Contralateral chapter six

[emmram]

Getting riiiight into iffy territory, aka: the beginning of the meat of my plot, here, folks.


Six

The feel of the hot ground under the soles of your feet is strangely comforting.

The grotesque wounds on your feet and hands are barely scabbed over, breaking and bleeding every time you stumble and fall to the ground; so much so they are now caked with crusted mud. The granules grind into inflamed tissue as you doggedly carry on, but you don't notice the pain much anymore. This is far from denying its existence, though.

It is merely acceptance that pain is a part of who you are.

Ruby leads on, always patient, always watching. To where you do not know; the features of the land do not change however far you travel. Every time you rasp out a question regarding the eventual destination, you are met with cryptic smiles and unfathomable answers. "It is up to you," she would say, with a shrug, and you suspect that whatever lesson she has set out to teach you is not over.

It is interesting, this role that Ruby has assumed: that of a mentor - more frustrating than most, you are sure - always on the sidelines, guiding you with words, with gestures; never forthright, yet you still believe.

Believe that she is helping you, because that belief, that trust, is all that you can give.

She waited while you were released from the chains - a sudden event, although it is difficult to think of any way you could've prepared for it - collapsing to the ground, curling around the excruciating pain as your body slowly, inexorably stitched itself together: joints gradually sliding into place, overstretched muscles loosening, lips of torn-open gashes rejoining. She waited like a ghost in the periphery, never helping, yet never leaving, either - and in your agony, you found that constant presence a form of perverse blessing.

When you were able to finally support yourself on tortured, atrophied muscles, she began to walk. And you followed. Stumbling, staggering, occasionally falling, but always going.

"Why are you following me, Sam?" she asks suddenly, and you stagger to a stop, blinking hot, stinging sweat out of your eyes.

"What kind of question is that supposed to be?" you ask incredulously.

"An honest kind," she says, shrugging. "I don't remember asking you to do anything."

"Then what do you want me to do?" The frustration is growing now, strong enough to fuel your muscles to lock into place, lifting your frame, brushing aside the exhaustion. "What am I supposed to do?"

"Why are you asking me this?" she counters. A smirk pulls at the corner of her lips. "It was always like this, wasn't it, Sam? You, poor baby, are so lost without somebody telling you what to do - whether you choose to follow or not." She walks a little closer to you, and suddenly she seems to be dissolving in front of your eyes, her form blurring at the edges into black smoke; you blink, and she's whole again, what is this you don't understand, you just want to understand - "So much for all that talk about independence and growing up - when it actually comes down to it, there's nothing that scares you more than freedom."

"You're not making sense."

"Of course I'm not." She rolls her eyes. "You are free, Sam, to do as you want, to be as you want. I'm not stopping you; nobody is."

The frustration is now fury - it coils within you, whispering into your ear like an old, familiar friend - the strength now power; the conviction now decision.

"It is not so much freedom if I am not allowed to leave Hell, is it," you counter, and you are not surprised to find that your voice no longer rasps, or breaks. The power tingles through every part of your body, and you revel in it, for it is the first pleasantness you have felt in millennia.

Ruby seems to consider that for a moment, seemingly oblivious to the changes in your countenance (but she knows, oh, she knows!). "There is that," she concedes. "But maybe you can allow yourself - have you considered that?"

"I don't have to consider anything." The words are bitten off, ice-cold even in the oppressive heat. You don't need her, you realise, not anymore. Go forth, that voice whispers in your ear - and there, there, you think, is that sweet breath of sanity you've been desperately searching for! - and the power wells; bubbles, seeking release - for your self is all you have, and all that you need.

Ruby looks disappointed. "Then, Sam, you can follow me all you like; but let me tell you: you aren't going to get anywhere."

Fury consumes, and there are no more words, nor any need for them; all is light and fire and the force of your rage disturbing the stagnant air, stirring it into a tempest - your only focus: Ruby; your only goal: annihilation, cleansing.

The landscape is blurred and distorted as you deliver the storm it has promised for aeons past, drawing strength from the low-hanging clouds crackling with ions, providing a ready medium for their destructive electricity - and you throw it all at the inexplicably distinct and undisturbed form of Ruby.

