66 Seals of Doom on the Wall 12a/12
It was like one of those arcade games, the ones where you go around in the dark, carefully bending 'round corners and gaining points whenever you blow off some zombie, or some alien or whatever the game wants you to fight.
In here, however, there were no extra lives and the big boss at the end of the level could very possibly be your own brother.
A big hug for Jackfan2, for the wonderful work that she did :)
Chapter 12a
There was no time to panic, even though the only thing that Dean wanted to do right then was to punch some walls and maybe, just maybe, cry like a little girl. He was facing a huge pile of shit and there was no shovel anywhere near. Not even a tiny spoon.
There wasn’t even time to wonder what he could and could not do. Dean knew what he HAD to do.
There were too many body parts scattered through the floor. Men and women that had had the misfortune of crossing paths with a demon. People he did not know but that he was certain didn’t deserve this… this unworthy and inconsequential death. They had been nothing but pawns in Lilith’s plan; they were nothing but an obstacle in Sam’s way.
Not that far from where he was, there was one body that Dean could recognize, a spread of dark hair like a broken brush on the floor.
Ruby too had served her purpose and, despite her machinations, neither Sam nor Lilith had found her worthy of being saved. Despite the fact that the girl she had been possessing had been as innocent as any of the others, Dean could not bring himself to pity her.
Dean searched the rest of the room for his things. He had brought his shotgun and two flasks with holy water. Neither would do much good against the hundreds of demons that Lilith had no doubt posted between her and Dean, but they felt like a good safety blanket.
If it weren’t for the devil’s traps sealing each of the walls of the building, Dean was sure that Lilith would’ve left already. But then again, this was exactly what she wanted… this was exactly where she wanted to be and she was too close to give up without a good fight.
Dean just had to get to Sam before Sam found Lilith.
After he got his stuff.
Dean spotted a small lump of dark clothing on the ground not far from him. He just hoped that it was his jacket and that the lumpy things that he could see underneath were his gun and holy water.
Now he just needed to get there. Three feet away and, judging by the way he was feeling, they might as well be a mile.
Dean looked at the mess on his wrists; bile threatening to rise once more when he was finally able to associate the white hot pain with the mesh of blood, flesh, bone and metal that he saw. He was glad he couldn't remember those going in, because he could only imagine the mess of them coming out.
He was fucked.
Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Dean tried to close his hands into a fist. It was harder than he thought. The pain alone was enough to rip a howl from his throat and make the world around him dim in its grim colors. Two fingers in his left hand and three from the right wouldn’t move at all; the rest bent, but there was no real intent or strength behind the gesture. And not one thumb could be found among them.
Which left Dean with a grand total of five more or less working digits to fire a gun and use a flask of holy water.
He was so fucked.
‘One problem at a time,’ Dean mumbled to himself. At a distance, he could hear faint screams and sounds of fight. Somewhere up there, Sam was fighting alone and getting closer and closer to Lilith. From what he could see in that room, Dean had no doubt that Sam would win that fight.
First things first. Getting rid of the two lengths of chain that were currently weighing his wrists down.
There was only one way to go about it and only one way to do it, that part was pretty clear to Dean. Only, he just wasn’t sure if he would be able to stay conscious long enough to finish doing it.
Using the working fingers of his left hand, Dean twisted the right chain in his left arm, holding the metal links as close as he could bear from his right wrist.
He took a couple of deep breaths, not one bit self-conscious about the fact that he sounded like a pregnant woman going through labor. In a strange, perverted and totally wrong way, that was exactly what he was preparing to do, only instead of a baby, he was delivering one ugly-assed piece of crooked metal.
Trying not to think too much about what he was doing, Dean started to gently pull and twist the hook out of his wrist. Quickly he discovered that he only thought it hurt before. Now, feeling every single inch of it grading, scraping and abrading against the mangled flesh and bone, his stomach was threatening to lose its contents in earnest and his vision was blurring with uncontrolled tears.
Shit.
Sweat was running down his face, salty rivulets seeping into his eyes, stinging and burning, while more dripped from his chin and trailed down his neck. Some even found its way into his various wounds. Fuck.
Fighting for concentration and consciousness, Dean blurred the rest of the room out of existence, ignoring the way in which the walls kept wavering in and out of focus, and centered himself on the single act of pushing that piece of metal out. Inch, by inch, by agonizing inch, until the whole hook was out.
