Contralateral chapter seven
Seven
Over the next few decades, you learn a lot about Hell.
One of the first things that you learn is that it's always what you want it to be, yet never quite. It's every single dream of freedom that you've ever wanted, but know will never get: visions of verdant meadows and sunshine segueing into wastelands soaked in blood and sweat and horror; sweet music distorting into screams of anguish; fond memories and loved ones descending into pits of never-ending torture where they are flayed and torn and burned and shredded while they scream your name plaintively.
It's this longing that's a deeper pain than anything merely physical. Hell's secret is in dangling your deepest desires within arm's reach, before snatching them away at the last moment. And contaminate them. Violate.
Ruby tells you that this is unusual; that you shouldn't know this before a baptisation in blood and torture yourself; that the fact that you retain no conscious human memories means that it is not as great a torture as it can be. Even here, she says, you cannot be completely be one or the other. Even here, you cannot fully transform into a demon. Always stuck in the middle, aren't you, Sammy?
You don't bother responding to her; you don't tell her that you did undergo a baptisation in blood, that Hell has left its marks of ownership in the form of scabbed-over holes in your palms and feet. You know that her words are but another riddle she wants you to ponder (question, Sammy, keep questioning) and any answer will lead to more of her mocking instruction. You let her keep talking to you, let her voice keep trickling across your subconscious, because you cannot stop watching.
As you keep walking, Hell reveals more of itself to you: you seem to step into vision after vision, populated by people you are sure you must've known in some other life.
A pleasant suburban home, a happy family with two little boys which is then consumed by fire: the mother dying as she is cut open and pinned to the ceiling above her child's crib, the older boy burning alive while the father draws a knife across the throat of his infant son, murmuring before it's too late in an insane litany before he is consumed, too.
A dark motel room, crawling with disuse and neglect; a young boy being eviscerated by shapeless shadow-monsters, blood gurgling in his throat as he tries to scream, while his brother watches and laughs.
A big library, university logos emblazoned on the walls dripping with blood; intestines hanging from high shelves like gnarled ropes, half-beheaded corpses fallen over open books, vast pools of blood cooling in the pleasant air-conditioning; and in the middle of it all, a tall young man with long hair stained red, standing like a demon king after a victorious conquest, holding a woman with wavy blonde hair up with one hand, crushing her neck even as she glares at him with all the desperate loathing she can muster.
Another motel room, brightly-lit this time; the same tall man, his eyes now gleaming a reptilian yellow, holding a shorter man against a wall, wrapping his hands around his neck and squeezing with unnatural power even as the other's struggles slowly begin to cease.
And -
The corrugated red plains return, and tears pool in your eyes.
"What're you crying about," Ruby says quietly. "You don't even remember your family."
Family. You don't remember them, yes, but the sight of so much suffering, blood and death... "Which one is real?" you ask hoarsely. "Which one really happened?"
"All of them." Ruby shrugs. "None of them. Does it really matter?"
You suppose not (you're dead), but the tears don't stop. A part of you is surprised you even have the capacity to grieve, but that mess of emotion within you - those vestiges of the person you once were - swell into a tide that brings you to your knees, your shoulders shaking with unchecked sobs. You know - know - those scenes should be different (you know the tall murderer is you) - should be (brother-why) lighter, softer (you're gonna be okay), happier (It's-Sam-driver-music-cakehole).
Your head dips to the ground, forehead resting against the hot soil, arms tucked against your belly. Maybe this is why you're here, to atone for those unspeakable sins. Maybe the absence of memory is a punishment in itself - stripping you of yourself, leaving you without justification or memory to truly honour the ones you grieve for.
Ruby's voice weaves through your sobs, husky and soothing. "It's over, Sammy. You've passed."
You don't want to look up; you don't want to ask her what she means; you don't want to do anything now than stay here and let your confusion and terror soak into the ground with your tears. However, invisible hands reach under your chin and lift your head up, forcing you to look.
