Carry On... Episode 11: Wings Off a Butterfly Part 2

[kiscinca]

Here is the second part of episode 11 of Carry On...



Episode 11: Wings Off a Butterfly

Original airdate: 2010.03.29

Summary:

Stressed out by the vague plans of angels and demons, Sam and Dean try to get themselves back on track with a simple hunt. However, for the Winchester brothers, there is no such thing as simple, and the brothers soon learn with painful clarity that they will never escape what is in store for them and maybe, this time, they don’t want to.

Excerpt:

The demon didn’t stop, keeping his dark gaze keenly on Sam’s face. “You feel it, don’t you? You feel the darkness that’s in you. Just waiting for you to give in.”

Sam tried to shake his head, but he was frozen.

“They always give in,” the demon continued. “Maybe we should just speed things up.”

The demon straightened, the knife flashing in the air as he raised it swift and easy above Sam’s head.

Dean was still yelling, but Sam couldn’t hear anything now--nothing beyond the pounding of his own, tainted heart.

The knife descended before Sam could blink, and for a second, Sam knew he was going to die.

Written by: faye_dartmouth  and ghostfour

Artist: faye_dartmouth


PART TWO

The demon’s black eyes shifted toward Sam, and Sam felt his breathing pick up speed. He was scared; he had rarely been so scared in his life. But under the fear there was a thin thread of relief. Him. Alastair picked him, and not Dean. All in all, he couldn’t be too unhappy about that.

He couldn’t, but someone else could. As Alastair leaned toward Sam’s altar, Sam could hear Dean explode from the other side of the room.

“You stupid, soulless, son of a bitch! You wouldn’t know real evil if it came up and bit you in the pursqueeter! I was more impressed with the duppy! Hey! C’mon, asshole!”

It wasn’t anything that Sam didn’t expect. Dean was a good brother. He would do everything he could to stop this, but Sam knew that stopping it wasn’t an option right now.

Alastair smirked, sharing a knowing look with Sam. They both knew Dean was shouting to attract Alastair’s attention - trying to make him mad and pull him away from Sam. And though Sam was grateful for the sentiment, he was glad that it wasn’t working. Maybe it was cowardly, and maybe it wasn’t fair, but he would much rather hurt than have to listen to Dean being hurt.

Sam only realized that he’d made a mistake when Alastair’s smirk deepened. Sam closed his eyes against the wave of despair. He’d let his relief show in his expression despite his fear, and Alastair caught it. A creature like him could hardly have missed it - and he definitely knew how to use it.

“Your brother has quite the potty-mouth, doesn’t he?” their captor asked, leaning over Sam. He stroked a gentle hand down Sam’s cheek. “I’ll have fun with that when I get to -” Alastair stopped, frowning. Sam froze, hardly daring to breathe as the demon stared at him, looking almost angry. Alastair’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.

He leaned closer, too close. Sam’s hands fisted uselessly in their bonds as the demon’s face - his mouth - moved in, millimeters from the bare skin of Sam’s neck.

“What the hell are you doing, you sick bastard? He doesn’t swing that way.”

The demon ignored Dean. He was much too focused on Sam, and Sam swallowed, tilting his head as far from that mouth as he could get - which was not far enough at all. He tried to slow his breathing, but couldn’t. He was pulling air in fast, panicked bursts. Then Alastair sniffed, and Sam shuddered at the sensation of the demon smelling him. He felt his skin actually crawl with revulsion as the monster ran his nose along the thin tissue near his artery.

The demon pulled back, his face twisted with disgust. “Well, well, well. You have been keeping some odoriferous company, Sammy.”

Sam felt his stomach turn as the demon used his father’s pronunciation of his name. “What -?” The half mutter was full of honest confusion. He smelled bad to a demon? What the hell…?

“Angels,” Alastair sneered. “You reek of them. It’s coming out of your pores. It’s not much different from the smell of an unwashed henhouse, really. That kind of stench is pervasive. It gets into everything. You must have been around one at some point. That is unexpected.” Alastair looked thoughtful. “Which begs the question of where and when, and why the feathered ilk seem to be so interested in you. You do seem to attract quite a lot of attention, little Sammy. So much ground to cover…so little time.” Alastair sighed like a person planning a party, happily busy. “Well, we’ll get to the answers. I promise. But if you have angels around, then there’s something I need to take care of. Questions will just have to wait a bit, sadly.”

