Finding Home (18/21)
Title: Finding Home ( Main Post and Chapter List)
Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.
Pairings: Gen.
Notes: And here's where I introduce my version of the mythology behind YED and all of that--hope it seems okay.
Chapter 17
XXXXXXXXXX
“Nobody’s dying tonight...except that demon. That evil son of a bitch isn’t getting any older than tonight, you understand me?”
(“Salvation”)
XXXXXXXXXX
Both John and Dean were up when Sam opened his eyes the next morning. For a moment, he didn’t move, watching Dean sip at a cup of coffee, nodding at something John was indicating in the journal. He’d seen this so many times: his brother and father in a huddle over some book or map or manuscript. But it was different, now. Dean had been twenty-three when Sam had left for college, but it was only now that he seemed to be truly an adult next to their father.
Sam didn’t think he’d made any noise, but before long, Dean stiffened and turned around to see him staring. An expression flitted across his face but was replaced with a grin too fast for Sam to catch it. “Sleeping Beauty awakens,” he teased. “And I didn’t even have to give you a kiss.”
Sam stared at him a moment too long but recovered his wits quickly enough to give an expected response. “Thank god for that, assbreath.”
He waited for one of the other men to say something, not knowing where everything stood concerning his freak-out last night. Finally, Dean asked, “You gonna lie around all day? We’ve been waiting for you to get up so we can go get some breakfast.”
Avoidance was good. He could work with that.
Some part of his mind thought he was forgetting something, from his dream or vision, maybe, but after sifting through all the memories of last night that he could remember, he dismissed it as nervous paranoia. Sam pulled on a clean set of clothes-laundry trips had become much more regular under their father’s disapproving eye-and took his seat in the Impala, waiting for Dean to come and take the wheel. “Where’re we going?”
“Diner a few blocks over,” Dean answered.
“That far, huh,” he deadpanned. “We’re driving?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “And Dad wants to drive by the Holts’ house later. Get an idea of what’s what before we try to stake out the place.”
They pulled into the diner. Sam didn’t get out when Dean shut off the engine. “Dad won’t look at me,” he said quietly, staring hard at his hands.
Dean squinted out the windshield. “You’re imagining it.”
“No. I’m not.”
Dean glanced at him this time, then sniffed, pulling the keys from the ignition. “He’ll get over it.”
Sam doubted this was something John Winchester, renowned hunter and demon-hater, would get over. Dean stepped out then, and Sam sighed and followed.
Breakfast was, surprisingly, less awkward than he’d anticipated. John didn’t exactly avoid his gaze, but he looked away quickly every time their eyes met. Sam tried not to be affected-it wasn’t his father’s fault that his son had turned out to be...
What, exactly? What did it mean?
The three of them had perfected the art of looking casual, eating while speaking in hushed tones that carried no farther than their booth. After the last year, Sam couldn’t quite get over the disorientation of eating in a diner without seeing Dean directly in front of him, but he welcomed his brother’s presence at his side.
“All right,” John said, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. “Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll be outside in the truck, in front of the house. You two stay on foot and keep an eye on the back--let’s cover as many angles as we can. Dean, keep your phone on and the line open with me, and stay in sight of your brother. Either of you sees any sign of the demon, you tell me and we go in, from the back and the front at once. You’ll hear from me if I see it first. Try to get to the nursery without disturbing the parents. Sam, in your vision, who did you see in the house?”
The images were fresh in his mind and he didn’t hesitate before replying, “Just the mom and daughter. There’s a husband, too, but I didn’t see where he was in the vision.”
“His position’s an unknown, then. If he shows, closest person to him holds him off and gets him out of the house. The others get the hell up to the nursery.”
“Who’ll have the Colt?” Dean asked.
John bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. “I will. If I’m tied up, I’ll pass it off to you. And you shoot to kill, son.”
“And get the mother and baby out of the house,” Sam reminded him.
John scowled at his pancakes. “That too. The demon comes first. Or more will die, Sam.”
(“The desire to preserve good isn’t as strong as the desire to inflict pain on whatever hurt us to begin with...”)
Sam steeled himself and nodded, agreeing, “I know.” The woman could die screaming in flames, but all Sam could think of was the demon. He almost wished they were exorcising the demon so that it would scream, too, as it burned in Hell.
