Threefold..., 1/11
A Threefold Path to Redemption
...intrai per lo cammino alto e silvestro. --Dante Alighieri
Sam finds the answer.
In a middle-of-nowhere bookshop, while Dean’s haggling to get more money out of the wizened dealer, Sam picks up a folio and starts flipping through it. At first, translating the Latin and Greek in his head, he thinks it’s a bad translation of one of Solomon’s Keys, maybe a few separate sections mingled together, but then he gets to the end of a page and freezes.
When they leave the bookstore, a few hundred bucks in Dean’s wallet, Sam’s carrying the book.
--
They have four months until the deal comes due but Sam doesn’t waste time. Every spare second he has, his nose is buried in the book. Dean bitches and Sam doesn’t take any notice of it; Dean stops the day Sam starts taking notes in Greek.
“You don’t even like Greek,” Dean comments. Sam looks at his brother; Dean’s face is drawn, tight, and he has dark hollows under his eyes. Sam wants to tell Dean that it’ll be all right, that he’s found an answer but he knows his brother won’t accept it. Dean will want to know what the deal-breaker's going to consist of, if he even goes so far as to ask before freaking out about Sam lying dead on the floor again. Dean would stop him from doing what he needs to do.
Fear thrums like a heartbeat through Sam’s body when he thinks about it. He’s insane to even consider it but Dean’s sold his soul and Sam’s lived without his brother. Those memories have glossed over but the emotions, the agony, haven’t.
Sam knows what it's like down there. He'll do anything to stop Dean from going to hell.
“It’s not so bad,” Sam says, and turns back to the book. “There are worse things.”
Anything.
--
On the night when Dean's deal comes due, Dean tells Sam to wait there, in the motel room, gives Sam the keys to the Impala and says, "Don't you dare come after me."
"Dean," Sam starts to say, but stops when Dean shakes his head. Dean hasn't looked Sam square in the eyes for three days but he does now, does and knows what it's going to do to Sam to see the pain, the rage, that Dean can't hide.
Sam's eyes narrow, shoulders setting, and he says, low and quiet, "If I'm going to have to let you go to hell, I'm going to watch those dogs drag you there with my own two eyes."
Dean sighs, turns away. Only when his back's to Sam does Dean say, "I don't want that to be your last memory of me. Sam. Stay here."
"No," Sam says, and that's the end of it. Dean can't refuse Sam, not with the tone Sam's using, not with a couple hours left, not when Dean thinks that Sam hasn't found a way and this is the last time they'll have together.
They leave for the crossroads after a steak dinner. Dean drives and Sam's in the passenger seat, just like always, just like he should be.
The inside of the Impala is silent. Dean's facing straight ahead and Sam's staring at his brother's cheek.
If this doesn't work, if they don't accept his bargain, if --
He'll do anything.
--
The middle of this crossroads looks like the middle of any other crossroads. Still, there's some element to the atmosphere, something like reckoning, like payments come due, that sends chills down Sam's spine. Sam recites the word under his breath, going over the pronounciation again and again, and prays he has it right. Dean stands there, says, "Man, and I thought demons liked to be on time. They're missing out on a good piece of soul, here."
Sam stares at his brother, incredulous; this type of bravado, it's, this is so utterly ridiculous it takes Sam's breath away.
Apparently the demon thinks the same, because Sam can feel her like an oil slick across the natural fabric of the world. He whirls, lays eyes on her, sees her staring at his brother, hounds crouched at her side. Dean hasn't seen her yet; for a moment, Sam and the crossroads demon, this incarnation of her, are in complete agreement.
"Anticipation makes the taste a little deeper," she says, eyes flicking to Sam before moving back to Dean, striking a pose and looking for all the world like she owns them both. The hounds strain next to her, against her hold, and Sam opens his senses, all the tricks he learned the last time he was in hell. "A little richer. And, oh, your soul is rich, Dean, don't get me wrong, but a little extra? Goes a long way."
Sam watches as she reaches down, absently, and scratches behind one of the hound's ears. The crowd of hellhounds waits, sitting at her side and panting, their tongues lolling out and dripping saliva that steams when it hits the ground. They're all looking at Dean, all of them except the one that the demon's touching; that one's fixated on Sam.
"Whatever," Dean says, shrugging, looking at his watch. "Look, I'm late, so can we hurry this up? I've had an extra two minutes and I don't think that's up to your usual level of service. Don't want any kind of late charge on my head."
The demon laughs, asks Sam with eyes glinting blood-red if he's there because he wants to see Dean die, ripped to pieces and taken to hell.
Dean's jaw clenches. "Hurry up, bitch. Sam's got stuff to do."
Sam swallows. The demon takes one step forward and doesn't seem at all surprised when Sam says, "Wait."
"I wondered if you'd try something," she says. Dean's already telling him to shut the fuck up, to get out of there and away from the demon, the hounds, but the demon lifts one hand and Dean stops talking, grabs his throat like he can't breathe. "The brothers Winchester, so willing to sacrifice the world for one another. I would have been disappointed if you'd kept quiet. Well? You want to make a deal? Your soul isn't exactly worth much time, if you get my drift. It's a little tainted, already a little tattered around the edges, smoking in the middle."
"He's not making any fucking deal," Dean growls. "Now come on and take me."
The demon laughs. "Oh, Dean," she says, like it's funny. "Plenty of us will be taking you, as you put it. Though I hadn't pegged you to be begging already. Hmm. Pegged you. There's a lovely idea. Wonder if Lilith's had that thought already."
She keeps laughing but Sam's not. He's not moving, either, except to open his mouth and let loose with that one word he learned, dragged up from the depths of an old occult book written in the worst ancient Greek Sam's ever seen, a word that twists and winds its way out of his esophagus and flows over his tongue with all the subtlety of nails. He shudders but he says the word, full and complete, and when it's over, the demon's silent, staring at him with wide crimson eyes.
"Dude," Dean says. "Dude, what was that?"
The demon steps back from Dean, hounds whining low in their throats, showing their bellies. The demon's breathing tight, almost hyperventilating. "How," she starts to say. "How did you. Where?"
"I have rights, now," Sam says. The word gone, spoken, he feels lighter. Heavier at the same time. He knows what he's asking for, what it's going to take. "And I know I just went way over your head. So take your damn dogs and get the hell away from my brother while we wait."