Patting Sam on the shoulder, he turned to Dean’s altar.

“What are you doing?” Sam demanded, trying to twist his head to watch as the demon as closed in on his helpless brother. Briefly, their eyes met; Dean trying hard to look confident, unaffected. But Sam could see the real terror underneath, like the slow churn of dark water under the ice. Sam felt his own blood turning to ice as well. The cold shards of it seemed to pierce his heart as Alastair moved between them, cutting off Sam’s view.

The demon glanced back, tipping a wink at Sam, obviously aware of how he’d come between them. “Only be a minute here, kiddo. Then we can get back to business.”

Helpless to look away, Sam watched as Alastair’s shoulder moved - a carefully deliberate motion. Dean’s voice exploded in a guttural curse.

Sam had braced himself, but there was no way to block it out completely. The sound of Dean’s pain tore at him as much as Alastair’s knife was tearing at Dean, and Sam shuddered with the ache of it.

Sam strained against his bonds, uselessly. “Hey! I thought it was me you were interested in, you bastard! C’mon!”

Alastair straightened, turning to look at Sam and smiling slightly. His knife dripped gore. Behind him, Sam could see Dean, looking tense and pale, with sweat gathering across his face. His eyes were closed. His side was open and bleeding.

“Don’t be so impatient, little pet,” Alastair almost hummed to Sam in his strange accent. “I’ll get to you. Anticipation is half the fun.” Then the demon’s hand dropped and pushed viciously against the long gash he’d created in Dean’s side. Dean screamed in earnest this time, arching away from the pain. Their captor just closed his eyes briefly, as if savoring a fine wine.

“Alastair, please! Please! Just stop! Please!” The last repeated word came out more as a demand then a request. “Don’t hurt him anymore!”

Alastair only grinned wider. “I’m sorry, pet. But I need something from him, and this is the easiest way to get it.”

“He doesn’t know anything!” Sam cried. Sam felt the shackle slide strangely against his skin as flesh tore and blood started to flow, but the information was news from another country.

“You’re giving him what he wants, Sam,” Dean said, his voice trying to be dry, even bored…but shaking slightly. And he was right; Sam knew it. He was giving Alastair pain, his pain. Didn’t mean he could stop.

“He’s right, you know,” Alastair said, and the conversational tone was scarier to Sam than all of the vague threats. The demon literally felt nothing for his victims. Nothing. Except maybe amusement. “And I do want your pain, my dear. But right now, I’m after something a little more tangible.”

He pulled his hand away from Dean’s side, and Sam’s stomach turned. The demon’s hand was dripping blood: Dean’s blood.

Alastair stood, walking calmly over to the wall as Dean’s blood slithered though his fingers. Sam craned his head, watching as the demon used his bloody hand to paint a symbol. The blood dripped down the wall in thin ribbons, but that didn’t seem to matter to Alastair. Sam figured that it was more the arrangement of the lines - and the substance they were inked in - that mattered, rather than the precision of the drawing.

It was a drawing Sam couldn’t place. Obviously it was some sort of sigil, and Sam searched his memory, but he couldn’t figure out what the hell it was for.

Automatically, Sam’s eyes flicked back to Dean.

Dean’s eyes were closed, though; his face was pale and he was trembling just a bit. Sam’s jaw worked as Dean seemed to feel him watching, his eyes slowly opening. Sam tried to convey his concern with a look, silently asking if he was okay. Dean only attempted to shrug it off, forcing an expression of nonchalance; letting Sam know that he was fine, that it wasn’t that bad. But his mouth was so tight from the pain that it twitched, and his eyes slid closed again too quickly for Sam’s liking.

Frustrated, Sam turned his attention back to the demon in time to see him finish his graffiti. Alastair regarded the lines and swirls for a second, then slammed his bloody hand into the center of the sigil. Sam watched, amazed and appalled, as the demon jerked like he’d been tasered. The demon’s head dropped as if it was painful, his shoulders hunched, tensed - but when he looked back over his shoulder at them, he was breathing hard and smiling in pleasure.

“Ow,” he murmured almost contentedly. “Been a long time since I felt anything quite that…wonderfully nasty.”

Sam shuddered, feeling his heart speed and a cold twist of fear run down his back. Oh god, this was not just an upper-level demon with vengeance on his mind - this was a demon who got off on pain, a sadist in the truest sense of the word. This was a demon that was crazier than a shit-house rat.