XXXXXXXXXX
The night was dark, but from his spot, hidden from view by bushes, Sam could see the back door from which he would enter. Dean’s crouching form was barely visible several meters away, covering the opposite corner of the house. Sam rolled a lock pick and torsion wrench in his fingers, knowing from the stance that Dean was holding his cell phone at his ear. Rosie’s room was on the second floor, facing the front, where John sat in the truck. Hopefully, the demon’s shadow would be clear enough for his father to see-otherwise, they’d have to rely on flickering lights.
God. This could be over tonight.
What was taking so long?
A light in the living room flickered. Sam rose halfway out of his crouch, seeing Dean’s form do the same.
He began moving toward the house, wanting to be closer but unsure whether it was the demon or just...
In the distance the truck’s door slam, and Sam was running even before he saw Dean start to move.
He made it to the door and was picking the lock when Dean got there, stuffing his phone away with one hand.
“Come on, come on, Sam...”
“That’s not fucking helpful, Dean,” he hissed back. He heard a final click and twisted the wrench. The doorknob turned and Dean immediately stepped through past him. As Sam came in behind him, they moved quickly toward the staircase.
He was partially up the stairs already when a feeling of urgency shuddered suddenly through him, and he turned, calling, “Dean!”
His brother whirled just in time to duck a baseball bat swinging toward his head. “Get out of my house!” the man yelled.
Dean dove toward the man just as John burst through the front door, Colt in his hands, and the husband turned away from Dean to met the new threat. Caught off guard, John barely managed to dodge and grab the bat in his hands, dropping his gun and sending it spinning across the floor. “Go!” he shouted.
Dean moved toward the Colt, but Sam was faster. Gritting his teeth, he reached out a hand and wrenched. A jolt of pain spiked through his head, but it dissipated quickly in an ecstatic rush. Then he was wrapping his hand around the gun, Dean cursing as he changed directions and ran toward the staircase to catch up with Sam.
“Monica!” he heard from below. “Monica, get Ros-!” The cry was cut off by a grunt.
They reached the top of the stairs together just as Monica appeared in the hallway, saying, “Charlie, is everything-oh my God! Who are y... Rosie!”
“Dammit, Monica!” Dean yelled after her, both of them hurtling toward her. “We’re trying to help you, you have to believe us!”
“Monica, don’t go in the nursery!” Sam yelled just as they reached the doorway.
Monica was pressed against the wall, exactly as she had been in his vision, her wide-eyed stare terrified. Following her gaze, Sam saw the figure standing over Rosie’s crib. The heavy smell of sulfur wafted toward him.
The demon held a wrist extended with a finger laid on top of it, as if about to slice through. It turned at the commotion and the yellow eyes widened at the sight of the gun in Sam’s hands.
Yellow eyes.
The man with yellow eyes.
I’ve seen him before. I’ve dreamed...
“It’s you,” Sam gasped. He dimly registered another set of footsteps approaching.
“Sam, goddamnit, shoot!” Dean screamed at him. Sam clenched his jaw and shook off the shock.
He raised the Colt and fired.
But instead of hitting, the bullet passed through the space as if nothing were there. Then the demon disappeared.
“No,” his father’s panting voice said from behind him. “Where the hell did it go!”
A thump sounded, and he saw Monica, released from the pressure holding her, drop to the floor. “My baby!” she gasped, trying to find her footing. “Rosie!”
Demon’s gone. Save the civilians.
“No, Monica,” he said, moving to her side and picking her off the ground as she reached toward the crib.
“Dad, Sam, I got it!” Dean called, already scooping the baby from its crib. “Get her out of here!”
“Let’s go!” Sam said, pushing Monica ahead of himself. "My brother's got Rosie...Dad! We have to get out of here!” Sudden heat at his back made him turn just in time to see the crib burst into flame. “Dad! Come on!”
Charlie Holt was standing on the front lawn when they ran out the front door, Dean leading the way with the baby and Monica just behind. “You stay away from my family!” He yelled.
He’d started to advance toward them when Monica screamed, “No, Charlie, wait! They saved us! They saved our baby.”
Sam was ashamed at the strength of the bitterness he felt at that. The demon had escaped. Their dad was already at the truck, hands laid flat on the hood and head hanging. As he watched, John kicked the front tire viciously and opened the door, holding onto the frame as if for support.
“Thank you,” Monica was telling Dean as she lifted Rosie from his arms.
Sam looked back at the house one more time, at the familiar sight of flames bursting through a window...
“Dean,” he said, feeling dazed. “He’s still in there.” A shadow stood at the window. Yellow eyes gleamed wickedly from the darkness. “He’s still...”