Hell has changed one more time.
No more is it empty plains stretching as far as the eye can see; now enormous cliffs of crumbling brown rock rise jaggedly into the sky, dotted with what seems like millions of caves: black maws from which flash multi-coloured ribbons of fire. The sky is a dull grey, hanging with clouds - heavy not with the promise of a storm, but ancient like coils of never-dissipating smoke. An endless stream of black figures move across the cliff faces like insects; the air is heavy and rancid and filled with the agonised sounds of unnatural creatures.
You drink in all of this slowly, your throat bobbing with yet-unshed tears. You sense rather than see Ruby approach, and stand next to you. "Watch closely," she says, and for the first time, her voice is neither mocking nor amused, but low and hoarse. "These... are your people."
You look closer at what you'd first thought to be insects, and realise the truth is far, far worse.
These... creatures are vaguely humanoid, with long spindly legs and arms attached to torsos of a black so dark it seems to absorb light. The limbs end in amorphous, constantly undulating shapes that seem to mould to the objects that they grasp. And their heads... this is where your words dry up, because there aren't any in your vocabulary to truly describe the terrible mish-mash that is their faces - half-bird, half-animal, set in a disconcertingly human framework.
Hell, Hell, this is Hell.
The terror and grief infuses strength into your limbs; you climb to your feet, shaking, although you are unwilling to turn and meet Ruby's eyes (what if she's one of those creatures? what if you look at her and get absorbed into the black hole that is her very being?)
"This is not -" you force out. "I'm not - one of them. I don't belong here. I need to get -"
"That's where you're wrong, Sammy," Ruby says softly. "This is Hell, and you just got a free pass into the inner circle." You feel her hand take your elbow and you shudder, remembering the slimy masses that substitute for hands in them. "You're not one of them, but you do belong here. You're their saviour.
"This, then, is your destiny, Sam Winchester."
"No!" You break free and run blindly in the opposite direction, breath coming out of you in short, painful gasps. Before you can get very far, however, one of the black creatures appear before you, one thin arm extending toward your face.
You try to twist away, but black tendrils with a reach farther than you could've imagined shoot up your nostrils, your ears, your eyes; the world explodes in a spectacular fireworks display before you finally sink into darkness.
"You know," she said, crossing her arms over her chest, "we kinda live our lives pre-empting the moves of people like you."
Bobby sighed at the elaborate ritual he'd set up in his basement - he'd barely started, and how the hell had this demon hussy known he was going to summon her, anyway? - and looked up at her. "Ruby."
She smirked, flipped back her hair - a new body, Bobby noted, a pretty young thing, blonde and petite. "None other." She settled herself on a nearby upturned box. "Salt lines cleared, no pesky devil's traps on every available space - you're desperate, aren't you?" She laughed. "What do you want to know?"
Bobby's hand closed over the flask of holy water in his jeans pocket. "How did you know I was gonna call you? Are you - are demons watching us?"
Ruby tilted her head and smiled. "Maybe, maybe not. Next?"
"Where's Sam?"
Her smile didn't falter. "With his brother, obviously. Hasn't Dean told you that yet?"
Well, there's a shocker. Bobby knew he would be wasting time if he tried to process the information (oh god, John, you weren't wrong); he merely squared his shoulders, set his lips, and spoke. "And why is he back?"
"Because he's the final seal, of course."
Bobby wasn't entirely sure, even much later, how he was planning to react to that - he'd barely opened his mouth (to speak, because damn if he was going to stand around demons with his jaw open like a gormless fool) when a bright light filled the room, blinding enough that he instinctively hunched and threw an arm over his eyes.
When the light faded and he could open his eyes, he saw Castiel holding Ruby against the wall with one extended hand, palm inches from her neck.
For one second, Bobby closed his eyes and sighed. He'd been expecting complications, but, really...
I'm getting too old for this shit.