Miracle of miracles, the demon listens. She moves back.
--
Dean's had two minutes since the demon moved and he's spent it asking Sam what's going on, trying to plead with the crossroads demon to take him and let Sam go, trying to get someone to answer him. The demon doesn't, staring at Sam, and Sam doesn't, waiting.
Two spots of blacker night, deeper and oily, start to appear in front of the crossroads demon. When the figures take shape and materialise, she drops to one knee, the hounds laying on their stomachs and tipping their heads to the side, baring their necks. Sam feels the urge to join them deep inside, the place where he's Azazel's son and not John Winchester's, but he doesn't. Instead, Sam steps in front of Dean and tilts his chin up, glaring.
"Samuel," one of the demons says. It steps forward; Sam can see the shape of her. He would recognise her face anywhere: Lilith, the queen of hell. "You make me proud. More and more, every day. Such a wonderful specimen, all that power and the knowledge to use it as well. And now you've gone and summoned me. Is this fortunate coincidence or am I here for a reason?"
Sam glances at the other demon behind her, sees that the crossroads demon hasn't moved yet, is still on one knee, head bowed. He gets shivers and tries to hide them. "I want to propose a trade. Me for Dean, in the usual manner."
"Do you know what the fuck you're doing?" Dean asks. "Because I don't think you do, Sam. You need to shut up and get out of here. Now."
Sam's not stupid. Dean might've been the comic book geek but Sam's spent a lot of time in the Impala with nothing else to do. He knows about Constantine and remembers his own death. One second in hell lasts forever.
Still, it rankles to hear Dean question him. Sam probably has a better idea of what's waiting down there for both of them; the deaths Dean experienced thanks to the Trickster, they don't exist now and Dean doesn't remember them. Sam, though. He's died. He's seen hell. It's not something a person forgets.
Dean thought a year with Sam alive was a good exchange for his soul; Sam's offering three days of everything he is -- mind, body, and soul -- for Dean's eternity. He thinks the trade's more than fair. If any of the Winchesters deserve hell, it's him, demon-tainted and freakish, not Dean.
"Shut up, Dean," Sam says, and steps forward.
A wall of flames springs up between him and Dean, hot enough to have Dean swear as he stumbles back, hot enough to make the skin on Sam's arm bubble and pop into blisters as his arm hair's singed away.
Lilith motions the other demon forward, who nods his head once at Sam even though he doesn't stop smirking. "My name is Sycorax, Samuel. Do you know who I am?"
The demon comes closer, circles around to the back of Sam; Sam stiffens but doesn't otherwise move except to answer, "I thought you were female," like he's an idiot. He must be, he is, except that it's Dean in the balance and Sam doesn't care which demon this is or what form it prefers to possess, just wants to set the bargain and get it over with as fast as possible.
Sycorax leans forward, inhaling the scent of Sam from behind his ears. A moment later, the demon's tongue snakes out and tastes Sam's skin, the sweat and fear and utter determination. Sycorax laughs. "Oh, Sam. If you're that determined to deal for your brother's eternity, then we won't try to talk you out of it. Let's get right down to business. This is our opening bid: three days in hell, in exchange for Dean's contract," Sycorax says. The demon moves to face Sam, now, close enough to touch, close enough to lean down and kiss. "You for him, three days under Lilith's personal invitation and protection."
There's a smile on the demon's face. He'll be the one to determine the manner of Sam's stay, then, and Lilith's here because she's the only one who can approve the bargain.
"Three days in hell for Dean's contract to be null and void," Sam corrects the demon, mouth set in a narrow line.
Dean's yelling, the sound mutating as it passes through flames tinged blue with sulphur. Sycorax says, "On one condition, Sam. Dean waits in Limbo. If you want out of the deal, we take him."
Sam doesn't even pause. "Agreed."
Instead of the crossroads demon, Lilith steps forward. "Kiss me, then," she murmurs, "to seal the deal. And may the Lord God of Heaven strike me from existence if I don't uphold my end."
With Dean watching, with the hounds panting and Sycorax grinning and the crossroads demon still on one knee, Sam pulls Lilith to him and kisses her. Their lips slide together, his dry and cracked from anxiety, hers burning with hellfire but so sweet and decadent, and when she bites down, he gasps. Her tongue is in his mouth, then, and he can feel the terms of the bargain written on to his soul. He wonders how Dean ever lived with this feeling for a year, wonders how so many others did it for ten.
She pushes him back and Sycorax is there to hold him. The demon's fingers press into Sam's arm, tight and hard enough to bruise; Sam doesn't object. He doesn't have the right, not now, not for the next seventy-two hours.
Lilith produces a piece of paper and spits. Sam watches and can see the words forming, sees his name signed with the blood she took from his mouth. "Little Samuel," Lilith purrs. "All ours." She studies him, then cocks her head and tells the crossroads demon, "The brother. Take him to Limbo. All of him, as we take all of Sam."
"No," Sam says, immediately. Sycorax's grasp tightens but Sam doesn't do the demon the honour of reacting. "I want to see him taken there."
Lilith smiles, then slaps Sam across the face. Dean yells but Sam's attention is focused on the queen of hell. "If you wanted that, you should have bargained for it. It's too late now, Sam." She trails her fingers above the bruise on his cheek, just light enough for Sam to feel. "Come. We're wasting time."
And then he's ripped off of earth.
--
The pain is unimaginable. Last time, when he died with a knife in his back, his body was still on earth and his mind was dead. The only thing that travelled to hell was his soul and it felt a little like going home, the way he feels every time he heads back to the Impala's front passenger seat, the way going home to Jess after his internship felt.
This time, though, his very bones have been torn out of their normal reality, have been brought to a place that feels like it has twice the gravity and three times less oxygen, the weight of his world pressing down on him even though he can't see it. Sam can't breathe, at first, and then Lilith touches his back and forces air into his lungs. Her fingernails dig in right where Jake twisted the blade in past skin and bone.
"Wouldn't do to have you die before we even get there," she mutters, sounding displeased -- though not with him.
Sam coughs, feels his lungs seize up again, but her touch must have done something, changed something. He swallows, feels his ears pop, and then he's as fine as a person can be, staring at the entrance to hell when he's still alive.
"You can change your mind," Sycorax reminds him.