Dean drooped the chain to the ground, panting louder than the sound of metal pooling near his boneless arm, tears escaping his tightly close eyes. Exhausted, he allowed himself a moments respite and let his head fall back against the wall, shoulders slumping half way towards the floor. Once strong back muscles were even refusing to support his frame. Just the effort of keeping conscious left his whole body trembling and off balance.
One thing was certain: there was no way that he was getting that second hook out.
Devoid of the metal hook, the right wrist was now bleeding profusely, blood flowing freely to pool on the floor. It was almost hypnotic, the way it streamed down his forearm with more strength and velocity than what Dean thought possible. From the looks of it, the hook had nicked the artery and that was so not good. Just his luck.
Dean looked around. There was nothing near that he could use as a bandage or even a tourniquet. The only pieces of cloth that he had were his blue jacket and the tattered remains of his shirts, but those were in a pile on the other side of the room, all looking an impossible distance away.
Dean’s eyes fell to his shoes and he froze. Of course! "C'mon Winchester," he was muttering to himself as he grabbed the boots' shoelaces. "Fucking think, man."
Of course, he could rightfully blame it on the poor light and the pain, but when had he ever cut himself that kind of slack? Still cursing his mental lapse and momentarily insanity, Dean began the tedious task of unlacing his boots, forcing two uncooperative fingers in to working, slowly and painfully.
That done, like a practiced junky, Dean laced a noose that he then slipped carefully around his right hand. Placing the cord as close to the wound as he dared, he next began pulling the noose tight, letting out a curse through his clenched teeth.
Dean forced himself to pull tighter and tighter, until the gushing of blood slowed down to a mere sluggish trickle. His hand felt numb and his wrist was sickly white, but at least he wouldn’t bleed out anymore.
Once the pain eased to the point where Dean no longer wanted to chew off his own arm, he picked up the second chain. With the hook still in place, the wound only seeped precious life fluid, but with seven feet of chain hanging down from it, that arm was useless either way. So, Dean figured that he might as well do something useful with the chain, like keeping said encumbered arm out of his way.
Painfully, slowly, he began folding the chain in three loops, securing it like a sling around his neck and resting his aching arm against his chest.
The last link, where the chain had broken off its hinges, was melted. Dean didn’t remembered exactly how he had been freed from the ceiling, but he thought he had heard Sam screaming something. As he touched the melted metal, Dean could see clearly the way Sam had let his emotions take over him and had released a powerful bolt of energy that had just ripped the chains off their bolts.
It was kind of cool, if it weren’t for the implications. It would be cool if it didn’t meant that Sam was letting go of his human side and using his powers to their full capacity.
Second step: getting to his stuff.
Dean was feeling like an old man, struggling to accomplish things that, on any other day, he would’ve done without much thought. He decided that the easiest way was to just take advantage of the wet floor and drag his ass there.
Using his legs and the leverage of his back against the wall, Dean struggled the three feet to reach the pile of his stuff. Arms closely tucked against his chest, stalwartly ignoring the tears being squeezed out from his eyes, concentrating on every inch that he managed to gain, he drew closer. It was a small victory, but still one that he celebrated, when Dean finally reached his things.
Stopping to catch his breath, Dean reached down with one crooked hand to rummage through the pile of discarded goods, searching for anything that might have survived the demons search. The jacket, having been discarded earlier by his tormentors, sat in a rancid pool that was a mixture of blood and water, practically saturated and for the moment, useless. While the ruined garment was regretful, it served a purpose; underneath the clothing, his shotgun remained fairly dry, protected by the rest when the boiler exploded.
Dean searched the jacket, silently praying that the demons hadn’t found the flasks of holy water that he'd swiped earlier. He would’ve taken a whole container of the stuff but, as it was, two flasks were easier to carry than a five-gallon container. After a gentle shake of the silver flasks, the sound of gentle sloshing made him sigh with relief. Well, at least that was something.
Feeling a bit like Popeye and his spinach, Dean unscrewed one of the bottles and took a sip. This was ridiculous.
Like before, he didn’t feel any different. The fresh water felt good going down his dry throat, but other than that… Dean shook his head. If nothing else, at least he could curse at the demons in a different language. That ought to confuse them for a while.