Words failed him and fury took their place. Gripping the Colt tighter in his hand, he turned and ran back toward the house.
“Sam, no!” A pair of arms wrapped around him.
“Dean, let me go! It’s still in there!” He struggled, against Dean’s grip, but his strength wasn’t enough to overtake Dean this time.
“It’s burning to the ground! It’s no use!”
“It’s taken too much from us already!”
Dean jerked him around, gripped his shirt, and yanked him closer. “And I’m not letting it take anyone else from me!”
Sam stared at his brother, then looked back once more to see the figure disappear in the flames. He stopped, making Dean stumble slightly against the sudden lack of resistance.
“Come on,” Dean told him, and this time Sam heard the note of panic that he’d missed before in his own desperation. “Let’s get out of here.”
Monica’s eyes followed them as they made for their dad’s truck. John was waiting in the driver’s seat, his expression stony. No one said a word as he and Dean took their seats. Finally, John slammed his hand on the rim of the steering wheel and choked out, “Goddammit.” He turned the key in the ignition and they headed away from the burning house.
Failed, Sam thought. Failed, failed, failed.
And then, I saw the demon, and I knew him.
XXXXXXXXXX
They seemed to be keeping as far from each other as they could, John slumped in a chair, Dean perched lightly on one bed, and Sam in the far corner, leaning back against the walls. None seemed willing to meet the others’ eyes and none wanted to be the first to break the silence.
Sam couldn’t stop seeing the yellow-eyed gaze on him. Had he really dreamed of the man-demon-before? Was he just imagining it?
But he was remembering now. ‘You know me, don’t you,’ the man had said. ‘And when you see me, you’ll know who I am...You’re one of mine...”
Finally, it was John who glared at the carpet and growled out, “It’s not just a demon. It’s one of the Grigori.”
Sam froze in shock, then closed his eyes. Grigori. He’d thought they didn’t exist.
Dean looked confused. “A what?”
“Grigori,” Sam said dully. “The Watchers. Those who never sleep. Fallen angels, in Biblical mythology.”
“But...” Dean had stood now. “Fallen angels? And, no...this bastard’s been leaving sulfur everywhere. Only demons do that.”
“I didn’t know they were real,” Sam murmured.
John finally lifted his head and sighed. “They’re not. At least, not the way they’re depicted in lore, exactly. They’re demons, but powerful ones-practically demigods. No one knows for sure where they came from. They haven’t been seen for centuries-possibly millennia-but this one...” He slammed a fist on the arm of the chair and went back to glaring at the floor. “This one somehow crawled its way out of whatever shithole it was in.”
“How do you know?” Dean asked.
“Whatever we saw tonight-it was the demon. Not a man it was possessing, but the demon itself, standing on its own two feet. There’s no other way it could...vanish like that. The normal demons we deal with--no way they could do that. But the Grigori can.”
Demons couldn’t act on earth without a human host-without possessing someone, they were useless clouds of smoke. There were a few rituals that could made them autonomous for short periods of time, but they had to be performed by someone else, and it was temporary-long enough to wreak a little mayhem, maybe, but nothing as controlled as what they’d seen tonight.
“What does that mean?” Sam asked.
John shook his head. “I’ve never dealt with one of these things before. Most of the time, they do possess people, and I doubt they can last for long without a host. But when it’s on its own...it’s powerful. And there’s no way I know of to destroy it in that form. It’s practically incorporeal.”
"But if it’s inside a human, we can shoot it,” Dean said, “and whatever it is that makes the Colt tick...that would do the rest.”
The idea of shooting a possessed man to kill the demon didn’t disturb him as much as it might have before.
“Can the Grigori...” Sam started. “Can they enter dreams?”
Without looking up, he saw both heads swing toward him. “What?”
Folding his arms across his chest and gripping his arms, he said, “I think...I’ve been dreaming of him. The man with the yellow eyes.” He barely stopped himself from wincing in anticipation of their reaction.
Dean and John looked at each other for a long moment. Sam didn’t lift his head to see what expressions they were. “You think you’ve been dreaming of it?” John said, his voice low.
“I’ve never remembered when I woke up. Not until I saw him-it-tonight. Now, I’ve been starting to remember some of it. I remember the eyes.”
“Yellow eyes,” Dean said.