"Oh, look," Ruby said flippantly. "It's the angel mafia, come to silence me."
Castiel's outstretched hand closed into a fist, and Ruby began to squirm, her hands ineffectually flapping against her neck. "Silence you, indeed," Castiel said. "Silence your lies and perversions, hell-spawn."
His fist unfurled; he closed his eyes and began to chant. Orange-yellow light pulsed from behind Ruby's eyes and her open mouth, her body arching and jerking against the wall. Bobby was struck by the sheer power that emanated from the angel; so much so that ever-brightening light limned his mortal body, as if the essence of the angel was creeping out of every pore of the vessel that was too inadequate to truly rein him in.
For all that Castiel postured to Dean, the angel was truly a warrior, conditioned over millennia to fight Heaven's battles.
Bobby eased himself toward where he'd stashed his backup - and, really, the way his knees were creaking, he thought they could hear him over the sounds of Ruby's death-throes - and ran a quick check over the bottles of holy water, salt canisters, blessed iron charms, goofer dust, the readily-arranged paraphernalia associated with exorcisms from three different faiths; in addition, the Panic Room was also only a few steps away, with its inch-thick walls of iron saturated with every means of protection against the supernatural he could think of. After a consistent demonic no-show for over two years, he hadn't been sure of what he'd attract with his ritual; Bobby hadn't lived a hunter's life for so long without learning to be extremely paranoid, and extremely resourceful.
"What - what are you doing?"
He was distracted by the bewildered fury in Castiel's voice - he looked up to see Ruby on her feet again, the light leaking from her eyes and mouth dimming as she chanted some litany of her own, words coming out in great, shuddering gasps. Castiel lowered his arm and took a step back. "What -?"
Without warning, Ruby finished her chant and launched herself at Castiel. Demon met angel, and both of them met the floor, Castiel's head cracking against the cement. She drew a knife from her belt and cocked the blade with a flick of her wrist, moving to slash it across his throat. Castiel caught her hand just before the knife met his vessel's skin, and caught her other hand before it could try to loosen his grip. "How did you do that?" he growled.
"I'm here to fulfill a greater purpose, just like you," Ruby said, breathing hard. "And I happen to have just a few more weapons in my arsenal."
"You and I are nothing alike," Castiel said, and with one mighty heave, threw her off him.
Castiel got to his feet, and Ruby recovered immediately. She held her knife warily in front of her, and it was an ordinary knife, Bobby noted, and not the demon-killing one with the fancy engravings she'd given Dean -
"You listening, Bobby?" Ruby said suddenly. "Sam and Dean are together, and Sam's the final seal! Sam -" Castiel threw out his arm again, and Ruby slammed against the wall, the rest of her words abruptly cut off. "Stop peddling your lies," Castiel said with slow, cold fury.
Ruby, struggling, looked past Castiel and straight at Bobby. "And so it is written," she ground out, "that the final seal shall be the destruction of the greatest adversary to Lucifer's rising!"
Bobby froze. That... doesn't make any sense. This whole shindig had taken on a frighteningly bizarre turn and he needed to - he needed to call Dean, and then, then - check up with a few contacts (Rufus Joshua oh Jim I wish you were still alive), maybe hit a few more books (plan research oh god Sam WHAT - )
"Lies!" Castiel roared, and swept one arm in Bobby's direction. He flew backwards and in through the open doors of the Panic Room, smacking painfully against the opposite wall. He slid to the ground, and through the flaring pain in his back and his blurring vision, Bobby saw the doors close and heard the noisy clang of the bolts sliding into place. No... not in my goddamn... house, dammit!
Ignoring the protests of his battered body, Bobby scrambled to his feet and staggered to the door, pounding his fist against the metal. "Hey... Hey!"
His cries quietened when he heard a distinctive thump against the door on the other side, and it rattled. He placed his ear against the door, wincing a little at the cold, and tried to be quiet and listen, although his back and knees were killing him and his whole body was trembling, his heart pounding madly against his ribs. There were more sounds of a right royal skirmish, grunts and swearing (although that came only from Ruby), thumps and flatter sounds of skin against skin, sounds like meat slapped against a butcher's table.