Storing both flasks in his jeans pockets, next Dean struggled with the gun. Again, a gesture that he had practiced his whole life, something that he could literally do blindfolded, was now next to impossible. His fingers lacked the strength and flexibility to press the tiny button on the Colt 1911 handle that would release the clip so that he could see how many bullets he actually had, if the demons had left him any.
Dean cursed, almost dropping the gun twice before being able to pop it open. Fortunately the demons hadn’t care for his weapons, dumping them as useless against them. The clip was full and he had two more in his back pocket. Still, none of it was even nearly enough for what he was facing.
Now the only thing left was getting to his feet.
Dean could jump over fences twice his height; he could go from a prone position to his feet using nothing but the forward momentum of shoulders and leg muscles; he could kick open locked doors; once he had even punched a hole through a solid wall. In his current condition, not to mention the deep cut that less than a day ago, Bobby had sewn closed, Dean's doubt as to what he'd be able to accomplish doubled.
Pushing himself upward, he overbalanced and the movement put all his body weight on the wrong leg. Dean yelped in pain as the world whited out momentarily. When the world came back into focus, he was on his knees, searing pain shooting through his body. “Fuck!” he shouted through gritted teeth.
An opened hand suddenly appeared in his field of vision and startled, Dean lost his grip on his weapon.
“Dean.” Castiel offered as a greeting. The helpful hand and the gentle word, however, had the opposite effect that its owner was probably going for.
This was it, Dean thought staring absently at the hand outstretched before him. Heart hammering inside his chest, he fought against the internal panic, knowing this had to be the moment when Castiel would deliver the news that Dean had failed to stop Sam and that the angels were coming to finish his brother off. And Dean could do nothing to stop him. Still, Dean took the proffered hand and the angel gently began pulling the hunter to his feet.
“Now’s really not the time Cas,” Dean said, trying to sound casual but knowing that the fear he was feeling inside showed in his voice. “Unless you’ve came to help, that is.”
The angel remained silent. Dean was screaming inside Go away! Go away!
“You must listen,” the angel said, carefully touching the arm that Dean had wrapped around his chest.
“Oh you gotta be kidding me! My brother is about to jump start the freaking apocalypse… and you wanna take time for a little chat?” Dean said, shrugging off the touch. “I know why you’re here,” Dean found himself whispering, hating the way his voice sounded so fragile and pleading.
“I did not come to kill Sam,” Castiel said, closing his eyes and slightly lowering his head, a solemn gesture that seemed out of place in their conversation.
Relief flooded Dean’s chest. The angel still hadn’t given up, still believed that Dean could do his part. It was strangely comforting to be trusted and believed like that.
“Then let me go. We have no tim-“
Dean completely lost track of what he was going to say when he realized what the angel had done. There had been a pingpingping noise in the background; some remnant of the blasted water pipes from earlier that Dean hadn’t even realized to be there until it stopped. But that hadn’t been the only thing stopping. Everything else, the sound of the fire outside, the thumping of the firefighters water jets, the screaming from upstairs, even the thoughts of everyone still alive inside that building, all stopped.
Dean looked around, startled by the silence. The water that had been slowly running down the walls was still, frozen mid motion of dropping to the floor like the law of gravity commanded it to do. Everything had stopped, like a snapshot of time.
“Did you just stop time?” Dean asked, feeling ridiculous just from formulating the question, but figuring that it was either that or he had just gone deaf and crazy. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen the angel messing with time before…
“How do you plan to pass the legion of demons guarding Lilith?” Castiel asked, ignoring the question.
Dean looked away for one second, foolishly hopping that a better plan than what he had so far would magically sprout itself in to existence. As it was, he had his flasks of holy water, his gut feeling that he needed to be there and little else.
“I was planning to dazzle them with my awesome six-pack,” he said sarcastically, looking at his less than appealing blood covered stomach. “I’m guessing that using you and your divine powers is out of the question?”
Whatever Castiel had done to give them time to talk would be very handy in stopping Sam. If only they could…
“I can not interfere,” Castiel said, looking pained to utter the words. “This… I should not be tampering with time at this junction, but it is important that you listen to what I have to tell you.”
“That’s just awesome… then I’ll just have to hope that the holy water soaking up the building and some consecrated iron rounds will be enough to weaken them…”
“That will not suffice.”