They haven't even gotten inside yet. Sam's staring at doors etched with angelic script, molten iron red hot from the fire. "Fuck you," he says. "Let's get this over with. Time's wasting," he adds, mimicking and mocking. He can't do anything else, faced with going back to hell.
Dean would be proud, he thinks, if his brother wasn't so furious at Sam for doing this in the first place. Dean doesn't even know the half of what Sam's had to do to get here. Sam wants to keep it that way for as long as possible. Keep that from Dean, and maybe what this is going to do to Sam will be easier to hide, this and what kind of eternity he's guaranteed for the both of them.
Sycorax nods and looks at Lilith.
--
They open the main gates for him. Lilith stands on his right, Sycorax on his left, and they hold him up by the elbows as the doors to hell blast open with an acrid smell of burning flesh and the sound of screams. It's everything Sam's imagined, everything Sam's expected, seeing it from this perspective, walking in from this entrance.
"Welcome back," Lilith says, leaning over and smoothing down his hair. Some of the curls have gone to frizz in the heat, ends singed and smoking.
Sycorax steps forward first and, as the demon steps through the gates, throngs of others come closer, calling out, taunting Sam. He expected that, though; raised to be Azazel's heir, now nothing more than a demon's plaything, sacrificed to this for three days, there's no reason they wouldn't want to spit at him, humiliate him.
Sam can see Pride lurking there surrounded by sycophants and smirking. If he was doing this for anyone or anything other than Dean, Sam would honestly think twice, but Dean is caught in Limbo and if Sam breaks the bargain, it'll be Dean down here. He can't do that, not to his brother. Eyes fixed on Pride, Sam steps into hell.
--
They strip him first, before he gets five steps in, strip him and search him, make sure he hasn't swallowed down anything holy, isn't hiding something up his ass or down his throat. They poke and they prod and when he feels like they can't go any deeper without cutting him open, Sycorax shoves him to his knees.
Lilith hums at the sight of his tattoo, reaches out and traces over it in the air, following the curves and angles of the flames licking out from the pentagram. "I remember feeling this," she whispers. "It hurt you terribly to get it."
Sam doesn't say anything. She's right, strangely enough; Dean went first and didn't seem to have any problem but Sam felt as if every press of needle was trying to burn something inside of him out. He hadn't said anything at the time, never told Dean, just clenched his teeth together and rode out the ache. Of course, after coming back from hell, after everything he learned, of course it would hurt.
Sycorax bends down, bares his teeth and licks the ink. He stands straight, lips smoking. "A strong one," he says. "I shall enjoy taking it off."
"Do it now," Lilith commands. "Take away his security here, in front of every one of us."
Sycorax grins, bends down again, this time to face Sam. He bares his teeth, eyes mocking Sam, and then uses his teeth to rip the skin away. Sam howls and stops, choking, as Lilith touches him. He looks down, sees a hole in his chest, wonders why it isn't still bleeding. Lilith halfway healed him. He's stunned.
Sam looks up at her, at her eyes, twinned sympathy and triumph, and swallows, looks instead at Sycorax.
"Hair is a sign of holiness," the demon murmurs as he holds out one hand. A twisted, crawling little sprite scampers up, shows its fangs to Sam, offers out a rusted metal knife, caked over with blood and clumps of hair.
Sam keeps his mouth shut but he glares even as he knows what's coming.
"In the Book of Judges, it is said that when Samson's hair was shorn from his head, he was weak and like any other man," Sycorax says. "But we know the truth, Sam, don't we. He was brought low by a prostitute and her declarations of love because he was weak all along. Still, you can't beat that symbolism." Sycorax strokes the curve of Sam's scalp, grabs hold of his hair and yanks his head back, so that Sam can see every demon stepping closer.
Sam focuses on Sycorax and Lilith, the pair of them, him so gleeful, her so sad, and waits.
Sycorax takes the knife, starts sawing off chunks of Sam's hair. It piles like dust around him, catching on fire when it blows away. Soon enough, the blade touches Sam's scalp and Sycorax begins to shave. The knife catches on Sam's skin, tears off pieces of flesh along with hair, digs dip and uneven. Sam can feel infection like water begin to soak through him and he closes his eyes as blood drips down into his eyelashes.
He doesn't feel his strength of will ebb away, stays kneeling tall and proud. This hurts, there are no words for how much it hurts, being hacked away at like this, but he doesn't care. Dean is in Limbo and he has less than three days to go, now. They won't break him, not this easily, no matter how much he's fought for the right to have his hair as long as he wants.
Cold fingers brush blood out of his eyes; Sam opens them, sees Lilith looking down on him, sees Pride behind her, strangely approving.
He bares his teeth at the demon, eyes narrowed, and starts to stand; Sycorax puts one hand on Sam's head and pushes Sam back down. Nails dig into Sam's skull, he hisses in pain but doesn't say anything.
"You belong to me," Lilith says, voice clear and loud, carrying through every cavern of hell. "For as long as you are here, you are mine, Samuel Winchester. Let there be a sign, so all shall know whose property you are."
"I am no one's property," Sam growls out.
Lilith smiles, a sinister expression, and holds out one hand. A different demon crawls up on hind legs and belly, a collar in its mouth, held tight between pointed teeth.
Sam opens his mouth as Lilith takes it, his eyes fixed on the black leather, the four twisted silver buckles. He's about to say something when Lilith looks down at him, one eyebrow raised, and says, "You've given yourself to us for three days, Sam. To me. If you refuse this, I'll consider that you're breaking your side of the bargain. Do you still refuse?"
Dean's in Limbo and Sam has three days to go, minus a few minutes. He can't -- won't -- give up this easily. If it takes wearing a collar to save his brother, Sam will wear a million of them.
He lifts his head up high, hair falling away from his face, while she buckles it on him, pulls it tight. He swallows and can feel the restraint; he breathes and it constricts his air-flow. Sam hates it, hates it already, but this is for Dean.
Lilith pushes one finger in next to his skin, under the collar, to test the give, maybe, or to see how much space is left. "You won't touch it," she says.
Sam hears it as an order. He bares his teeth again and this time is prepared for her to backhand him, break his nose with the force of her hand against his face. The fury never drops from his eyes, even as blood starts trickling over his skin, into his mouth. His nose aches, the blood itches. He's expecting much worse; he starts to compartmentalise the pain, much the way his father taught him. Acknowledge it, use it, work through it -- he'll have to remember that if he wants to survive down here, remember it and remember himself.