“Yeah.” Still avoiding their faces, he asked, “Is it possible?” When John didn’t answer, he finally chanced a glance upward, afraid to see disappointment and anger directed once again at him.
Instead, he saw only his own sorrow and defeat reflected in his father’s eyes, and a lump grew in Sam’s throat. He could have taken anger. This was...worse. So much worse.
John cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice was calm. Or not calm-emotionless. “This is a special case in so many ways, Sammy. We don’t know how this works-with you or with the Grigori. But...it might be possible. The Grigori’s specialty was...seducing and convincing, whether they appealed to sexual desire or greed or confusion or a craving for something else. Dreams would seem like the ideal way to do it.”
Sam couldn’t help sinking further into his corner.
Succumbing to evil’s seduction. So weak. So desperate for...
For what? What weakness had the Grigori preyed on?
(“...so proud of you...”)
A childish wish for approval. Was that it? Could it really be something so stupid, when he’d grown-really grown-into his own man, now, at his brother’s side? When he knew, logically, that his father probably loved him as much as...well, almost as much as...
Oh God.
He had been thinking that. And he’d let the demon worm through.
“What does it want?” he asked, hearing how small his voice was. “Why us? The psychics.” Because it was clear, now, who it was that this demon was targeting. “He fed me his blood. Said I was one of his children. One of his.”
“The Grigori have always tried to leave traces of themselves behind,” John said lifelessly. “A new generation. Maybe this is their way of...marking their chosen ones.”
(“...But I’m not your son.”
“It’s not that simple...”)
As Sam thought back on what he knew of the lore about Grigori and their offspring... A sharp laugh burst abruptly from him. “So, what-we’re like the new Nephilim?” Jesus. This was insane.
Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re not a Nephilim, Sam.”
“Nephil,” he corrected automatically, making Dean huff a short laugh of his own.
“Yeah, well, being a grammar Nazi isn’t grounds for being drowned in a month-long flood.”
Sam looked at him in surprise, wondering for a moment how well Dean really knew Biblical lore, then berated himself for forgetting that his brother knew more than he usually admitted, even about something he didn’t believe in. Still, Sam was the one who’d read those pages over and over, looking for history or direction or meaning.
“ ‘The Nephilim were on the earth in those days-and also afterward,’ ” he quoted. “They weren’t all wiped out. Or if they were...maybe this-what’s happening right now-is what it meant.”
“You can’t take things like that literally, Sam, you know that,” Dean insisted. “The stories in the Bible have been changed so much most of them don’t even resemble the truth anymore. Right, Dad?”
But John was avoiding their gaze again. Sam’s stomach dropped. “Dad?” The man didn’t answer or look up. “Oh God. You think I am. Or something like them. You think I’ll become...corrupt.” It hurt like a physical wound that his father would think it. Worse...was the thought that it could be true.
He thought of the hot thrill that came every time he moved something just by wishing it and felt sick.
“They say the Nephilim destroyed each other,” he realized.
“There’s no such thing as Nephilim,” Dean growled, annoyed.
Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The lore had to come from somewhere. What if something like this has happened before? Psychics rising up. Whatever’s in us...it’s pushing us. Trying to break us. We’re being eliminated. Most of the other psychics did horrible things, and then they destroyed themselves. And Andy even killed his brother.”
The thought was beyond chilling. Dean was saying something, but Sam wasn’t listening.
“We have to stop me,” he heard himself say through a daze of horror, “before I become like them... You have to stop me.”
XXXXXXXXXX
Notes:
First, please tell me if I got the singular of Nephilim wrong. Should it be spelled Nephil or Naphil or something else?
Azazel’s name caught my attention as part of Grigori mythology. I don’t know if this is what the show intends/intended, but it makes total sense to me. It makes even more sense going by the mythology I’ve decided on for this story. I’ve altered some aspects in the reality-is-different-from-lore sense, but I’m not an expert in mythology, especially when it deals with Biblical canon or apocrypha, so please let me know if something’s terribly off. I know some people don’t like things in the Bible being referred to as lore with the implication that it’s changed as it was passed down the grapevine, but it’s Supernatural. This is the only thing that works.
It helps that one of the other leaders-the leader-is Samyaza (spelled various ways, including Shemyaza, etc. depending on different languages and translations and versions), which, of course, makes me think of our Sammy. Sam’s name reminds me of quite a few mythical baddies, actually, which is awesome-like Samael, for example, which brings up quite a few interesting thoughts about Lilith. (Lilith won’t make an appearance here-just my rambling thoughts).