“Well, thank you for pointing out the obvious… got any suggestions?”
Castiel looked from the flask in Dean’s hands to his neck, from where the amulet was conspicuously absent. “You have already consumed the fluid… good.”
With the arrival of the angel and all the anxious feelings born of his presence, Dean had completely forgotten about the holy water. Had he been speaking Latin with Castiel all this time?
If that were the case, the angel didn't seem to care.
“What’s the point anyway? It’s not like they’re gonna sit around, patiently waiting for me to send them back to Hell!”
“You’ll need only to touch them.”
Dean looked at Castiel, searching for a give away that proved that the angel had finally found his sense of humor and this was all just a joke.
“You want me to do what?”
“Touch them.”
Despite the pain, despite the panic, despite the urgency and the bad feeling that was turning his stomach in to mush, Dean chuckled. In fact, he was finding it hard to not laugh out loud.
“You are definitely off your meds… They aren’t balloons, Castiel, and I sure ain’t no needle. I can’t just touch them and expect them to go puff!”
"Trust me... you need only to touch them."
"Yeah, trust you... because you were so right about the whole deal of Sam's suicide breaking the last seal. Do you realize how far off you were with that?" Dean accused the angel. "And now Sam is out there, ready to jump at the chance of killing Lilith and she can't wait to give him her neck, because THAT will release Lucifer!"
"He is the door and you are the red color that must paint it. He is the lock and you are the key. Sam's presence remains crucial for the breaking of the seal and rise of Lucifer, as is yours. The terms, however... I am aware of my mistakes," Castiel admitted, his head bowing in a gesture so human that he had surely picked it up from someone else. "We are not all-knowing, Dean. Like you, we must make our decisions based on what we know. And what we knew-"
The angel stopped himself, looking unsure of what to do or say for the first time since Dean had met him.
Dean's patience begun to dwindle, "Enough with the half-truths and the vague sentences. Tell me what the hell you're doing here; what the hell am I doing here. Just... just tell me."
When Castiel raised his head and fixed his blue eyes on Dean, the human almost took a step back. So much pain and doubt... how could he had not seen that before when it was so painfully clear?
“Mary, your mother, was intended to bear only one child in her life,” Castiel said quietly, like he was telling a secret or a bedtime story.
Dean looked at the angel, confused. What was that supposed to mean and what the hell did it had to do with anything else?
“She and your father were suppose to have met each other and Samuel was to be the fruit of their love.”
Something started twisting and bending inside of Dean but on the outside, his face remained expressionless.
“If this is the part where you tell me that I’m adopted and John and Mary aren’t really my parents and that Sam’s not really my brother, just skip it. I don’t care about genetics; I don’t give a crap about it. Sam is my brother in every way that matters and nothing will ever change that,” Dean said, hoping that he had covered all bases and had stopped Castiel’s speech before it even started. He was sick and tired of these big revelations that seemed to fill his life these days. He wanted normal, he wanted everything to remain the same… he wanted to be himself and nothing else.
Dean was sure that Castiel’s next words would forever change that.
“When Mary was forced to make her deal with Azazel she doomed not only the fate of herself and her family, but the fate of all mankind as well,” Castiel went on, wanting more than anything to spare Dean of the knowledge of things that he knew the young man didn’t wanted to know. But now, as it had always been since before his conception, that was not his or Dean’s choice. “Measures were taken to make sure that Man had a chance to survive.”
“She wasn’t the only one making deals with Azazel at that time." Dean whispered, resisting the urge to cover his ears and start singing really loud. "There were others, others families, other children..."
“The other children weren’t fated to survive. The other children represented no threat to everyone’s survival. We might not have known what Azazel had ultimately planned, but we knew who would bring his plan forward.”
“You make it sound like Sam is an accomplice,” Dean accused. “You know what Azazel had planned,” he stated. Dean might not be able to see the angel’s thoughts but he could feel that some questions that Castiel had been carrying ever since they met, were now gone.
“There are some… ancient events to which not all of us are privy. Some dealings that concern only the highest of powers. The agreement that was reached between God and Lucifer, the law that was written before the Morning Star was trapped behind the seals, was very clear on the non-interference of both parties in the deciding events of the end of times. This I did not know.”
“And now that you do?”