Finally, the cacophony ended with a single, prolonged female scream.
A few seconds later, the bolts slowly slid out, and the door creaked open. Castiel looked at Bobby, in his eyes that perennially implacable expression, despite the blood that matted his hair, coated the sides of his face, stained the lapels of his trenchcoat. A sudden horror took hold of Bobby then: icy tendrils of fear pushing from his belly into his brain, a kind of fear he hadn't felt since he had looked from Dean's eviscerated corpse into Sam's red-rimmed eyes, eyes filled with quiet, maniacal desperation. "Get out of my house," he snapped.
Castiel didn't move. "You have to understand -"
"Get out of my house!" Bobby screamed, hyper-aware of his increased heartbeat, a vein pulsing in his forehead.
A few seconds of silence. Then:
"Sam needs to die, and Dean has to kill him," Castiel said quietly, and disappeared.
Bobby slumped to a sitting position on the bare, chill floor, wiping cold sweat off his brow with trembling hands.
Sometimes, when the stress and loneliness and implacable fear of a life lived as a city housewife got to her, Millie would close her eyes and think of her childhood home in the countryside of Idaho, the green-brown-red earth and the snow-capped hills in the background, open to a vast sky that often seemed close enough that only if she jumped high enough, she could touch the clouds. Cool breeze playing with her hair, the smell of springtime rain. The sweet innocence of a quiet, sheltered life (if life could be sheltered at all - but, oh! she had had one, one as beautiful and transient as the cool raindrops that would soak into her hair).
In those days, when her world revolved around the next day's assignments and if the cute boy in her Spanish class would ask her to the school dance, horror struck her life, and tore it asunder.
She remembered the day very clearly - she'd had basketball practice that day, and she'd just been elected captain of the team. She'd come home late and tired and elated, throwing her bag into the living room and marching into the kitchen, calling for her mother. However, only her brother had been there, the same brother who was supposed to have been two states away with his wife and two infant children.
"Steve?" she'd said, pleasantly surprised. "What are you doing here?" She looked around the empty kitchen. "And where's Mom?"
He didn't reply immediately, his face turned slightly away from her. His profile was but a shadow in the slanting evening light pouring in through the windows, and she felt a sudden urge to pinch his big, hooked nose and giggle as he would chase her around the house, as she had as a little girl. Come on, Stevie. Turn around, get ticked off, say something.
He finally turned around, and smiled at her. "Hey, Millie." He'd been turning something over in his hands, and Millie barely held in a gasp when she saw it to be a long knife (Mom's favourite butcher's knife), crusted with dried blood. "Mom's upstairs," he continued. "But she's a little... pre-occupied now, I'm afraid."
An involuntary step, hand reaching for the kitchen door. "Steve?" in a quavering voice despite herself.
"Donna and the kids are in the car," Steve said. "They're pretty busy, too." He stood up, and his grin stretched, distorting his face into some grotesque caricature that was not her brother not her brother not her BROTHER -
"Steve, what...?" Her eyes dropped to that wicked-looking knife again, and when she looked up, his eyes had turned completely black.
She opened her mouth to scream, to run, to do something, when he slipped behind her with a speed faster than she would've thought possible, slapped a large hand over her mouth and held the knife to her neck, its edge resting lightly against her skin. Her hands reached up to struggle, but when the knife-edge dug deep enough to draw blood, she stopped. Moisture dripped in great rolling beads off Steve's hand, and it took her a moment to realise that those were her tears. "Please," she whispered against his palm.
"Quiet, now," Steve whispered into her ear. His hot breath carried a waft of something unspeakable with it; something like month-old farm refuse, revoltingly overpowering. "You really don't want to become busy either, do you?"
