, who I would remind are all being very well paid for their service. Now that we’ve all had a formal introduction, can we please get on with this!”
But the tip of the blade lowers slightly, and the vampire asks, “You mean, the Crowley who imprisoned and tortured our Father a couple years back? That Crowley?”
Three pairs of eyes swing venomously to him.
Crowley feels the situation slipping out of his control, but he hasn’t lost, not yet. He holds on to his composure with an iron grip. “I can do well more for you than just money. Surely there must be something more you want? A lifetime supply of virgin blood, perhaps? Kill him, and I can make that happen for you.”
Benny continues as if Crowley hadn’t spoken. “One and the same. You walk away, I promise he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“Hard to imagine what could be worse than us tearing him limb from limb right now,” says the one Crowley had dubbed Curly.
Crowley has never enjoyed the sensation of panic.
“We’re aiming to conduct an experiment of our own on him,” Benny replies. “Should take a long, long time. You’re welcome to look him up when we’re done with him... after he’s human.”
The three traitorous henchmen look at each other and grin as Crowley’s stomach drops.
“Take pictures,” says Moe as the three fade back into the shadows.
Bollocks.
“Word of advice,” Benny says, grabbing the back of Crowley’s jacket collar and all but lifting him off the ground. “You might want to keep better track of everyone you’ve pissed off. You never know how long they might hold a grudge.”
As Benny frog marches him through the alley, Crowley takes what satisfaction he can in the vampire’s grunts of pain.
******
Dean slams the trunk of the Impala slams shut, locking the King of Hell inside and cutting off his stream of impotent threats, as Sam approaches Benny.
“We can’t thank you enough,” Sam says, then worriedly eyes the wicked cut across Benny’s midsection, shaking his head. “You gonna be alright?”
“Oh, this?” Benny tries to say nonchalantly, but the truth is that it hurts like hell. “I’ve had worse, but I’ll admit the car ride won’t do me any favors. You two go on, you don’t have time to waste waiting for me to get road ready. I’ll hole up here, be right as rain in a few hours. I’ll see you back at the bunker to help you celebrate.”
Sam nods and half-turns away, then pauses. “Hey, I’m sorry, I feel like we threw you into a meat grinder,” he says.
“Nah, we talked about this, remember? It had to be me, no way you two would have made it anywhere near Crowley without giving up the game. It’s my own damn fault for laying around the bunker so much. I guess all that soft living slowed me down some. Remind me to start joining you on some runs.”
“Yeah. Sure thing.” Sam gives him a final, oddly sad, smile of thanks and heads for the passenger side of the car.
Dean pulls a cooler out of the back seat and hands it to Benny.
“This’ll help get you back on your feet. Thanks man, we couldn’t have done this without you.”
“You’re the ones who smelled something fishy about Jody’s mystery date, and Jody pulled off a hell of a con.”
“Yeah, wish I could have seen that.” A grin lights up Dean’s face, and Benny’s glad to see it. “We’ll be sending her about a million fruit baskets after this is over. Hey, you take care of yourself.”
“You just worry about pulling Sam through this.” Benny touches his cap in salute. “I’ll see you and Sam on the flip side, brother.”