Sam felt a rush of true terror. He and Dean were so screwed.

Alastair smiled and the dark insanity of it made Sam’s blood run cold. “Too bad we only get to do this three more times.”

Panicked, Sam glanced at Dean, but his brother was staring up at the ceiling. Sam could feel the blood beginning to trickle from the skin on his writs as he unconsciously struggled against the metal shackles. But there was no way to free himself; no way to get to Dean and to help him…Sam could only close his eyes, his hands fisting, as he listened to Dean reluctantly letting out a hoarse scream.

Sam watched as Alastair went through the whole process again and again , sketching the sigil on the next two walls, each time cutting Dean a little deeper, draining him of more of his blood. Dean finally flinched as Alastair started toward him a fourth time. Sam saw it and felt his heart cramp in his chest.

“Sorry, buddy,” Dean said, panting just a bit. Sam could see him staring at the empty ceiling so far above them, he could hear the way Dean was trying to keep his voice indifferent, and knew how much of a lie it was from the way his brother’s fists clenched. “I gave at the office. And I’m low a quart as it is.”

Alastair chuckled at this. “That’s my boy. Show me how not afraid you are.” He licked his lips, his tongue moving in a reptilian kind of flicker. “It’s so much sweeter when you try to swallow the fear.” The demon smiled down at Dean almost tenderly…then punched him in the side, opening the gash again, milking it, encouraging the blood to flow.

Sam shuddered at the choked noise Dean made as Alastair’s fist hit home. “Me! God damn it, use me! You haven’t bled me at all!”

Alastair hissed a laugh, leaning in to stage whisper to Dean: “Has your brother always been so jealous of your attention? I just bet he has.” He pulled his freshly bloodied hand free of Dean’s wound. “You’ll get your turn, Samuel. Just wait. Patience is a virtue after all. Besides, I don’t think using your blood will be quite as effective in banishing the angelic host, now would it.”

“You’re banishing the angels?” Dean asked, eyes wide, and Sam could hear the vague slur of blood loss beginning to creep through the words. “There are wards against angels?” For the first time, Sam could see real fear in him, and he realized that some part of Dean had been counting on the angels to swoop in. But Sam knew better, even as he watched Alastair paint the last sigil on the wall. They had no backup coming. No one was going to be swooping in to rescue them. They were on their own.

And Sam swallowed against the bile that wanted to come up as the realization of just how vulnerable and alone they really were hit him like a kick in the stomach.

"’There are more things in heaven and earth…than are dreamt of in your philosophy’." the demon quoted lazily. “There are ways to get rid of everything, young Dean. Even things that claim to be above all that. Especially things that claim to be above all that. You should always remember that.” Alastair smirked, then smacked his filthy hand in the center of the last sigil, leaving an imprint of Dean’s blood and his own pleasure-filled pain.

Alastair shuddered as he sealed the last sigil. A bright flash echoed through the room as the ward went up - and Dean jerked like he’d just touched the third rail as the light washed over him.

Alastair frowned at Dean’s reaction, his expression considering. “You felt that. You shouldn’t have. Not unless you are tied to the angels,” the demon said. The quiet intensity of his tone, the way he was staring at Dean now - not just amused but interested, like a cat with a mouse - scared the crap out of Sam.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Dean sneered weakly. “I’m just a little angel.” He didn’t bother to open his eyes.

The demon wasn’t pleased. “Yet another little mystery to solve. But that’s all right. We should have enough time to work in private now. To get to the bottom of this…enigma you two represent.” The word was derisive. He sounded almost offended.

“You don’t like not knowing things, do you asshole?” Dean jeered, his eyes snapping open and filling with anger. “Well, too friggin’ bad, because we won’t tell you squat!”

“Good,” Alastair encouraged. “The longer you hold out, the longer I keep you alive. And the longer I have to play. Win-win for me, kiddo.”

“What? No: ‘if you tell me what I want to know, I’ll let you go’ spiel?” The words were strong enough, but Dean’s voice shook.

Sam didn’t know if Dean had ever sounded quite this frightened. And the sound of it shook his own courage. Dean was his hero, his big brother, the one who knew everything and fought monsters and protected him. And even if Sam was grown now and he knew better, there was still a little kid somewhere in the back of his head that trembled at the sound of Dean’s fear. If Dean was scared, they were in big trouble.