Pride is laughing, somewhere. The sound makes Sam straighten up, back a ramrod line of steel.
Sycorax gestures for another demon; it brings a leash. Sam glares but lets Sycorax attach the end of the leash to the wide o-ring on the front of his collar, lets the demon click it in like he's an animal to be trained.
A tug sends Sam sprawling on the burning floor, another has him choking as he resists the need to scrabble at the constriction around his neck. "Fuck you," he coughs out, then spits at Sycorax's feet. Saliva steams into smoke. The smell of burnt blood begins to fill hell.
"We'll see about that," Sycorax says. "Now, get up. Time's wasting, Sam, and I want to enjoy every minute I can pull from your wretched little existence."
--
Sycorax parades him past the demons standing there, watching. Sam's naked and the skin on his feet is blistering, breaking, burning to cinders as he walks. The pain is like walking on hot nails or superheated glass, something he'd never ordinarily do of his own free will. Sam tries to focus on a comparison, breaking it down to minute sensations and not what he's seeing around him.
It feels like the first time he ran across gravel without shoes or socks -- he doesn't look as Sycorax pulls him through the first circle of hell, looks away from the weeping people, tries not to notice as the blades of grass he's walking through whip through the skin on his feet and legs, covering him with blood. He doesn't look. It feels like the bottom of a rocky lake with fronds of seaweed washing around his legs. He doesn't look. He tries to narrow all of his senses to one thing and settles on the weight of the collar around his neck, such an odd feeling against his skin, constriction where he's not used to any, heaviness when he's used to nothing but air.
He doesn't look as Sycorax tugs on the leash and they walk through the second level; he concentrates on breathing, not on the lustful souls being punished, not on the electric arcs of lightning connecting with his scabbed-over head and overloading his nerves.
The third circle, the fourth, the fifth; it's getting harder for Sam to walk, to breathe. He's lost a lot of blood, maybe too much to make it wherever Sycorax is taking him. Sam gets caught in the middle of an argument between a brother and sister in the fifth circle, almost loses an eye. Pitted pock-marks dot his skin from the hail in the third circle and he thinks he's missing a toe, left among the piles of jewels Sycorax dragged him through in the fourth circle. He doesn't want to look. He doesn't want to know.
When they get to the gates and the demons guarding the inner sanctum, Sycorax finally slows down and tugs on Sam's leash. Sam drops to his knees, has to scrabble close to Sycorax in order to breathe. The demon pets Sam's head and merely yanks the leash when Sam tries to move away.
"Stay," the demon says, smile on its face, as if Sam's nothing more than a trained dog.
Lilith, behind him, touches his neck. Sam's skin crawls as he heals, head to toe.
"He's not dead," the demon guarding the gates says. "My queen, unless he gives consent."
The demon trails off, reaching out to take a contract that Lilith offers without prompting. The work of ten seconds, for the demon to read the contract, and then it looks at Sam.
"This is true?" it asks.
Sam looks up, sees Sycorax close to laughter, looks around and sees Lilith, waiting. He could leave. He could let it go. But that would mean sentencing Dean to this. Sam will wait. He will bide his time and hold his tongue as best he can, but he'll do this. No one's going to stop him from saving Dean, least of all a guard-demon.
"Yeah," he says. "Didn't you see the blood on the contract?" He turns to Lilith, eyes sparking, tone brazen as he adds, "You have some real winners here, Lilith."
Sycorax pulls the leash and Sam tumbles, snarling as he does so.
The demon guard steps aside, inclining his head, and the doors open.
"Close to the inner sanctum," Lilith murmurs. "But not yet there. Bring him, Sycorax," and she steps in front of them, leading the way.
--
This is the place Sam remembers. Not the sixth circle, where heretics are burned alive for all eternity and Sam's fingernails catch on fire, and not the seventh with its violent, its suicides, its blasphemers, where the suicides shove bloody thorns into Sam's arms and chest for the others to light on fire and burn into him. Not even the eighth circle and its frauds; Sam gets bitten by so many snakes that Lilith has to heal him yet again.
No, Sam remembers the ninth circle, the lowest place in hell, and the centre where Lilith holds court -- where Azazel used to, before Dean killed him with one holy and sanctified bullet, shot from a holy and sanctified Colt. He was here before, the last time he died.
He remembers the demons, some of them swirling in black clouds he expected, some of them, the powerful ones, creating a physical form that draped around them like cloaks. He remembers the circles, remembers the path leading to the centre of hell. Sam was only in the ninth circle for a few minutes, not long enough for Lilith to notice his presence when she was welcoming so many of the other psychic children, not when he fled into a different circle and hid until Dean made his bargain, but here, this place, he was here and he remembers it well: the ninth circle, home of traitors.
Sycorax tugs him, almost gently, down to the middle of the pit. Sam looks up, can see circle upon circle of demon looking down and watching him, can hear the screams and pleas for mercy start to fill the air again. He doesn't see any of the other psychic kids; looks for Ava and Andy and Jake, knows they're somewhere in hell but not here, down at the centre.
Sam can't ignore anything, not now, can't. A shiver of fear goes down his spine -- does he really have any idea what he's in for? He can guess, and has, knows better than Dean because Dean's never been in hell before, and that decides him. He can do this for Dean. He won't give in.
He steps down each stair, eyes fixed on Lilith, seated on a throne of thorn and bone. She gestures to one side, a sort of room, walls made from bone, stuck together with dried blood, a ceiling of stretched out skin. "Privacy," she says, smile on her lips, "until we decide otherwise. I don't like to share, Sam. You remember that, don't you."
It's not a question. Sam doesn't treat it as one. His mouth is dry from the heat and when he tries to speak, the collar constricts around his throat. He doesn't know what he would say, at any rate, so he settles for sticking up his middle finger at Lilith.
She laughs. She laughs and Sycorax laughs.
That's not good.
"Go on, then," Lilith says, waving one dismissive hand toward the small room. "I shall come to check on our visitor shortly. Make him at home, Sycorax," she adds, wicked grin curving apart her face like a knife. "Because this is his home. It's time we remind him of that."
Sycorax gives Lilith a half-bow and Sam has enough time to spit at her feet before he has to run to keep from strangling on the end of Sycorax's damnable leash.