The gale beats against her, and then through her, and the whole world is lost in nonsensical chaos. The energy seems never-ending: it flows through you rather than stemming from your reserves, and there appears no end to the length of time you can spend in this manner; you can go on for eternity as an unstoppable force of nature -

Eternity lasts for but an instant: inexplicably, you are burnt out; the energy deserts you, leaving you raw and spent on the shores of its boundless reserves. The dust settles, the haze clears - the surroundings resolve into comprehension once again, and if you had any left-over capacity for astonishment, you would marvel at the scene they present.

The storm, the clouds: they are gone. The sky clears, and it is a perfect, beautiful blue - undisturbed, stretching from horizon to horizon. You find that you are lying on your back (and when did the swell stop, and when did you stop floating on the eddies of its magnificent course?) and the ground smells sweet and damp. The low, distant rumbling and the constant cacophony of agonised screams is all but gone: the only sound is that of your own breathing, fast and restless, and it is almost as terrifying in how alien it sounds.

Can this be - have you - can you even dare to - ?

Slowly, clutching handfuls of what seems like dew-drenched grass on either side, you sit up. The green stretches for as far as you can see, rolling hillocks and gentle valleys glowing in some form of sunshine, a cool breeze ruffling the lush landscape. You can scarcely allow yourself to think that you are free from Hell, but it... it seems so, and - !

Your fledgling hopes are crushed when your eyes alight on a figure a few dozen yards in front of you.

It is Ruby, exactly as you had left her before that sweet surge of power. A strange maniacal intensity lights her eye as she gazes at you, and really, what does this all mean? You crave for the all-cleansing rage, half-hating it in its betrayal, as it has left you even more confused than before, and sore with need.

"There!" she cries suddenly, and her voice echoes almost painfully in the silence. "That is why you are special, Sam Winchester, that is why it has to be you!"

"Where are we?" you ask, dismayed to find your voice has been reduced to a croak once again.

She cocks her head in that mocking way you are used to by now. "In Hell, of course." She laughs. "You don't really know much about it still, do you."

No! You try desperately to call back that blessed fury, tearing out your right handful of grass from the ground, meaning to crush the blades in your grip. To your surprise, the grass feels much heavier than you expected - your hand is pulled down by the weight of it. You look at it, horrified to find that what you are clutching is hair - damp, blonde, knotted - and from it hangs a head without its body. The features are distinctly female - well-formed and delicate, even if covered by a fine layer of grime -

The eyes open, and the lips part in a savage grin. "Well, hello, Sam," it says, and you are struck by a sudden wave of intense familiarity -

And then it begins to laugh - high and clear and hysterical - while the features begin to decay right in front of your eyes, the skin peeling off dying flesh that later falls out in chunks, eyes rolling about madly before one of them falls out, accompanied by the exudation of a purulent fluid that seems to substitute for blood, for it then begins to leak from every other orifice of the face, dripping on to your person, scalding your skin... and still the laughter continues.

Repulsed, you fling the head as far as you can; but even long after it has crossed the horizon, terror still seizes your heart, and that horrible laughter still echoes in your ears.

Dean really wasn't looking forward to confronting Joshua about this.

The Impala coasted along the highway to Lawrence, Kansas, Mille Carlisle and Timmy in the back, NotSam at the wheel, driving with an authority that made Dean want to fling himself across the bench seat and strangle him. The painkillers he had taken (that NotSam had made him take) still had him feel a bit woozy, granted, but he was good enough to handle his baby, thank you very much -

NotSam glanced at him, smiling (no, godammit, he's smirking, the smug little bastard). "Are you feeling better?"

And, okay, Dean was really getting tired of this pseudo-concern: "are you better?" and "are you okay?" had been near-constant refrains since they had left Stratford, leaving behind a very confused and a very mortified Holly Garrison; since NotSam had tended to his arm in a frighteningly sure and efficient application of first-aid and forced what seemed like a couple-dozen painkillers on him; since a still-terrified Millie (catching sight of the impressively-stocked weapons collection in the Impala's trunk is apparently not a great way to soothe frazzled nerves: who would've thought?) bundled herself and her baby into the backseat. You're not my brother, Dean wanted to snarl, and 'sides, it wasn't like he was going to take such crap lying down even if it was Sam -

At least the baby was quiet. Mostly.