Chapter 19
Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.
Pairings: Gen.
Notes: And here's where I introduce my version of the mythology behind YED and all of that--hope it seems okay.
Chapter 17
XXXXXXXXXX
“Nobody’s dying tonight...except that demon. That evil son of a bitch isn’t getting any older than tonight, you understand me?”
(“Salvation”)
XXXXXXXXXX
Both John and Dean were up when Sam opened his eyes the next morning. For a moment, he didn’t move, watching Dean sip at a cup of coffee, nodding at something John was indicating in the journal. He’d seen this so many times: his brother and father in a huddle over some book or map or manuscript. But it was different, now. Dean had been twenty-three when Sam had left for college, but it was only now that he seemed to be truly an adult next to their father.
Sam didn’t think he’d made any noise, but before long, Dean stiffened and turned around to see him staring. An expression flitted across his face but was replaced with a grin too fast for Sam to catch it. “Sleeping Beauty awakens,” he teased. “And I didn’t even have to give you a kiss.”
Sam stared at him a moment too long but recovered his wits quickly enough to give an expected response. “Thank god for that, assbreath.”
He waited for one of the other men to say something, not knowing where everything stood concerning his freak-out last night. Finally, Dean asked, “You gonna lie around all day? We’ve been waiting for you to get up so we can go get some breakfast.”
Avoidance was good. He could work with that.
Some part of his mind thought he was forgetting something, from his dream or vision, maybe, but after sifting through all the memories of last night that he could remember, he dismissed it as nervous paranoia. Sam pulled on a clean set of clothes-laundry trips had become much more regular under their father’s disapproving eye-and took his seat in the Impala, waiting for Dean to come and take the wheel. “Where’re we going?”
“Diner a few blocks over,” Dean answered.
“That far, huh,” he deadpanned. “We’re driving?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “And Dad wants to drive by the Holts’ house later. Get an idea of what’s what before we try to stake out the place.”
They pulled into the diner. Sam didn’t get out when Dean shut off the engine. “Dad won’t look at me,” he said quietly, staring hard at his hands.
Dean squinted out the windshield. “You’re imagining it.”
“No. I’m not.”
Dean glanced at him this time, then sniffed, pulling the keys from the ignition. “He’ll get over it.”
Sam doubted this was something John Winchester, renowned hunter and demon-hater, would get over. Dean stepped out then, and Sam sighed and followed.
Breakfast was, surprisingly, less awkward than he’d anticipated. John didn’t exactly avoid his gaze, but he looked away quickly every time their eyes met. Sam tried not to be affected-it wasn’t his father’s fault that his son had turned out to be...
What, exactly? What did it mean?
The three of them had perfected the art of looking casual, eating while speaking in hushed tones that carried no farther than their booth. After the last year, Sam couldn’t quite get over the disorientation of eating in a diner without seeing Dean directly in front of him, but he welcomed his brother’s presence at his side.
“All right,” John said, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. “Here’s what we’ll do: I’ll be outside in the truck, in front of the house. You two stay on foot and keep an eye on the back--let’s cover as many angles as we can. Dean, keep your phone on and the line open with me, and stay in sight of your brother. Either of you sees any sign of the demon, you tell me and we go in, from the back and the front at once. You’ll hear from me if I see it first. Try to get to the nursery without disturbing the parents. Sam, in your vision, who did you see in the house?”
The images were fresh in his mind and he didn’t hesitate before replying, “Just the mom and daughter. There’s a husband, too, but I didn’t see where he was in the vision.”
“His position’s an unknown, then. If he shows, closest person to him holds him off and gets him out of the house. The others get the hell up to the nursery.”
“Who’ll have the Colt?” Dean asked.
John bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. “I will. If I’m tied up, I’ll pass it off to you. And you shoot to kill, son.”
“And get the mother and baby out of the house,” Sam reminded him.
John scowled at his pancakes. “That too. The demon comes first. Or more will die, Sam.”
(“The desire to preserve good isn’t as strong as the desire to inflict pain on whatever hurt us to begin with...”)
Sam steeled himself and nodded, agreeing, “I know.” The woman could die screaming in flames, but all Sam could think of was the demon. He almost wished they were exorcising the demon so that it would scream, too, as it burned in Hell.