--
The demon's strong, Sam will admit to that. No matter how much or how hard he fights, Sycorax manhandles Sam onto a stone slab and ties him down. Sam's spitting and cursing to wake the dead but Sycorax just seems to get an unholy amount of glee at being able to force Sam.
When Sam's tied down and has no hope of getting out, no matter how good with the knots he is, Sycorax unclips the leash, hangs it on one hook, a tooth stuck into the bone wall. "Your brother," Sycorax begins.
"Shut the fuck up about Dean," Sam growls, fighting the ropes. "You don't get to talk about him."
Sycorax gently smacks Sam's foot before saying, "I can talk about whatever I want, Sam, and you know that well enough. Now, where was I. Ah. Yes. Dean. This place would have driven him insane long before we'd had our fill." Sycorax seems pleased with that. "Not a strong mind in that one, such a disappointment after your father."
Sam wants to roll his eyes and does. "You can shut up about my dad, too. You demons, you really have a hard time keeping Winchesters down here, you realise that, right?"
"Not you," Sycorax says, immediately responding. "You know what you've done, giving yourself to us, making the kind of bargain you did. We've always known Dean is your weakness; using him to get you here was a stroke of Lilith's genius."
"You weren't responsible for Jake killing me," Sam snarls back.
Sycorax smiles. "That was luck, true, but we knew. We've always known. Bait the hook with Dean to catch our real prey: you, Samuel, our traitorous general. So different from your brother, so different from your father -- your human father, at least. No, you have Azazel to thank for your mental competence as well as for your, dare I say, final destination. And now you find yourself in the home of Cain, the ninth and deepest circle, to be tormented by those you're supposed to lead. You're too much one of us, kind and kindred, to be anywhere else. And your mind is strong, unlike Dean's. You won't be able to retreat into yourself to survive the next three days, no matter how much you wish to."
Sam ignores the warning because he's already come to that conclusion on his own. If walking through every level of hell wasn't enough to break his mind, he doesn't think anything will be. Still, he can't help the sharp retort at Sycorax's allusions, bristling at the idea that he owes Azazel anything. "I'm not kind or kindred to demons, Sycorax. If I deserve the ninth circle, it's because I've betrayed my family."
Sycorax steps close, lays one hand on Sam's cheek. His skin crawls. The ropes dig into his shoulders and ankles. "And what are we, if not your family? Now, I don't want you to argue but I know your mouth. So let me help you." He pries Sam's mouth open, ignoring Sam's swearing and biting. Sam gags on the demon's fingers, shakes his head, and Sycorax has to use his other hand to hold Sam's head still, nails digging in across Sam's forehead.
With no ceremony and less warning, Sycorax rips out Sam's tongue.
Agony blossoms in Sam's mouth as he chokes on blood. He writhes in his bonds, coughing, a wordless keen of pain screaming its way into hell.
"The only thing you'll feel," Sycorax says, bending over to croon in Sam's ear, "is pain. You'll come to love it. I have seventy two hours, Sam. I have four thousand, three hundred and twenty eternities to give you. Pain will become the only thing you crave. And when our time is up, you'll find no one can give you what you need unless you stay here, with your family."
--
Sycorax leaves him there, alone and tied with ropes to a slab, no tongue and in a world of hurt, promising to return soon. Sam passes out, he thinks, at one point; there's no one in the room when he awakens. He has no idea how much time goes by before the sharp, shooting loss of his tongue becomes a dull, aching throb. If there's any justice in the world, the time should have eaten up at least a dozen of his eternities but Sam knows that there's no justice in hell.
He tries to move and nearly blacks out, stays still and waits for the dancing spots and black lace at the edges of his vision to go away. When he gives it another try, he moves slower, more carefully, and tests the give on the ropes. They're tied around his chest, his shoulders and legs and hips, keeping all of him in contact with the stone slab Sycorax threw him on. The ropes criss-cross and loop and Sam imagines he sees old Aramaic letters in the curves of twine.
There's no way of getting free. All he can do is wait. It's a very good thing, Sam thinks, that he's always been better at waiting than his brother. Oh, Dean can be patient, can sit in silence for hours on a hunt if it's required, but waiting, there's a difference there, especially knowing what the waiting's for. Dean would be yelling, Sam guesses, even without a tongue, trying to get the demons to notice him, for better or worse, because Dean hates being alone. What his brother must be going through in Limbo, trapped by himself, Sam doesn't want to even consider.
Sam closes his eyes and draws up an image of Dean, laughing in the sunlight. He focuses on Dean and tries to ride the pain, breathe through it, but it's close to impossible. His vision fractures and Dean breaks apart in a flurry of hacking coughs, eyes open and watering. Every inhale and exhale of breath against the stump of his tongue sends a wave of nausea through him and the smell of smoke and blood means he can't breathe through his nose. He half thinks it might be better if he didn't need to breathe but he quickly erases that thought. Sycorax might feel it's a good idea and pull out his lungs next.
As if summoned by that thought, Sycorax returns, carrying a tray carved from bone. Sam tries to figure out what it came from, how it's put together, but then Sycorax tilts it enough for Sam to see what the tray holds. He pales, shakes his head, whimpers at the sudden reminder of his missing tongue.
"Apologies for leaving," Sycorax says, placing the tray on the countertop before leaning one hip against the counter, his other jutting out, arms crossed on his chest. "But it couldn't be helped and I'll need to leave again in a minute. For all that we've been expecting you, it's going to take some time to get things ready. I thought I'd reassure you in the interim, though."
Sam frowns, confused. Sycorax laughs, sashays over to Sam, runs one finger down the line of Sam's neck. Sam shivers, can't help it.
"You have always been needy," Sycorax murmurs. "Always demanding, always had to be the centre of attention."
Sam opens his mouth to argue, forgetting again that he doesn't have a tongue. He chokes, coughs on his words, and settles for staring at Sycorax, urging his thoughts toward the demon.
Sycorax clicks his tongue against his teeth and Sam glares, both because he hates being chided and because Sycorax is showing off, the bastard. "It's true, Sam," the demon says. "Your brother was always content to be left alone, whether at home or on the hunt, to have only you and your father for company. Oh, he likes going out, doesn't he, and playing fast and loose with Lust and Greed, but at the end of the day, he prefers to be with those he can trust and no others. But you. You need people. You need to know that other people see you, acknowledge you, cater to you. A bad habit from childhood that you've tried to outgrow, but you've only pushed it all to one person. And so Lilith and I will be giving your precious brother some time off. You'll always know, down here, that we're focused on you." He pauses, grins, and adds, "You just might not like the direction that focus takes. But you'll get used to it. Now, think about that and don't go anywhere."