“Azazel planned to use the vessel destined to release Lucifer for himself. It is a vessel that Heaven cannot smite and Hell cannot touch. He would be invincible.”
“And Lilith found out about it when she couldn’t kill Sam,” Dean confirmed, sick to his stomach. The simple fact that Sam had survived Lilith’s attack meant that he was doomed. How fucked up was that? “What does that make me in all of that?” Because if he wasn’t even supposed to be born, what was he doing there?
“You volunteered to be born.”
Dean blinked, paused and, inside his head, went through all the possible reasonable meanings for those words. He came up with nothing.
“Go me!” Dean sarcastically said, moving to throw a victory punch in the air before he remembered that his arm was a mess. “T'fuck does that even mean?”
“Sam's soul was tainted by Hell, which meant that Heaven was free to take the same kind of action. Action and reaction. Part of the law,” Castiel explained. “The commander of Heaven’s army offered a part of himself to be born on Earth and Mary had a second child who was to be born first. You.”
“No… stop… please,” Dean whispered. This was not something he wanted to hear. This was too much, too big for him, too far-reaching, too monumental to have anything to do with him. This was not him.
“It was a commendable gesture, a free choice the likes of which most of us will never know.”
Dean suddenly thought of the time he and Sam had butted heads over the existence or non-existence of angels. The argument stemmed from the murder of a misguided priest’s ghost who, at the time of his death on the church steps, thought he had earned his wings. The surviving priest they had talked to had told them about Michael, the archangel, the Heaven’s warrior, and leader of God’s armies. The idea had sounded as far far-fetched to Dean then as it did now.
Dean was having trouble filling his lungs. He breathed in and in, but the air seemed thinner, loaded with heavy burdens and duty and not enough oxygen. “How… how does that even work? Because I know I’m no angel and my middle name is not even Michael, so how the hel… why?”
“Calm yourself Dean,” Castiel said, managing to not make it sound like the most ridiculous thing to say. It was both advice and a command that Dean found himself obeying. “An angel's soul, its essence and grace is impossible to define or contain in any word that human ears can hear or human mouth can speak. It is immeasurable and omnipresent. It is all that we are but not what we are. Michael is still Michael and you are still Dean, and yet you both share a part of his light.”
Dean could feel himself spiraling out of control, stepping outside his own body and looking back at himself. An angel, one the most famous angels in all of the literature about the matter, had given him part of his light, part of himself.
Which made him part… no! That was one logic that he refused to follow. This meant nothing, this was just one more of the same freakiness to join all the other freakiness’s that were being dumped on his lap these last few days. This was just one more weapon that he would use now and deal with later, like the telepathy crap and the Latin nonsense.
“So… just touch them?” Dean confirmed, praying that the angel was right about this.
“Hurry,” Castiel said, before disappearing once more.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
It was like one of those arcade games, the ones where you go around in the dark, carefully bending 'round corners and gaining points whenever you blow off some zombie, or some alien or whatever the game wants you to fight.
In here, however, there were no extra lives and the big boss at the end of the level could very possibly be your own brother.
Dean felt all of his senses in high alert, eyes seeing so sharply that it hurt his head; ears hearing so far that his own breathing seemed monstrous; taste so accurate that he could savor the adrenaline on his tongue; smells so pungent that he could taste them in his mouth; touch so sensitive that he could feel the walls vibrating with the expectation of things to come.
The whole building was waiting. Waiting to burn to the ground; waiting to be the last thing standing when the world ended.
The first couple of demons that Dean found were facing away from him, more concerned with what was happening on the floors above than any threat that could come from bellow.
Dean moved stealthily, feet carefully treading the wet floor, more quietly than any human should be.
They still sensed him, turning too late, when Dean was already within reach. Dean didn’t touch them like Castiel told him to. He had no time.
Both demons reacted to his presence, startled to be caught off guard by a simple meat-puppet, and each grabbed one of his arms.
Dean felt himself tensing, muscles readying themselves for battle, flesh preparing for the bruising. None of that happen.
What did happen Dean would never be able to explain to the two humans that were suddenly staring at him, hands still wrapped around his biceps, suddenly confused, lost and scared of the screaming black smoke that surrounded all three of them.
Dean’s breathing hitched inside his lungs and he watched the smoke being sucked in to the concrete floor, finally vanishing in a cloud of sulfur and fire until nothing but ash was left. Just like that.