She stood still, the tears now dripping off the edge of the knife and to the floor.
I have to - have to - oh god, I have to do something -
"Tell you what," Steve said pleasantly. "I like you, Millie. I'll make this quick for you. Well," he added, "quicker than the others, anyway." She could hear his smile in his voice, and tried not to shudder remembering that horrible, monstrous grin. "Wouldn't want to miss out on all the fun." She felt the pressure of the knife give and then finally disappear; wasting no time, she bit on one of the fingers of the hand covering her mouth. As Steve gave a startled cry and let go of her altogether, she whirled around and ran for the door. Maybe if she could just get out get out get out of this nightmare she could find somebody (anybody), get some help, and -
Abruptly, she ran into (him) just at the kitchen entrance (just as freedom beckoned).
The (man) grabbed her shoulders, holding on effortlessly even as she tried to wriggle free, looking into her wide, fearful eyes with eyes that gleamed a sick, sick yellow. She screamed now, screamed and struggled until her throat ached from both pain and terror.
And (he) just held on, smiling.
Before long she realised her screaming was achieving nothing; nobody came to her aid, and all her wriggling and scratching and biting didn't elicit so much as a wince from (him). She sagged in (his) grip, spent and numb with terror. "There, now," (he) said, voice rich and rolling and amused. "Does that make you feel all better? There's something to be said about expressing yourself, I suppose." She was turned around to face Steve again, Steve who stood there with knife in hand, an inexplicably repentant look on his face. A sudden, insane urge to giggle took hold of her: he looked exactly like that time when as a teenager he'd gotten caught by Dad stealing fruits from Mrs Greenbaum's orchard.
The (man) spoke. "Taking something of a coffee break, are we?"
Steve's gaze fell. His words came out in a rush. "Scott's vacationing. The little sucker's a tad too boring to keep tabs on all the time, and there was this young family coming along on the highway, and it was so hard to resist; it's been so long -"
"And therefore you indulged in an act of needless destruction and terror." Steve winced and opened his mouth, but the (man) stopped him by speaking again, light and casual with an undercurrent of building menace. "Don't get me wrong: I'm all for acts of needless destruction and terror - kind of part of the job description - but you? You were given a job. An important one at that. And you slacked off it like some two-bit high schooler playing hooky." (He) raised one hand.
Steve dropped the knife, raised his own hands as if in surrender. "Azazel, wait -"
The (man) snapped his fingers. "This conversation is over."
Steve's head snapped back, neck hyperextending unnaturally; his mouth opened in a scream and Millie screamed in bewildered terror of her own when copious amounts of black smoke erupted from between his jaws. His throat bobbed as if the smoke was coming from within him, and how was that even possible -
The smoke didn't dissipate immediately; it hovered, almost as if uncertain about where to go next, before it plunged into the floor and disappeared, as if sucked in by vaccum. Steve slumped to the floor, landing with a sick thump, and didn't move. Millie's ragged breathing filled the silence that followed.
"Ah, these dramas in the way of business: they're such a pain." The (man) let go of her and proceeded to sit where Steve had sat at the kitchen table. "But it's so hard to get trustworthy employees these days; these tiresome schoolmaster routines are getting more and more necessary." (He) smiled at her. "But really. I'm being so rude. Let's talk about you, Millie."
Millie shuddered at her name being spoken aloud. She backed up, hand groping for the kitchen door, and was not entirely surprised to find that it had somehow closed. "G-go to hell," she said, hoping her voice wasn't too shaky.
The (man) smirked. "Been there, done that, bought every last T shirt." (He) laced (his) fingers together, looked at her thoughtfully. "Despite everything, I'm feeling a little generous. What do you say, Millie," and here (he) leaned forward, his lips lifting in a near-predatory grin, "to me returning your family back - your parents, your poor brother here, his family - all alive, all well, no pesky memories of what's just happened to ever haunt their dreams?"
Millie blinked. Could (he)? Will (he)?