--
Sycorax disappears. Time passes.
Sam keeps his mind busy, trying to ignore Sycorax's promise as much as he's trying to ignore the screams and pleas that filter in through the bone-walls and ceiling of his little room, trying to convince himself that the stench of fear and pain and death isn't so bad. They're trying to stretch out his mind, break him, but he won't let them. He'll fight.
He starts by reciting government documents, the Declaration and the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, moves on to law cases he can remember, facts and dates and names, going in chronological order as best as he can. It's alphabets after that, English then French, then Spanish, Latin, Greek, Aramaic, Arabic, the bits and pieces of others that he knows, then his multiplication tables, then every mythological system and supernatural creature he's ever studied. He thinks about hell and what others have said about it, everything from the Bible to astral projectors, thinks about what every demon on earth has told him and what's he learnt from his time down here.
He comes to a few conclusions he'd like to disprove but can't.
When he's run out of things to recite, when the rip-wind agony floating through him threatens to override his mind, Sam turns his consciousness to 'what-if's. Jess always told him he could be a writer with the way he imagined things and he always laughed, because his mind has never worked in terms of plot and theme and structure. Instead, he makes up cases.
A girl in Minnesota, found dead on top of an ice-covered lake. Why on the lake? Why in Minnesota? What could have done it? How can he know for sure? How would he track and destroy whatever had killed her? An old man, a father, and a student, none of them visibly connected, drained of blood in central Ohio. A retiree in New Mexico. A pair of twins in New Hampshire. Missing children in Arkansas.
Sam thinks, and ponders, and imagines, until he can't resist the pain.
--
The process of waking is instant. One moment, Sam's unconscious and dreaming of Dean, stuck in Limbo and going insane, and the next he's awake. He blinks, forgets he's tied down and tries to scratch his nose, moves and lets out a small whimper.
"Wondered when you were going to wake up," Sycorax says. The demon sounds pleasant even as Sam casts his eyes down his own body. What he sees turns his stomach and has him throwing up. Sycorax moves, turns Sam's head to the side, lets vomit dribble on to the floor and start steaming. "I didn't think it would be possible to ignore something like that, even after passing out. Guess I have a great deal to learn about you, don't I, Sam."
"We both do," Lilith says. Sam's dry-heaving but he manages to catch a great big gulping breath of air, looks at her, standing there, studying him, what Sycorax has done to him. She steps forward, smiles at him and trails her finger along the curve of his right ventricle. Sam shudders. "We know him so well, and yet he remains such a mystery." She lifts her finger and Sam heals, instantly, everything except his tongue.
His heart sinks.
"I think we're going to need a different sort of set-up," Sycorax says, thoughtful as he looks at Lilith.
Lilith returns the look, glances around the room. "Mm." Shimmers of superheated air cover Sam's vision; they clear and things have changed. The slab he was on is now more of a table, edges slanted for run-off. The ropes have become a set of chains and, instead of looping around his entire body, they simply circle his wrists and ankles and connect to giant spikes set into the table's corners.
As if that wasn't enough to ensure he can't move, there’s one more chain, connecting the o-ring hanging from his collar to one more spike, driven into the table right above his head. He can feel it, so close to his scalp.
Sam swallows and tries to breathe when he finds himself hyperventilating, though some part of him feels like he shouldn’t be blamed for it. He's spread-eagle and naked, caught beneath the twin looks of Sycorax and Lilith.
"Better," Lilith murmurs. "And when you're done with this, I'll finish the table."
Sycorax grins and moves. He doesn't turn Sam over so much as rotate the entire table Sam's chained to; there are laws of physics being broken here but all rational thought has fled Sam's mind and he'd never be able to figure out which ones. Sam hangs suspended by the wrists and ankles, the chains the only things keeping him from faceplanting into the floor of smooth and polished hellfire. He swallows, feels the heat ripple up and over him as Sycorax makes a hole in the slab, right down the length of Sam's back.
Sam wishes he had the tongue to ask what the demon's doing or thinking of doing but, then again, doesn't, not when he hears Sycorax tinkering with something along the edges of his room. When Sycorax comes back with a knife and slices open Sam's back, Sam can't scream. The heat below him dries out his throat. He wishes he could let out a shriek but he opens his mouth and the insides catch on fire.
"Oh, come now," Sycorax purrs. "Surely you can handle a little heat?" The demon peels Sam's skin off of his back and then digs through muscle and fat to reach the bones of Sam's vertebrae, tapping each in turn and tearing out the cartilage between them. Sam tries to arch, tries to fight, but there's smoke pouring outwards from his mouth and nose, streaming in tiny ribbons out of his tear ducts, and the chains around his skin have caused blisters.
The pain is exquisite. It lasts forever.
"Well, maybe on the other side, then," Sycorax adds, when it's clear that Sam's voice is gone. He flips the table back and Lilith is still standing there, hands folded across her chest, eyes carefully watching him above cheekbones as sharp as the floor cracking open and burning.
Sycorax spreads Sam's legs, climbs up onto the table, between them, and lifts one above his shoulder. "I'm going to enjoy this," he murmurs, and then leans forward, aligns his dick with Sam's ass, pushes forward. Lilith's touch on Sam's scalp gives Sam enough moisture in his throat to whine in pain.
"A little more," Lilith says, leaning down enough to kiss Sam's head. The touch of her lips to his skin makes Sam shudder; Sycorax groans as every muscle in Sam's body tightens. "There. Now you can scream. He likes that, Samuel. He likes that just as the first human to do this to you liked it."
Sam screams, can't not scream. Yes, it hurt the first time he was fucked and yes, his partner did like to hear him scream, but there was pleasure involved as well and the screams were for more, not a desperate plea to stop, to leave him alone. Sam wishes he could tell them that but Lilith only healed him enough to scream, he has no other way of showing how much this hurts, of letting some of the pain out of his body. He screams and screams until his voice is ragged and Lilith is cooing at him, fingers gliding back and forth over his collarbone.