“Sorry,” Alastair said, sounding anything but. “That’s not how it goes this time. It’s not tell-and-live; it’s tell,” Alastair lifted his knife, the long, serrated edge of it dripping gore, “…then die.”

“That isn’t exactly motivation to talk,” Dean snapped back, glaring at the blade.

“That’s what the knives are for,” Alastair responded dryly. Then he carefully ran his fingers down the blade, wiping it clean of Dean’s blood. “But first things first.”

Alastair turned to Sam, and Sam’s world narrowed to that sly face and knowing eyes. He was aware of Dean’s protests somewhere, but he felt frozen by Alastair’s gaze, like he was a mouse getting slowly constricted by a snake.

The demon moved slowly, deliberately letting both brothers see exactly what he was doing, making them anticipate. He whistled as he brandished the knife, humming a low satisfied sound that was as bad as the pain, as he finally cut, a long, shallow slice across his torso. Sam gasped at the burn of it, then carefully clamped down on even that reaction. He didn’t want to make a sound if he could help it. He knew what hearing Dean scream had done to him, and he wanted to spare his brother that if he could.

Across the room, Sam could hear Dean’s chains rattle as he struggled. Dean had bled more, been hurt more, but even so, Sam knew that his pain had to be killing his brother. He knew it from experience. “What are you doing?” Dean shouted. “Hey! Knock it off!”

Alastair ignored him. Sam didn’t look over - he didn’t want Dean to have to see any of this, and if he met Dean’s eyes there would be no way to hide it.

Alastair smiled down at Sam, as if reading his thoughts. He stroked the inflamed skin around the cut in Sam’s chest. “Little brother is fine, Dean,” he called back, smirking. “You two are just too precious.” Then Alastair’s stoking finger dug inward without stopping, so that he was running his finger inside the cut.

Pain flared up from his chest like wildfire, burning out his sight, clouding his senses. Sam gasped at the burning, invasive ache of it. Automatically he tried to get his hands up, to get the monster off him, and felt the raw skin on his wrists tear fully as the cuffs dug in. But even as he struggled, his throat locked, and he never made a sound.

Dean did. He was cursing and shouting and the only thing that registered with Sam was an achingly familiar: “If you hurt my brother, I will kill you. I swear, I will kill you.”

Alastair just smiled, and Sam could see the satisfaction in the expression. “Too late, Deano.” Alastair held up his bloody hand so that Dean could see. “Hurting is what I do.” And then he licked it.

Sam jerked, appalled, as Alastair licked gore on his finger and then, locking eyes with Sam, sucked the digit clean, like a gourmet sampling a new sauce. He removed the finger from his mouth slowly, lingering over the flavor. "Well, you smell like meat, little monkey... but you taste like us. Interesting."

“Screw you!” Dean shouted defiantly. “Sam’s nothing like you. Nothing!”

“Aw, how sweet. The brotherly love continues.” Alastair smiled again, and Sam couldn’t tear his eyes away. “But we both know better, don’t we, Samuel?”

The voice was rotten honey, decaying molasses. A false sweetness that covered a poisonous truth. One Sam had been refusing to swallow for too long now.

“’Blood will out,’” Alastair whispered. “Now, sing for your brother.” He plied the knife again. Sam arched against the pain, but managed to keep from making a sound.

Dean reacted anyway. “Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!”

Alastair tsked, sighing. “Now, you don’t even know my mother. And I will stop. All you have to do is admit what you are, stubborn Samuel.”

“Go to hell,” Sam snapped through clenched teeth.

“I will, as soon as I’m done with you two. With my information. It’s either on your tongues or in your brains…and I don’t care which I have to rip out to get it. Both ways are amusing.”

The blade went in. Sam panted, shaking, but remained silent. The demon twisted the knife, slowly turning it.

The pain was like a balloon; it nestled next to his ribs and then it filled and filled until it burst, throwing what felt like shards of glass through him. Despite his resolve to stay strong, despite his desire to save Dean the knowledge of his suffering…the pain built until it was choking him and he had to either let it out or suffocate.

He screamed.

Alastair leaned back, as if satisfied by the noise. “Good boy. That’s a very good boy.” He stroked Sam’s hair. “We’re making progress. Now that you’re vocal, what say we deal with a few little questions?”