Dean sighed. Nope. He was definitely not looking forward to confronting Joshua about this. Or Bobby. Especially Bobby. "How about you hand the keys over and find out for sure?"

"Not yet."

Dean locked a curse behind a fierce snarl. "Listen, buddy, this has gone on long enough -"

"Hush!" NotSam cast an admonishing glare at him, and the very absurdity of being hush-ed (by a demon, and have I stopped mentioning this has gone way too far?) had Dean snapping his mouth shut. "They've finally fallen asleep," NotSam continued, gesturing to the occupants of the backseat. "Don't wake them up."

"Oh, I can see you're very concerned about them," Dean said. "It explains why you possessed the husband, tried to kill the mother and feed demon-blood to the baby." He shifted in his seat, beginning to feel the pain trickle back into his extremities, and, more importantly, the sharpening of his mental faculties. "Care to explain that?" he growled.

NotSam did not reply immediately; his eyes were fixed on the road ahead, a mere flicker of a movement along his jaw the only sign he had heard Dean at all. At length, he finally said, "I'm sorry, Dean. I know how what happened must look to you, but it's not the same thing. I never intended to kill - I did not have any need to." He smiled at Dean, melancholy. "Would you believe that I am - have always been - wholly on your side?"

"You're not the first demon to have told me that."

NotSam laughed. More than anything, Dean felt, it was that laughter that unnerved him. Mini-explosions in their own right, his sudden outbursts seemed to draw from a non-existent humour; or worse, from one that was much, much darker that Dean was wont to appreciate. He sounded insane.

"Ruby?" NotSam said. He shook his head and snorted. "It always comes back to her, doesn't it."

"Yeah, funny how that is, huh? I mean, she's only the bitch who started you on demon-blood and dragged you into Hell."

NotSam smiled. "You know, such sarcasm's very unbecoming, Dean. I'm gonna chalk this one up to the painkillers, yeah?" He was quiet for a while, as though trying to collect his thoughts, before he started to speak again. "When I said I'm on your side, I meant against Lucifer, the Apocalypse. Dean, in Hell, you have no idea... the kind of systems, the hierarchy in place over there... not all of demon-kind is rallying behind Lillith in her mission to break the seals. It's kind of part of the reason why there's been minimal activity from down under recently."

He spoke with a quiet intensity that Dean found painfully familiar and frightening at the same time. His hand moved toward the hilt of the knife in his jacket once again. "I would've thought that the demons would be psyched about getting their creator back."

"Not really." He sighed. "I'm not entirely sure, not even now, but I think it has more to do with a loss of faith. You see, Lucifer's been locked away for millennia since - since when the concept of 'time' didn't even exist, and for several demons now his very existence is in doubt. I mean, for ages his return has been promised, but even in the darkest days of mankind's existence, in circumstances where opportunities seemed ripe for the taking, nothing happened. For many in whom the faith wasn't particularly strong, he just ceased to exist. Or even if he did, it was only as a legend, never to rise again and deliver the Apocalypse.

"It's a situation a lot of the higher-end demons have only been more than happy to take advantage of; the lack of a leader uniting all demons under one cause has led to there being several, pulling them into several warring factions." He laughed suddenly, making Dean start. "Sound familiar, Dean? Demon-kind as an allegory of the human condition - or should I say, vice-versa?"

"Save your philosophy; you still haven't told me what I want to know."

NotSam's nose wrinkled. "Touchy, touchy." After a pause, he continued, "Like I said, several of the more enlightened demons began to collect followers of their own - and with the kind of power there is to be harnessed, each of them wanted to be lord and master of all of Hell. Azazel was one of them. One of the more canny, and more successful ones, I should say."

Dean frowned. "Yellow-eyes?"

His companion smirked. "Yes, the yellow-eyed demon - although, you know, his eyes weren't originally yellow. He, now, he knew. He knew the truth behind the legend of Lucifer. He knew about Lillith, about the seals and about the impending Apocalypse. He also knew that if Lucifer was to rise again, it would not only mean the end of the human race, but also spell doom for demons, for the devil held both in deep contempt. He wasn't going to let that happen, and planned long and hard to counter what was then being passed as mere prophecy.