Sycorax throws his head back, laughing. "Oh, Sam," he says, amused affection threading through his voice as he fucks in, out. "Just think, for all your screaming, you chose this. Dean is still in Limbo. You could call your bargain off and be out of here in seconds."
The coals under Sam's back spit and hiss; Sam arches in pain as his spinal column starts to catch fire, filling the air with the smell of burnt bone. As he arches to get away from the coals, Sycorax slides in deeper. That is its own type of agony.
"You've taken this upon yourself, Sam. Say the word and it will end, right now," Sycorax promises.
Sam makes himself meet the demon's eyes. He has no tongue, he cannot speak, but Lilith is here as well, her hand resting on the collar around his throat, her eyes watching him.
"He was wounded for our transgressions," she murmurs. "And he was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement for our peace was upon him, and by his stripes we are healed." Holy scripture, spoken by a demon; Sam shivers, hearing it, understanding its reflection. "No, Sycorax. For his brother's sake, Sam will not speak a halt to this. And every second that he is redeeming his brother from our tender mercies, he is becoming our saviour. Already, he understands that much."
She kisses the tear-tracks away from his skin as Sycorax fucks deeper, harder.
Sam wails.
--
Later, after Sycorax has had his fill and Sam has a demon's come leaking from his ass, Lilith heals him with a kiss, sliding her tongue into his mouth. She takes his mouth, his silence, and when she's done, she taps the corner of the table. The surface under his back changes instantly, pieces of jagged hellfire sticking up, digging into his skin, sending tiny little streams of blood toward the edges of the table, dripping on to the floor.
A piece emerges under his right foot; Lilith plucks it out of the table and holds it up. Hellfire forged into glass, Sam thinks, watching as the piece of glass shines and shimmers in the light, casting red and bronze shadows over his skin.
“So useful,” Lilith says, tossing the piece of glass to Sycorax, who catches it with a smile. She smiles at Sam, a gleam in her eye, and adds, “Don’t forget about them.”
--
Sam’s eternities pass by too slowly. They’re filled with pain and torture and horror and tears. Not once does Sam doubt that he’s doing this for the right reason. Not once does he even think about calling ‘mercy.’ Dean’s in Limbo. Sam’s strong. They can hurt him -- and they do -- but every piece of skin Sycorax cuts, every bone Sycorax breaks, every muscle and nerve Sycorax frays, means that Dean is safe. Maybe going crazy, but, then again, Sam might be as well by the time he gets out of here. There are still a few thousand eternities left, after all.
--
Sam spends one eternity dreaming of Dean. He doesn't think he's asleep, thinks this is more of a daydream, but he sees Dean back on one of their early hunts just after Azazel died. They were in Oregon, something to do with a siren off the coast, and there had been one moment when Dean was standing near a cliff's edge at sunset. The sun framed Dean's face, played off his freckles, made his eyes look black and endless. Dean had smiled, cocky as always.
Sam's dream changes. Dean grins and his eyes fill with black. He jumps off the cliff.
He opens his eyes, gasping, fighting the chains around his wrist and ankles. Lilith is standing at his feet, reaches out and places her hand over his ankle, thumb rubbing across the bone. "He'll never understand," Lilith says. "He'll never forgive you for this, Samuel. In fact," she says, moving around the table, coming up to perch on it next to him, one hand skimming his collarbone, "he may never want to see you again."
Sam wants to protest, wants to argue, still sees the dream-image of Dean diving to his death playing over and over again across his mind.
"You've done what he couldn't," Lilith says, gently. "You found a way to save him from hell."
She has a point. Dean would never be able to save Sam from hell, not when he has the blood and power of Azazel running through his veins.
Lilith leans down, presses her lips to his, featherlight and cool. "Samuel, my little general. Are we all that bad? We are your family and we've agreed to the terms of your bargain. We've given you Dean and we didn't even ask for something that wasn't already ours. How much more generosity would you expect from a pack of demons?"
Sam hates himself for thinking that maybe, just maybe, she's right again.
"Listen to us," she says, running her nails across his scalp, a teasing touch tracing the welts and burns still present from Sycorax's knife. "That's all I ask. It isn't too much, is it, really?"
He meets her eyes, feels like he's jumped from a cliff and is falling through air with no landing in sight. Sam licks his lips and shakes his head. He's not broken. He doesn't owe them anything.
Lilith smiles, moves her hand from his scalp to his dick, coaxing him to full hardness. "You'll get there," she purrs; "you'll learn, Samuel," and takes him in her mouth.
--
"What next," Sycorax says, more to himself than Sam, not expecting an answer. Whether that’s because Sam doesn’t have a tongue, or because Sycorax has sewn Sam's lips together with his own nerves, Sam’s not sure. Either way, the demon’s a bastard, asking questions of a man who can’t reply.
One response does come, though, as Lilith leans against the doorway, arms folded across her chest. "Perhaps a lesson," she suggests. "Desire versus will, let's talk to our traitorous saviour about that."
Sam wants to argue back but he has no tongue and he's swallowed as many pieces of his throat as he's coughed out. He glares, snarls as best he can, and Sycorax's eyes settle on Sam’s sewn-shut lips, Sycorax’s own curving up to smile. The demon leans forward and rips the nerves out; Sam howls as his lips split and bleed and cling to the nerves Sycorax tosses dismissively over one shoulder.
Sam pants and bleeds, bleeds and pants.
The two demons wait for him and Lilith nods when Sam settles down, glaring at them through the teardrops still clinging to his eyelashes.
"Cannot against will not," Sycorax says, and picks up a pair of burning hot pliers. "Yes. I like that lesson. And after, we'll move inside." Sycorax's gaze passes over Sam, stretched out and immobile; Sam follows the direction of Sycorax's look as best he can and bites his lip when he sees a row of bones, carved into gleaming needles.
The demon clears its throat and Sam turns back, eyes flicking between Sycorax and Lilith. "Cannot means will not," Sycorax says, casually. "Your father used to tell you that, didn't he? He was right but he was wrong, as well, Sam. In hell, we prefer to think of it differently. To tell someone you cannot do something is to tell them you are incapable. To tell someone you will not, though. That's easy enough to understand. It's a matter of capability and opportunity against desire; no choice against choice."
"For instance," Lilith says, still leaning against the doorway when Sam takes his eyes from Sycorax, tapping that pair of pliers against the chains binding Sam's wrists. "You chose to come here in the place of your brother. That was will. When you were here before, that wasn't. A simple matter, really, but one that humanity has twisted. Parents will say anything sometimes." At Sam's look, she nods, smiles, says, "Even hell's parents. Do you understand?"