"You'd be surprised at what I can do," (he) said smoothly. "And I can bring them back; don't doubt it. However," (he) added, and here it was, Millie thought. Here's where (he)'s going to tear my throat out and drink my blood and claim that's what's going to give (him) the power to bring back the dead. "However, I have something to ask of you in return. As they say, you can't ever take business away from a businessman."
She lifted her shoulders, squared her jaw. To hell with it. "What?"
(His) smile widened. "Your child."
Mille couldn't help it; she nearly burst out laughing. Her child? Of all the ridiculous things she'd seen and heard -
"I'm not joking," the (man) said. "It's more important than you will ever realise, which, hey, good for you. But," (he) got up and took a few steps toward her; all traces of humour instantly vanished, "the day your first child turns six months old, I will come to claim it." (His) face relaxed again. "So: what d'you say, huh? Decent enough bargain?"
Bargain. She was actually discussing the price of her family's lives. If things could get anymore terrifyingly surreal, her head would pop off and float into space (maybe it already has). But going along with this nightmare, was it really a good bargain? She wanted nothing more than to see her family again; she wanted nothing more than her frighteningly-limp brother to get up and wrap his strong arms around her, comforting, like he had the little worries and upsets of her childhood. And besides, to her sixteen year old self, the concepts of 'marriage' and/or 'children' seemed so remote as to belong to a different universe; at that point, selling the possibility of her having any children at all, years and years into the future seemed more than reasonable if she could get things to being as they were.
And so there was only the slightest hesitation in her voice when she said: "Yes."
She got the barest glimpse of (his) grin before (he) held her face in both (his) hands in a near-crushing grip, and pressed (his) lips against hers. She'd barely begun to get over the surprise and fight back, when they were kissing deeply, (his) tongue pushing forcefully into her mouth, exploring. When (he) finally broke away, when she'd regained her breath and her bearings, (he)'d disappeared, and she was left alone in the kitchen with a brother who was slowly starting to stir.
It turned out that the (man) had been right: apart from the initial disorientation, nobody really remembered anything; ready explanations were come up with for why her brother was home; the bloody knife had disappeared; her whole family was whole and healthy - so much so that she'd often wondered if the whole thing had been an illusion, after all. But that hadn't stopped the tears, the endless nightmares - so many nights where she would wake, screaming, from gory visions of her brother slashing her throat, his hands slipping in her blood, that horrible grin etched permanently on his face while thick smoke wafted through his teeth, his eyes, his ears...
Eventually, even those faded away. And when she met Robert Carlisle, and when her world had taken on a wondrous new meaning the night Timmy was born, that day had become nothing more than the dream of a memory, hazing into obscurity.
But now -
Only now, ten years after that day, did Millie truly understand what she'd paid.
She clutched a sleeping Timmy to her chest as Dean carried her bags into the house, the boy who'd driven them close on his heels. The owner of the house was gracious enough; she introduced herself as Grace Matheson, and the tall man with her, Joshua Peters. There were several significant glances exchanged - mostly those of hostility - when the boy crossed the threshold (he merely rolled his eyes and muttered something about "useless salt lines and devil's traps", and normally that shouldn't make any sense, but Millie was past caring).
She was shown a room and asked - again, most graciously - to wait and freshen up a bit, she would certainly be gotten back to and have everything explained, and, oh, would she like some lemon tea and biscuits? No thank you, just some hot water. It was time to feed Timmy soon.
She laid him carefully on the blankets and pulled out his bottle. It occurred to her suddenly just how casually she was going about the old routine when (Rob was dead and Timmy was - ) her whole world had gone for a sudden tailspin. That wave of hysteria lapped at the edges of her sanity again - but she needed to keep it together; she needed to figure her way through what was going on, at least for her son's sake.
Millie sighed and closed her eyes, feeling the breeze in her hair, springtime rain on her face, and the taste of blood and sulphur in her mouth.