XXXXXXXXXX
The night was dark, but from his spot, hidden from view by bushes, Sam could see the back door from which he would enter. Dean’s crouching form was barely visible several meters away, covering the opposite corner of the house. Sam rolled a lock pick and torsion wrench in his fingers, knowing from the stance that Dean was holding his cell phone at his ear. Rosie’s room was on the second floor, facing the front, where John sat in the truck. Hopefully, the demon’s shadow would be clear enough for his father to see-otherwise, they’d have to rely on flickering lights.
God. This could be over tonight.
What was taking so long?
A light in the living room flickered. Sam rose halfway out of his crouch, seeing Dean’s form do the same.
He began moving toward the house, wanting to be closer but unsure whether it was the demon or just...
In the distance the truck’s door slam, and Sam was running even before he saw Dean start to move.
He made it to the door and was picking the lock when Dean got there, stuffing his phone away with one hand.
“Come on, come on, Sam...”
“That’s not fucking helpful, Dean,” he hissed back. He heard a final click and twisted the wrench. The doorknob turned and Dean immediately stepped through past him. As Sam came in behind him, they moved quickly toward the staircase.
He was partially up the stairs already when a feeling of urgency shuddered suddenly through him, and he turned, calling, “Dean!”
His brother whirled just in time to duck a baseball bat swinging toward his head. “Get out of my house!” the man yelled.
Dean dove toward the man just as John burst through the front door, Colt in his hands, and the husband turned away from Dean to met the new threat. Caught off guard, John barely managed to dodge and grab the bat in his hands, dropping his gun and sending it spinning across the floor. “Go!” he shouted.
Dean moved toward the Colt, but Sam was faster. Gritting his teeth, he reached out a hand and wrenched. A jolt of pain spiked through his head, but it dissipated quickly in an ecstatic rush. Then he was wrapping his hand around the gun, Dean cursing as he changed directions and ran toward the staircase to catch up with Sam.
“Monica!” he heard from below. “Monica, get Ros-!” The cry was cut off by a grunt.
They reached the top of the stairs together just as Monica appeared in the hallway, saying, “Charlie, is everything-oh my God! Who are y... Rosie!”
“Dammit, Monica!” Dean yelled after her, both of them hurtling toward her. “We’re trying to help you, you have to believe us!”
“Monica, don’t go in the nursery!” Sam yelled just as they reached the doorway.
Monica was pressed against the wall, exactly as she had been in his vision, her wide-eyed stare terrified. Following her gaze, Sam saw the figure standing over Rosie’s crib. The heavy smell of sulfur wafted toward him.
The demon held a wrist extended with a finger laid on top of it, as if about to slice through. It turned at the commotion and the yellow eyes widened at the sight of the gun in Sam’s hands.
Yellow eyes.
The man with yellow eyes.
I’ve seen him before. I’ve dreamed...
“It’s you,” Sam gasped. He dimly registered another set of footsteps approaching.
“Sam, goddamnit, shoot!” Dean screamed at him. Sam clenched his jaw and shook off the shock.
He raised the Colt and fired.
But instead of hitting, the bullet passed through the space as if nothing were there. Then the demon disappeared.
“No,” his father’s panting voice said from behind him. “Where the hell did it go!”
A thump sounded, and he saw Monica, released from the pressure holding her, drop to the floor. “My baby!” she gasped, trying to find her footing. “Rosie!”
Demon’s gone. Save the civilians.
“No, Monica,” he said, moving to her side and picking her off the ground as she reached toward the crib.
“Dad, Sam, I got it!” Dean called, already scooping the baby from its crib. “Get her out of here!”
“Let’s go!” Sam said, pushing Monica ahead of himself. "My brother's got Rosie...Dad! We have to get out of here!” Sudden heat at his back made him turn just in time to see the crib burst into flame. “Dad! Come on!”
Charlie Holt was standing on the front lawn when they ran out the front door, Dean leading the way with the baby and Monica just behind. “You stay away from my family!” He yelled.
He’d started to advance toward them when Monica screamed, “No, Charlie, wait! They saved us! They saved our baby.”
Sam was ashamed at the strength of the bitterness he felt at that. The demon had escaped. Their dad was already at the truck, hands laid flat on the hood and head hanging. As he watched, John kicked the front tire viciously and opened the door, holding onto the frame as if for support.
“Thank you,” Monica was telling Dean as she lifted Rosie from his arms.
Sam looked back at the house one more time, at the familiar sight of flames bursting through a window...
“Dean,” he said, feeling dazed. “He’s still in there.” A shadow stood at the window. Yellow eyes gleamed wickedly from the darkness. “He’s still...”