He hadn’t opened his mouth to say any magic words. He hadn’t concentrated really hard or visualized any bright lights. None of the new-agy, metaphysical, bells ringing crap that he might have expected.
Just touch and puff, just like he had sarcastically suggested.
The two men were looking at him like he had two heads. This was not a good time for Dean to open his mouth and start speaking to them in Latin, like he knew would happen if he tried. Figuring that they were as safe in there as they were outside, Dean just turned away and entered the elevator shaft that the two demons had been guarding.
The possessed men would eventually figure it out and he had bigger fish to fry.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The elevator was painfully slow, but still faster than anything Dean could've made the other way around. The thought alone of mounting the two flights of stairs that would take him to the main floor was enough to exhaust him at this point. What had happen to the two demons bellow was still reeling inside his head. It was too surreal, too unlike him.
Dean Winchester liked to get his hands dirty; he liked getting the job done using something tangible, something that he could understand and control. Most of all, something that he could control.
He had no idea of what he was doing.
The cargo elevator came to a stop with a sudden jolt that rattled every bone inside the tired hunter. He used his foot to pull the door up, once more thanking whomever was in charge of the place for the well-oiled hinges and cables, because otherwise Dean would have a hard time getting out of there. As it was, the elevator's engine had already produced enough of a racket to call every demons' attention to his arrival.
There was no demon waiting for him outside and everything was oddly quiet. Waiting.
Warm orange tinted light spilling from the high windows on the surrounding walls of the warehouse gave the illusion of high noon on a bright summer day outside, even though Dean knew that it had to be closer to midnight than anything else.
Lilith’s victims had stopped moaning and squirming in their hanging places. Their job was done and the demon had finally let them go. Or she was already dead and their silence meant only that Lilith was no longer around to control their lives.
Dean tried to move faster, but he was walking wounded, his movements bordering on something more like an extra in Night of the Living Dead. For all accounts, he shouldn’t be walking at all.
The corridor in front of the elevator was deserted, eerily so. Dean could feel eyes watching him; he just couldn’t see the watchers. Sounds of screaming, swearing and growls were coming from somewhere on his left. Dean headed that way.
There were five men and two women at the far end of a side corridor that Dean just couldn’t walk around. He had no doubt that all seven of them were demons. Guard dogs. Waiting for him.
“Dean Winchester,” the taller one sneered. “Thought your brother told you to stay put downstairs.”
Dean braced himself, trying not to look as weak as he felt in front of the demons. They were just one more obstacle that he had to overcome in order to reach Sam. He couldn’t waste the time.
“Yeah, well, it’s not like he doesn’t have his fair share of trouble obeying orders.”
“I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” the demon on the left, a sweet looking old lady, said. “Where you’re going you won't have a choice but to obey.”
The second she raised her hand, Dean could feel the push of invisible power that was becoming annoyingly familiar. It sent him crashing sideways in to the near wall, sparks of pain igniting from his left arm as it collided with the plaster surface.
“Though you shouldn’t worry too much about that either,” the demon went on, getting closer. “Soon, very soon, down there and up here will be pretty much the same.”
Dean watched her and her buddies draw nearer, getting his breathing under control. The good thing about demons and Dean, as he was beginning to understand, was the fact that all of them hated him so much that neither could keep the kill a detached and impersonal act.
No, they all wanted to stand close, to brag to their other demons buddies about being the one to watch the light go out in Dean Winchester’s eyes.
It was kind of flattering. And the reason why they came too close.
The first one that raised one hand to touch Dean’s face in a mocked caress found out what a mistake that had been. She had no time to contemplate her mistake, her existence over in a snap of a finger.
Which ever of the demons was keeping Dean pushed against the wall just lost its control, because before Dean could rationalize that another demon had been turned in to dust in front of him, he was free from the wall.
The other four quickly found out that some prey just shouldn't be cornered. They couldn't back away in time before Dean was on them, throwing himself bodily in to the group. Ideally, if everything worked out perfectly, like it always did in the movies, Dean would've just reached one finger and lay down his new found mojo on the evil sons-of-bitches with all the style and grace of a Jedi knight. As it was, with the condition of his hands and the clicking clock over his head, Dean figured that skin was skin and, taking advantage of the amount of it that he was currently showing, Dean just threw himself at them.