Sam understands much more than he wants to.
--
Lilith leaves, waving one hand over her shoulder, saying something about the capacity to scream that has Sam looking back at Sycorax with fear and a certain amount of resignation. Sycorax grins and pries Sam's lips apart, uses rusted staples to pin Sam's lips as far away from one another as they'll go without tearing the skin. He's almost being careful, which Sam doesn't get, not until Sycorax takes the pliers and hammers down hard on his front two teeth.
They shatter, send pain ricocheting through his mouth, chunks of teeth and dust choking him.
"Spit them out," Sycorax says. Sam does as ordered, more to keep breathing than out of any desire to please, but the demon simply eyes the shards sticking out of Sam's gums, the other teeth. "Hmm. Which one first," the demon murmurs. Sam closes his eyes and can't stop the screams when Sycorax pulls out every tooth with his pliers.
It gets worse. When his gums are raw and bleeding, when he doesn't have any teeth left, Sycorax heats up the bone needles and starts poking around. By the time the demon's done, Sam has needles coming out of every square millimetre of his gums and the feel of blisters and scabs has become as commonplace in his mouth as the raw, scraped nature of his throat.
Sycorax cuts Sam's left thigh open and tears out the sartorius muscle. Sam's agony is drowned out by the noise as Sycorax uses hellfire to burn holes through each tooth before threading them all on to the muscle.
"An interesting accessory," the demon says, tying the ends of the muscle together, holding the necklace up and looking it over carefully. "Think Lilith will like it?"
Sam pants, trying to catch his breath through the pain of the needles still in his mouth and the splitting of his skin, the loss of blood and muscle. It's impossible. The taste of blood roils in his stomach. He throws up and passes out, drowning in his own vomit.
--
He comes to with a start, jumping as he feels cool skin against his forehead. "We'll have to toughen you up," Lilith says. "Can't have you passing out on us like that, so quickly. Sycorax will see to it," she adds. Sam shivers at the promise he hears, then stiffens as Lilith chuckles. "I did like my gift, though," she says, quieter, leaning down to kiss Sam's skull. "Worthy of royalty, my little general."
Sam jumps, sees black spots in his vision; the needles move as he does, still in his gums. The pain is a sudden rush down to his spine. He looks as carefully as he can and sees through the gleaming mass of needles sticking out of his mouth that his thigh's healed. He looks at Lilith then and sees that she's wearing his necklace of teeth and muscle even though his leg is whole. Sam swallows, wants to throw up again but forces the acid back down.
"Such a strong will," Sycorax says, standing on the other side of Sam. "I'm pleased to be bending it. I shall enjoy breaking it."
Sam swallows.
--
Sycorax is watching him carefully. Lilith is as well, though she's seeing to the business of hell at the same time, taking reports from runner-demons, sending out orders to some of the upper-circle demons on earth. He knows he should be paying attention, knows that Lilith is doing this to instruct him, but his attention is elsewhere. Sycorax has placed candles made of rendered hell-bound human fat around his body, lit wicks made of hair. The flames singe his skin and melt the flesh; Sycorax is collecting Sam's run-off and pouring it back on to him, burning him to screaming.
"You must focus," Lilith chides him, fingers ghosting over his foot. "You will need to know this, Samuel."
Sam swallows and nods. As far as tortures go, this definitely isn't the worst he's had to endure. Still, he thinks it's horrifically unfair to use his own body to cause him pain, a feedback-loop of inventive cruelty. He squeezes his eyes shut, wonders what Dean would say about this, opens his eyes and tries to ignore what Sycorax is doing to him.
--
Sycorax pauses, looks at the scalpel in his hand and drops it dismissively, shaking his head. The point glides into the meaty part of Sam's thigh and travels down an inch further; if he wasn't already coughing up blood, if he hadn't already screamed his throat raw, he'd be making noise again. As it is, a breathless little whimper is all the protest he can muster.
"You're right," Sycorax says, leaving Sam for a moment, heading for his wall of toys. "I'm getting bored with that. Peeling off your skin is only entertaining for so long."
Sam lets his head slump backwards in relief, jerks against his bonds when his skull hits the sharp, jagged pieces of glass and cuts open.
He never remembers the glass.
"Let's talk," Sycorax says. When Sam turns his head to look at the demon's back, the glass scrapes against his scalp. "But what about one of your favourites, yes? Shall we talk about Darwin?" Sam frowns, doesn't know where this is going. "Oh, come now, Sam. Surely you can follow. There are some laws older than time. Darwin discovered a few of them by accident: natural selection, survival of the fittest, early eugenics ideals? No? Well, in that case, shall I monologue? Put your head back and listen."
Sam swallows, wants to argue but can't, not without a tongue. Instead, he lays his head back down.
He never remembers the glass.
--
"'Without constraints, no progressions,'" Lilith says. "William Blake. He was a favourite of yours, Sam, was he not?"
Sam has no tongue, no teeth, no larynx. Then again, she already knows his answer.
Lilith smiles, draws the flechette behind the curve of Sam's left ear. "'Attraction and repulsion, reason and energy, love and hate.' Blake said that. Do you remember what from?"
Sam nods, just once, and feels the long needles pinned into his neck shift, sink deeper.
"That's right," Lilith murmurs. "The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. A great work in spite of its flaws. Blake was a lovely English gentleman, but he loved me and hated me in turns. Much like you, Sam."
The flechette flicks up and Sam's ear falls off, smooth as butter. Lilith lifts it up, studies it, and Sam stares at it curiously for what feels like forever. She bites down on it, hard, and then -- only then -- does Sam feel the pain.
"There is this about Blake," Lilith goes on, spitting out a chunk of flesh from between her teeth. Sam can only hear drumbeats in his left ear, blood rushing out and leaving him light-headed, but her words filter in through his right, tinny and as if from a great distance. "'Without constraints, no progression.' Rules are made to be broken, Sam, and limits tested. Only through the shattering of old knowledge can we create the new." She pauses, leans down and kisses the tip of his nose. "Only through the shattering of the old persona will the new come into being."
Sam is still reeling from the loss of his ear, from the tenderness of her lips on his skin, when she castrates him.
Part Two