Words failed him and fury took their place. Gripping the Colt tighter in his hand, he turned and ran back toward the house.
“Sam, no!” A pair of arms wrapped around him.
“Dean, let me go! It’s still in there!” He struggled, against Dean’s grip, but his strength wasn’t enough to overtake Dean this time.
“It’s burning to the ground! It’s no use!”
“It’s taken too much from us already!”
Dean jerked him around, gripped his shirt, and yanked him closer. “And I’m not letting it take anyone else from me!”
Sam stared at his brother, then looked back once more to see the figure disappear in the flames. He stopped, making Dean stumble slightly against the sudden lack of resistance.
“Come on,” Dean told him, and this time Sam heard the note of panic that he’d missed before in his own desperation. “Let’s get out of here.”
Monica’s eyes followed them as they made for their dad’s truck. John was waiting in the driver’s seat, his expression stony. No one said a word as he and Dean took their seats. Finally, John slammed his hand on the rim of the steering wheel and choked out, “Goddammit.” He turned the key in the ignition and they headed away from the burning house.
Failed, Sam thought. Failed, failed, failed.
And then, I saw the demon, and I knew him.
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They seemed to be keeping as far from each other as they could, John slumped in a chair, Dean perched lightly on one bed, and Sam in the far corner, leaning back against the walls. None seemed willing to meet the others’ eyes and none wanted to be the first to break the silence.
Sam couldn’t stop seeing the yellow-eyed gaze on him. Had he really dreamed of the man-demon-before? Was he just imagining it?
But he was remembering now. ‘You know me, don’t you,’ the man had said. ‘And when you see me, you’ll know who I am...You’re one of mine...”
Finally, it was John who glared at the carpet and growled out, “It’s not just a demon. It’s one of the Grigori.”
Sam froze in shock, then closed his eyes. Grigori. He’d thought they didn’t exist.
Dean looked confused. “A what?”
“Grigori,” Sam said dully. “The Watchers. Those who never sleep. Fallen angels, in Biblical mythology.”
“But...” Dean had stood now. “Fallen angels? And, no...this bastard’s been leaving sulfur everywhere. Only demons do that.”
“I didn’t know they were real,” Sam murmured.
John finally lifted his head and sighed. “They’re not. At least, not the way they’re depicted in lore, exactly. They’re demons, but powerful ones-practically demigods. No one knows for sure where they came from. They haven’t been seen for centuries-possibly millennia-but this one...” He slammed a fist on the arm of the chair and went back to glaring at the floor. “This one somehow crawled its way out of whatever shithole it was in.”
“How do you know?” Dean asked.
“Whatever we saw tonight-it was the demon. Not a man it was possessing, but the demon itself, standing on its own two feet. There’s no other way it could...vanish like that. The normal demons we deal with--no way they could do that. But the Grigori can.”
Demons couldn’t act on earth without a human host-without possessing someone, they were useless clouds of smoke. There were a few rituals that could made them autonomous for short periods of time, but they had to be performed by someone else, and it was temporary-long enough to wreak a little mayhem, maybe, but nothing as controlled as what they’d seen tonight.
“What does that mean?” Sam asked.
John shook his head. “I’ve never dealt with one of these things before. Most of the time, they do possess people, and I doubt they can last for long without a host. But when it’s on its own...it’s powerful. And there’s no way I know of to destroy it in that form. It’s practically incorporeal.”
"But if it’s inside a human, we can shoot it,” Dean said, “and whatever it is that makes the Colt tick...that would do the rest.”
The idea of shooting a possessed man to kill the demon didn’t disturb him as much as it might have before.
“Can the Grigori...” Sam started. “Can they enter dreams?”
Without looking up, he saw both heads swing toward him. “What?”
Folding his arms across his chest and gripping his arms, he said, “I think...I’ve been dreaming of him. The man with the yellow eyes.” He barely stopped himself from wincing in anticipation of their reaction.
Dean and John looked at each other for a long moment. Sam didn’t lift his head to see what expressions they were. “You think you’ve been dreaming of it?” John said, his voice low.
“I’ve never remembered when I woke up. Not until I saw him-it-tonight. Now, I’ve been starting to remember some of it. I remember the eyes.”
“Yellow eyes,” Dean said.
“Yeah.” Still avoiding their faces, he asked, “Is it possible?” When John didn’t answer, he finally chanced a glance upward, afraid to see disappointment and anger directed once again at him.
