Sam Winchester’s Journal – Entry #78
The last four weeks have been a bit, well, hectic, in the truest sense of the word. Hey, if you can find a better adjective to describe Dean’s meatsuit on the loose, me dislocating my shoulder on a hunt, not to mention Crowley’s new plans for the future and a delicate kidnapping situation, I’m all ears.
Yeah, “shitty” could work too, I guess. I must admit I’m not too picky on the vocabulary these days.
Sorry, you’re probably a little confused right about now; last time I wrote, I was about to summon Crowley in order to bring my brother back from the dead. It was neither a clever decision nor one taken after a long and necessary reflection, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Anyway, so many events occurred from there, I don’t even know where I should begin. The moment I went back to Dean’s room after the failed summoning (Crowley never showed his face in spite of a dozen attempts) and found out that my brother’s body had disappeared into thin air seems to be a good place to start. It was simple as that; the room was empty except for a note scribbled on a plain yellow sheet in Dean’s hand writing:
Sammy, let me go.
For weeks, I imagined a thousand different scenarios about what could have happened while I was in the basement, playing The Craft. I had no doubt that Crowley was behind all this shit and the most plausible hypothesis was that he offered one of his minions the use of my brother’s dead body as a fancy meatsuit. I have no idea which demon had the privilege of “wearing” Dean Winchester, to parade around in front of the whole of Pandemonium, sporting the most wanted meatsuit in the history of the Pit, but the guy must be his master’s favorite, Hell’s brand new elite. I don’t think it was Crowley himself though, the bastard being far too attached to his old carcass.
As far as the note was concerned, I was convinced it was a fake, an ultimate provocation left behind to toy with me or send me on a false track. Sammy, let me go. What was that? A game? Advice? A warning in disguise? Since when does a Winchester let go, anyway? Crowley could have written “Moose, you’re it, catch us if you can”, it would have been the same thing. The only time I let go of my brother was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made in my life so no, I wasn’t going to “let go” just because “Dean” or whomever pretended to be him left a touching note behind. I was gonna catch the son of a bitch who was disrespecting my brother’s memory, kick him out of his body, and finally find the courage to give Dean the funeral he truly deserved. If I had spent less time drinking and crying over my fate when I’d brought Dean home and had the balls to burn his body like I should have, none of this would have happened, Crowley would just have found a pile of smoldering ashes to play with.
This one is on me. A bit less, a bit more…
I truly hoped that Dean’s soul was in Heaven and that he was oblivious to what was playing out. He would have lost his shit if he knew that his body was being worn by the King of Hell’s new pet.
I’ve spent the last four weeks reading everything I could find about demonic possession and exorcisms, trying to perfect the knowledge I already had on the matter. Unfortunately, all the sources I dug up agreed on one point: to perform an exorcism you need a body and in spite of intense research, summoning and rituals I had no idea where Dean or even Crowley was hiding.
My health didn’t help me focus on my task either. My shoulder, the one dislocated during that epic hunt with Cas, was healing slowly and I adamantly refused to take any drugs. I needed to stay alert. I have to wear my arm in a sling for at least a month and “no need to say that an absolute rest is recommended”. Absolute rest…as if I had this luxury, Doc. Wearing my sling is already a lot.
I don’t really eat or sleep. I think I lost weight again; I’m literally floating in my shirts now. No, don’t worry, I’m not gonna sing you the “poor Sam Winchester” ballad again. I’m not here to make you pull out the Kleenex, as I’m far from being a “nice guy” who deserves any kind of sympathy whatsoever. It’s funny how people have always seen me as the “kind one”, the Winchester brother who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I think that only Dad and Bobby knew that “Dean’s the rough one and Sam is the sweet little brother, always ready to help elderly ladies to cross the street” was nothing but a load of bullshit.
Nice guys don’t torture people, even demons. Nice guys are horrified and feel pity when hearing any kind of creatures screaming from the top of their lungs and begging for their lives. They don’t use guns or knives on some random Joe, slice throats, or mutilate just to obtain a couple hints on a case. No, nice guys definitely don’t do that. They have values, ethics, things I threw out the window years ago. I can’t even use the excuse that I don’t have my soul; I’m convinced more than ever that “souless me” was just another version of Sam Winchester, freer, boundless, and not some “evil Robocop” as Dean loved to joke about.
In spite of all my efforts, I had no lead for weeks. No unusual demon activities or weather phenomenon, no suspicious murders or even the slightest sign of Crowley until I finally started to work on a murder case at a gas station, and saw Dean on the surveillance camera footage, alive and kicking. He was fine. More than fine, except maybe for the black eyes and the fact he was slaughtering some guy between reading porn mags.
I scammed the victim’s phone and that’s how, to my shock and awe, I got Crowley himself on the line. Apparently, I was wrong from A to Z: not only wasn’t Dean dead, but he wasn’t even possessed. He was a demon now. The fucking real deal. Not an empty meatsuit hosting an unwanted guest. Still Dean. That would make some sort of sense with the Mark of Cain and all, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe Crowley, the man who turned lying and deception into an art.
Also, did I mention the cherry on the top of the sundae, the part where apparently my brother is now Crowley’s BFF/associate/partner in crime, and that he’s enjoying every minute of it?
Let’s say for one minute this son of a bitch is telling the truth: this possibility would be worse than knowing my brother was dead and his meatsuit on the loose somewhere between NYC and LA. If Dean has truly become a demon, there will be nothing to exorcise, nothing to extract from his body. I’m not even sure that the ritual I did on Crowley during the last Trial would work on Dean. I wouldn’t be dealing with Demon #5521, but with the bearer of the Mark of Cain, a bearer who also happens to be Michael’s vessel and…Dean Winchester. Dean fucking Winchester. What else could you add to the mix to make it even more explosive?
And then what? Hunt Dean like I hunted Abaddon, cut off his head with the Blade, try to burn him and bury him in pieces-parts at the four corners of the country to be sure he’ll never come back again?
I swear, I swear, I’m gonna save Dean or at least die trying. I know, it sounds a bit over the top and melodramatic but I mean every word. I have nothing to lose now anyway. Or maybe, just this once, I shouldn’t swear at all. I failed at protecting my brother, against Metatron and against himself. Against Crowley, too. Every time I swear or I promise something to Dean, it goes downhill, so I’d better remain silent.
I’m progressing slowly. Dean and his new buddy are hard to track. I don’t want to imagine the fruits of their collaboration. Heavy weights in their respective categories, teaming up like Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith in a superband to rebuilt Hell more glorious than ever. Just what Humanity needs at the moment.
However, I have a more urgent situation to take care of right now. What can be more urgent than saving my brother, after the long speech I just gave you, you ask? Let’s say that I’m tied to a chair and a certain paramilitary nutjob who calls himself “Cole” is threatening to kill me because of an old grudge he has against Dean.
You see, I wasn’t kidding when I was talking about a “delicate kidnapping situation” earlier. I maybe forgot to mention that I was the one concerned.