"His first step was to ensure that he had an army, a sizable army that was loyal to him - although, of course, loyalty is a slippery and unreliable entity in Hell; still, he did enough to convince his followers that he did not suffer traitors lightly - and then he proceeded to his next, possibly more important step: marking out his... can I say, descendants? - among the humans. After all, if at all Lillith rose to break the seals, he needed someone topside with the wherewithal to stop her. And that's where the, uh, 'special kids' come in."

Dean noted the awe and a trace of something else he couldn't exactly pin-point - Regret? Sadness? - in NotSam's voice as he narrated. But more than anything, it was the familiarity that threw him off-balance, scattering his pre-conceived notions like so much dust in a strong wind. "So he did all this to counter Lucifer's rising," he said slowly. "So what? It shouldn't make Yellow-Eyes any better, if all he was looking for was ensuring that he remained head honcho. It doesn't justify anything." Not any of those deaths, not any of all the lives ruined, destruction spawned (Sam turning into something not meant for existence in a normal world).

"I know it doesn't." NotSam gave him a sidelong glance. "I never said Azazel did all this out of the goodness of his heart, or out of concern for human beings. He had power, and all he was interested in was making sure it stayed with him."

Dean's jaw clenched. "And so where did you come into all of this? What - what happened to you - what does it -" He closed his eyes and shook his head, wondering if he had been mistaken in his judgement of his mental faculties. It could be the only explanation for the inexplicable moisture pricking at the corners of his eyes - "I mean, what's the deal with the demon-blood? What did it do to you?" (Except turn my brother into a monster, oh lord no, I can't -)

There was now a sad, heavy gravity to NotSam's gaze that belied the soft youth of his face (that he was borrowing). "Lucifer's a fallen angel," he said. "Neither angel, nor quite a demon. And so what do you call something's that not human, but not a demon, either? Do you count it among the Fallen?"

A strange fear rose up the back of Dean's throat. "What are you talking about?"

"All demons were once human, Dean. The thing is, even as humans, each and every one of you have the capacity to turn into demons without going to Hell and the centuries of transformation." He smiled thoughtfully. "You'd be surprised to know that much of the transformation is more biological than theological or supernatural."

"Croatoan," Dean said, and NotSam nodded. "Yeah - although those demons are pretty much close to useless, seeing as they retain most of their human fallibilities and are easily killed."

"So is that what Yellow-Eyes was doing?" Dean stared at him. "Planting demon viruses with his blood?"

"In a manner of speaking, I guess," NotSam replied, frowning. "I think... okay, this is a theory, but it makes sense - I think that Azazel used his blood to create a... shall we say, immunity to sulphur in the special kids, maybe seeding them with prior exposure, so that when they get a dose of demon-blood in the future, their bodies have already become accustomed to it, and do not react dramatically. Instead, it only furthers their inherent potential, their demon-given abilities. Another way to do this, of course, would be a prolonged demonic possession, considering your blood physiology gets altered temporarily when you've got a demon inside of you -"

"Whoa, House, wait," Dean interrupted. "Your - Sam's blood tested negative for the Croatoan virus back in River Grove."

NotSam took a deep breath, and Dean could tell he was going to start on another lecture. (Geez, not even in school did I pay this much attention to Biology, but he had to know, he had to know -) "First off, the, uh, sulphur that's transmitted through the blood is not exactly a virus - it's more like a foreign substance that the body reacts to, like... like an allergy. The defence system in our bodies kicks into action against this perceived threat, starts producing antibodies that react with the sulphur... most likely, what the good doctor saw in River Grove was the products of that reaction. She, of course, couldn't spot it in my blood - see, at that time," he added with a sardonic smile, "I was already halfway demonic."

Dean shuddered, unable - and unwilling - to hold in his revulsion. "But why - why you? And Andy, Ava and the others - the deals, how were they chosen?" His jaw worked as he gritted his teeth. "And Ruby - you, in Hell - why have you come back?" Why have you come back a monster, why do you carry on the work of the bastard that destroyed our family, killed our parents -

"I told you," NotSam said, his eyes shifting back onto the road, "I'm against Lucifer's rising."