Instead, he saw only his own sorrow and defeat reflected in his father’s eyes, and a lump grew in Sam’s throat. He could have taken anger. This was...worse. So much worse.
John cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice was calm. Or not calm-emotionless. “This is a special case in so many ways, Sammy. We don’t know how this works-with you or with the Grigori. But...it might be possible. The Grigori’s specialty was...seducing and convincing, whether they appealed to sexual desire or greed or confusion or a craving for something else. Dreams would seem like the ideal way to do it.”
Sam couldn’t help sinking further into his corner.
Succumbing to evil’s seduction. So weak. So desperate for...
For what? What weakness had the Grigori preyed on?
(“...so proud of you...”)
A childish wish for approval. Was that it? Could it really be something so stupid, when he’d grown-really grown-into his own man, now, at his brother’s side? When he knew, logically, that his father probably loved him as much as...well, almost as much as...
Oh God.
He had been thinking that. And he’d let the demon worm through.
“What does it want?” he asked, hearing how small his voice was. “Why us? The psychics.” Because it was clear, now, who it was that this demon was targeting. “He fed me his blood. Said I was one of his children. One of his.”
“The Grigori have always tried to leave traces of themselves behind,” John said lifelessly. “A new generation. Maybe this is their way of...marking their chosen ones.”
(“...But I’m not your son.”
“It’s not that simple...”)
As Sam thought back on what he knew of the lore about Grigori and their offspring... A sharp laugh burst abruptly from him. “So, what-we’re like the new Nephilim?” Jesus. This was insane.
Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re not a Nephilim, Sam.”
“Nephil,” he corrected automatically, making Dean huff a short laugh of his own.
“Yeah, well, being a grammar Nazi isn’t grounds for being drowned in a month-long flood.”
Sam looked at him in surprise, wondering for a moment how well Dean really knew Biblical lore, then berated himself for forgetting that his brother knew more than he usually admitted, even about something he didn’t believe in. Still, Sam was the one who’d read those pages over and over, looking for history or direction or meaning.
“ ‘The Nephilim were on the earth in those days-and also afterward,’ ” he quoted. “They weren’t all wiped out. Or if they were...maybe this-what’s happening right now-is what it meant.”
“You can’t take things like that literally, Sam, you know that,” Dean insisted. “The stories in the Bible have been changed so much most of them don’t even resemble the truth anymore. Right, Dad?”
But John was avoiding their gaze again. Sam’s stomach dropped. “Dad?” The man didn’t answer or look up. “Oh God. You think I am. Or something like them. You think I’ll become...corrupt.” It hurt like a physical wound that his father would think it. Worse...was the thought that it could be true.
He thought of the hot thrill that came every time he moved something just by wishing it and felt sick.
“They say the Nephilim destroyed each other,” he realized.
“There’s no such thing as Nephilim,” Dean growled, annoyed.
Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The lore had to come from somewhere. What if something like this has happened before? Psychics rising up. Whatever’s in us...it’s pushing us. Trying to break us. We’re being eliminated. Most of the other psychics did horrible things, and then they destroyed themselves. And Andy even killed his brother.”
The thought was beyond chilling. Dean was saying something, but Sam wasn’t listening.
“We have to stop me,” he heard himself say through a daze of horror, “before I become like them... You have to stop me.”
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Notes:
First, please tell me if I got the singular of Nephilim wrong. Should it be spelled Nephil or Naphil or something else?
Azazel’s name caught my attention as part of Grigori mythology. I don’t know if this is what the show intends/intended, but it makes total sense to me. It makes even more sense going by the mythology I’ve decided on for this story. I’ve altered some aspects in the reality-is-different-from-lore sense, but I’m not an expert in mythology, especially when it deals with Biblical canon or apocrypha, so please let me know if something’s terribly off. I know some people don’t like things in the Bible being referred to as lore with the implication that it’s changed as it was passed down the grapevine, but it’s Supernatural. This is the only thing that works.
It helps that one of the other leaders-the leader-is Samyaza (spelled various ways, including Shemyaza, etc. depending on different languages and translations and versions), which, of course, makes me think of our Sammy. Sam’s name reminds me of quite a few mythical baddies, actually, which is awesome-like Samael, for example, which brings up quite a few interesting thoughts about Lilith. (Lilith won’t make an appearance here-just my rambling thoughts).
Chapter 19