Hell's Greatest Weapon

Chapter 31: The Final Piece

The memory came quick.

You had made a point to send demons out, one after another, to go and hunt down Cain, knowing that they would be able to do it in a matter of hours, days at the most.  Finding the best trackers, you assigned each of them a priority spot in your prayer listing, and while you were busy with the guys while searching for a cure for Charlie, you never stopped listening for a sign that Cain had been found.

The more time passed, the more you acknowledged, recognized that it must have been him who had the Blade.  You considered the idea of Dean having taken it—you never could have let that slide, regardless of how much love you felt for him or how much the two of you shared—but he hadn't left your sights.  He was with you for hours, days, the two of you shared a bed (but not blankets, since he was a blanket hog) and ate together and watched movies together and no.  It wasn't Dean because he was never gone long enough to have taken it.

Even more unlikely, he didn't know where it was. There was a chance, you had to admit, that Crowley had disclosed the location of the Blade to the eldest Winchester, but there still stood the issue of him going to get it or, even more unlikely, having someone else get it.

No.  Cain was the threat.  You thought through every angle, every possible route this story could take and not one of them had Dean stealing the blade, hiding it; he was more afraid of it than anything, and you knew from the lack of shadows on his face that he had a handle on it.  For now, he was safe.

You were, admittedly, so preoccupied with protecting Dean, making sure that he and Sam (and now Charlie) were safe from whoever had the Blade, that you couldn't help but blame yourself for Dark Charlie's behavior; you could have stopped her easily, could have kept her from reeking havoc, but you were always so precautious, always so determined to take things slowly enough that you could assess the situation fully beforehand. So when you were stupid enough to let your mind slip long enough for Dean to run outside, were blind enough to miss the darkness that was casting over his eyes, Charlie got hurt.

The four of you had found yourselves at the house of one of the older Men of Letters, a bloke who went by the name Clive Dylan, and were hoping to get his help summoning the Wizard back to reverse the spell on Charlie.  You had been waiting outside on your own request, listening closely while Sam and Dean were in the house dealing with the Wizard, with good Charlie and bad Charlie and a whole array of things.  You were certain you had heard him, had sensed Cain in the woods surrounding the house and weren't about to take the chance of him coming in, going to hurt anyone without first having to get through you.

It was that exact, overprotective mindset that brought you around to the back of the house; you smelled him, heard him, felt his presence everywhere.  You yelled out to Cain, telling him to stop being a wimp and to face you, to take you on like the real threat he painted himself to be; you were aware of the tussling, the grunts from within the house, but it wasn't nearly as important to you.

"Cain!" You screamed, looking everywhere at the woods in front of you but seeing nothing.  "Come out, you scared bastard!"

Laughter came from the woods and your manic side took over as you delved into it, sprinting toward the laughter, waiting for any appearance of Cain to make him known.  Your guard was never down; you always had a force field of power surrounding you and with every log you jumped, every tree you dodged, you swore you were getting closer, closer to the man.  The laughter was getting louder as you got further, further from the house, and you were certain he was only feet in front of you when Sam's voice echoed through your mind.

(Gragnis, where are you?)

You froze, all at once torn.  The laughter was going around you now and while your eyes were well-adjusted, the dark not affecting them, you could never place it; it was a game to him, a disgusting game, and you weren't about to let him win.