"You're a demon, Sam," Dean said, and there, he had said it, though the words hurt like each syllable was a right hook to the jaw, "You're Azazel's heir. What you're doing... it's not -"

"Not right?" NotSam snorted. "Some things never change, huh."

"Sam -"

"You don't get it, Dean!" Suddenly it was just Sam, frustrated and absorbed and intense, not the smug, insane demon. "There are so many other things involved in this, the last seal and Lillith and I need - need to be here; and, more than anything else, I need my body back."

Dean unclenched his jaw. "Well, you're not going to get it."

For the first time, genuine incredulity registered on NotSam's borrowed features.

"Don't act all surprised," Dean growled. "You get back your body, you get back all your special little powers, is that it? I'd - I'd rather Sam die than becoming... this."

"Dean, I can do this." NotSam was still calm, but there was the faintest hint of exasperated agitation underlying his words. "I - am not Azazel; I'm not a demon. I am... and always will be, a human who spent more than his share of time in Hell." He glanced at Dean significantly, and really, Dean had had enough of Sam's shitty superior attitude - "I can be different; I am different. Maybe one day I can tell you why exactly I have to continue the line, Dean, why we were chosen as we were; but know for now that I have never intended to kill, nor am I going on some half-crazy plan to jumpstart my own idea of Armageddon." His expression was completely settled now, calm, focussed and filled with a manic determination that Dean could only find all too familiar. "I believe I can defeat them while playing their own game. And for that, Dean," he cast an imploring glance at him, "I need your help, man."

Dean turned his head away, suddenly very tired. Tired of the fear that pulsed through him as he heard the note of quiet self-confidence in NotSam's voice - familiar, yes, but with a new hardness to it, a will not born out of childlike stubbornness but chiselled over centuries out of solid stone; tired of the failure that it reminded him of, his failure; tired of watching both of them fall and being unable to do anything to stop the descent.

Sam had fallen, Sam had gone to Hell, Sam was a demon, and Dean -

Dean had failed.

Despair washed over him then, abetted by the pain that was slowly ramping up to close to its former intensity, and he closed his eyes against his tears. NotSam did not speak further, and most of rest of the journey was finished in silence; Dean was woken up from an uneasy sleep he had fallen into at some point by Timmy bawling from the backseat. He blinked, sitting up and grimacing at the pain that lanced down his splintered arm, at his stiff and aching muscles.

The car had stopped, and NotSam... was staring at him.

"We're here already?" Dean glanced out the window and back at NotSam. "You drove the whole stretch without a stop?"

"Stopped for gas and food a couple of times," he said, opening the door. "Didn't want to disturb you." He was now making a conscious effort to avoid Dean's eyes, his demeanour considerably more subdued. He proceeded to help Millie and Timmy out of the car, as Dean eased his aching body out the passenger door.

NotSam approached the threshold of Missouri's house, but before he could so much as lift his hand to ring the bell, the front door opened, and a portly old woman stepped out with a smile on her lips. "Glad you could make it here so soon," she said, and Dean literally staggered with the force of his disbelief, for it was the same lady he had met at the remains of the Carlisle house a couple of days ago; the lady who had told him the whole sordid story -

"Dean," she said, looking at him, "You don't look very well, son."

"But Missouri -" NotSam began, looking baffled.

"I'm so sorry, but Miss Moseley is no more." Both of them stared at her, and she sighed. "She died three years ago - fatal heart attack."

Missouri... dead? Dean couldn't seem to bring himself to reconcile with this, even with all the earth-shattering revelations that seemed to be pelting him from all sides recently, and lord, it had been years, and he hadn't even checked; he hadn't even known that the very woman who had first told their father 'the truth' nearly three decades ago, the woman who had been partially responsible for starting them on this, was gone -

The door behind the lady opened wider, and another person - a man, tall and hulking - emerged to stand at her side.

"Joshua!" Dean blurted, and the veteran Hunter smiled grimly at him.

"We need to have a talk, Dean."