The five of them fell on the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses, dazzled, stunned, watching as grey ash rained on them.
“Fute!” Dean let out, somewhat saddened by the fact that in Latin that didn’t sounded like a curse at all.
When he finally managed to once more climb to his feet, Dean wasted no time with the other four humans, writhing and barely conscious. His attention was on the two demons that had been smart enough to stay at a safe distance and where now making their escape around the corner.
Not wasting time to analyze how odd it was to see demons actually run away from him, Dean followed, ignoring the fact that the carnage only grew more gory and frequent as he drew closer to the center of the warehouse. It spoke clearly of the battle that had taken place in there, the battle he hoped was still far from over.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
Thirty seconds.
That was all he would have needed. Thirty seconds sooner and all would've been so different.
It was Cold Oak all over again; only now, instead of arriving too late and being able to do nothing more than hold a dying Sam, he was arriving too late and watching Lilith die.
The corpses of the demons that had dare to stand in the way of Sam’s revenge lay on the floor, like discarded bread crumbs that led Dean’s way to the place of the last confrontation.
Sam. Naked from the waist up, was slowly advancing towards Lilith, red scribbling, too small for Dean to be able to read from that distance, displayed on his exposed skin like a shield.
Trapped between Sam’s looming figure and the wall, Dean almost pitied the demon.
Lilith was playing her part without flaw. She looked as if she'd tried to fight back at least a little, no doubt to maintain the ruse, but without use her demonic powers against Sam, she really was little more than a child, like the one whose body she now resided in.
She could, of course, just escape. Leave the corpse of the little girl behind, turn in to smoke and get away.
But she didn’t. And Sam, blinded by the nearness of his goal, failed to see her surrender and the smile of victory in her lips as Ruby’s knife plunged in to her heart and killed both demon and child.
Dean had hoped, even for a moment, that maybe Sam would use his powers instead of the demon-killing knife. He could just send Lilith back to Hell and be done with it. But Dean knew his brother, knew how he thought.
Sam was scared and tired. He just wanted this whole thing to end and with Lilith in Hell, Dean knew that Sam would not rest, worrying about the time when she would eventually manage to crawl topside and start everything all over again.
No, Sam would take no chances with that. And Ruby’s knife was still the only thing that Sam knew to be sure to kill a demon for good.
Lilith fell to the ground, dead even before her head touched the floor, and Sam turned back, somehow knowing that Dean was there, that he was watching him.
Dean couldn’t speak, tears filling his eyes as he saw the sincere smile on Sam’s face, his joy and happiness at believing that it was all finally over.
It was in that moment the world started turning upside down.
Light became darkness. Dark became light. Up became down. Silence was made of a horrible roar. Everything else was mute. The ground beneath Sam’s feet begun to crack and part, hot air and black smoke that stunk of sulfur coming from the edge.
And Sam screamed.
Dean snapped from his daze and raced to his brother, not really sure of what he would do but certain that he couldn’t just stand there and watch.
The floor was falling apart beneath their feet and yet Sam was still standing up, hands clutching his head like he was trying to keep it from exploding. Dean stopped at the edge of the hole, his eyes telling him that one more step forward and he would fall, his gut assuring him that he could go.
He went with his gut, still expecting to fall into the deep abyss that Dean knew would stop only in Hell. It was the most dizzying experience of his life, walking literally on nothing but air, feeling solid ground beneath his feet.
Sam had stopped screaming and looked at Dean when he got near. He had finally understood what was happening and Dean could see the fear in his brother’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Sam's mouth whispered, while his eyes screamed I love you.
Before Dean could say or do anything, Sam doubled over, his back arching up as a guttural, primal sound escaped his mouth.
At first Dean couldn’t see what was happening, so subtle it was, but little by little the illusion, the trick of the light became real and Dean could see two Sams, one bent at the waist in pain, the other standing straight and regal, both merging in Sam’s long legs.
Dean fell to his knees in front of Sam, supporting his head on his shoulder and grabbing his brother's arm with his semi-working right hand.
The faint burning sensation that he’d been feeling for awhile every time that Sam touched him, had increased tenfold. It was worse than scalding water; it was slightly less than being on fire. It was wrong, because this was his brother, this was the baby he’d seen grow into a man; this was his last link, his last connection with someone. This was the man he’d seen both born and die.
One of them was still all of that, was still Sam. The other wasn’t Sam at all.
Wisps of white smoke were rising from Sam’ skin, gathering at his back, slowly morphing in to a defined shape. Dean held on, unable to think or do anything else. If this was the end, he wanted to be near someone that he love and that he knew loved him back. “Repugna is malum Samuhel… repugna ei,” he whispered like a prayer, over and over, and over again. It didn't matter to him in which language it came out. What mattered was the sentiment beneath the words. The fact that Dean knew that his brother was a geek and could probably understand him was just an added bonus.
Sam wasn’t screaming anymore, just feeble whimpers that escaped his mouth without consent or recognition, trembling muscles that seemed to resent the fact that Sam was slowly breaking in two.
The white smoke was still flowing, growing taller and taller, taking shape, expanding, opening…
Wings!
Dean could almost see them now. Large feathered, luscious white wings that seemed real and ethereal at the same time.
The standing half of Sam, the one that wasn’t Sam at all, was becoming more solid, more real now too. Dean could see its face now. Sam’s face. It opened its eyes.
Dean knew who this was; the seal had been broken and the being standing above him could not be any other. He had expected some eye-color variation of the demons he’d seen so far. Maybe not black, because those he associated with lower-class demons and this being surely ranked more than black eyes; maybe white eyes like Lilith, or some version of yellow or red. Maybe something that they had never seen before, like pink or magenta.
But no.
They were Sam’s eyes, the same multicolor eyes that Dean always teased his brother about but secretly found unique. The Sam part that mostly emulated what Sam was. That mixture of colors, that every changing shade that translated so well Sam’s volatile personality and moods. They were Sam's unwillingness to fit a pattern, to be bottled and labeled.
The eyes had not changed color, but they were not Sam’s eyes. This was not Sam.
There was a light burning from inside this being that made it look all at once beautiful and terrifying.
God’s most beautiful angel. The Morning Star.
Dean had almost forgotten that they weren’t alone until he heard the collective gasp from the remaining demons. In between Sam’s outbursts of power in his chase of Lilith and word of Dean’s fight from the basement up, most had scattered away, trying to save their smoky selves. Now, knowing victory was at hand, smelling the fear in the skin of the humans, they were coming back.
The sight that greeted them was far better than most of them had dared hope for. Lilith had convinced them to do her bidding through fear. There were few demons amongst them that truly believed that she would be able to bring Lucifer back. And yet… there he was, his passing in to this world almost complete.
Dean paid them no attention. He didn’t know why, couldn’t even tell if it was just his imagination and need to hold on right now, but Dean knew that his hand around Sam’s arm was the only thing still keeping him there, still keeping Sam from being completely consumed by evil.
The demons had started circling them, half weary of the brothers’ presence, half awed by their master’s appearance. A couple of them kept their hateful gazes focused on Dean, undecided on whether to take advantage of his exposure, yet afraid to interfere with was going on.
Dean was painfully aware that if any of them decided to do something, all it would take was one raised hand and he would be hurled away from Sam. And that was the last thing that Dean could allow to happen.
Painfully aware of the weight of the chains holding his left arm to his chest, Dean pulled them from around his neck and tied them around Sam’s hunched figure, bounding them together. Whatever happened next, Dean would hold on to his brother, sheltering Sam, praying that he would be strong enough to keep him there.
When the pain started in his back, Dean didn’t even notice it at first. When it really started to reach hot, poking, blinding pain levels, he just assumed that one of the demons had finally decided to attack. When he saw, from the corner of his eye, the black smoke gathering at his back, he just assumed that it was one of the demons.
Dean closed his eyes, letting his sense of smell take control, losing himself in the only thing that he knew, his only certainty. Sam. His brother.
Dean just held tighter, his burning skin melting with Sam’s, wanting to crawl in to some place where they could both be safe and alone.
Dean escaped to Sam’s mind.
He never saw the black wings that had formed above his hunched figure. He never saw the shadow of a second body behind his. He never saw the flaming sword in the hands of the beautiful being at his back, nor the way it smiled at Lucifer like they were old friends, brothers.
Dean never saw the beginning of the second battle between Lucifer and Michael. And if at that moment he had, he wouldn’t have believed it.
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