“Screw you.”

“Now, now, now. Outbursts like that could have people thinking you’re some kind of monster. Oh, wait.”

Alastair smiled like the ghost of the alligator they had just killed. Somewhere a world away, Dean cursed again.

“You listen to me, Sammy. You aren’t a monster. You aren’t like this douchebag. You aren’t!”

Alastair shook his head. “Dean isn’t real quick on the uptake, is he?”

Sam just closed his eyes. There was no reason to keep them open. He knew what happened next.

Alastair seemed to pick up on Sam’s unwillingness to participate in his verbal games. His tone turning businesslike, his mouth far too close to Sam’s ear, the demon spoke. “Now, why did Azazel pick you, little pet?”

He paused, but Sam refused to speak.

“What makes you so special?”

Sam’s side burned. The knife was still lodged there. He could feel the wet slip of blood across his bare skin.

Alastair sighed wearily. “What kinds of abilities do you possess?”

Sam opened his eyes to stare at the beams so far overhead. The shadows crisscrossed there, making a dark web. He wondered vaguely how long it had been since the sun broke those shadows apart, burnt them into nothingness. Too long, he decided. Way too long.

Hissing in agitation, Alastair twisted the knife again. Sam screamed, surprised by the sudden bite of the blade and gasping out words without thinking. “I don’t know! I don’t know!”

Dean cursed raggedly.

“Don’t know,” Alastair mimicked conversationally. “Now, why don’t I believe you?”

“Because you’re an amoralistic asshole who wouldn’t know the truth if it came up and kicked you in the balls?” Dean suggested from across the room.

Alastair considered that with a small grin. “You know,” he said to Sam, sounding friendly enough. “He could be right. Maybe I wouldn’t know the truth if you did speak it. Maybe I should just open you up and see if I can find it that way.”

The knife moved. And so did the pain, growing and stretching, filling him like a possessing spirit. It grabbed onto him, sank into him, and Sam was so consumed by it that he no longer had any idea whether he was screaming or not.

“Whoa! Okay? Just stop!” Dean shouted from his slab. “We don’t freaking know! We’ve been trying to figure that out for almost two years now! We don’t have a clue! I swear! So just stop!”

The demon dropped his head, like someone who had suffered an annoying interruption while painting a masterpiece. Sam gasped like a fish; the pain receding for a moment as Alastair slowly looked over his shoulder at Dean. The demon’s eyes were unfriendly. “I’m trying to have a conversation,” he growled at Dean. “Interrupting is a bad habit. Do I need to teach you manors?” He tsked his tongue. “John was such a neglectful father.”

Even bleeding, his eyes blurred with tears, Sam still saw the flinch.

And so did Alastair.

Sam wanted to protest, wanted to call the demon back, but his throat wouldn’t cooperate and he had precious little breath left. Instead, he watched in mute horror as a slow, twisted smile slithered across Alastair’s borrowed face and he turned his attention back to Dean.

-o-

Dean hurt. The long slice across his chest and side burned, and his wrists and arms throbbed from fighting the restraints. His head…it ached, in a weird, ringing sort of way. Those sigils - he had felt the snap of each of imprint. Each time Alastair had slammed his hand down, sealing the symbol, Dean had felt the blow of it like a cage door shutting. And when the final door slammed…it had snapped through him, like it was cutting off one of his senses, leaving him feeling almost numbed. It was like he’d been getting information without knowing it from an invisible GPS, and now, with no new input, he was vaguely disorientated.

But none of it had hurt him like the sounds that Sam had been making. Having to listen to his brother in pain and being helpless to stop it, to help him, to save him…

That was a kind of hell he’d never wanted to feel again.

So no matter how badly his head was ringing, he felt a savage gladness when Alastair turned toward him. Because no mater how much pain was coming his way, it would still hurt less then hearing Sam struggle.

Alastair slithered into Dean’s limited line of sight - and that’s really what it seemed like to Dean: slithering - like he was a snake, a serpent, no matter the suit or the hands.

Dean watched as their captor went to the small table once again. He strained, twisting his head almost all the way back to watch as the demon picked up a pair of heavy leather gloves and collected a canister of some sort. Then Dean didn’t have to strain anymore, because Alastair was back at his side and in his face, and Dean felt his heart trip as everything in him screamed at the evilness - the vileness - of the creature leaning over him so possessively.

Dean swallowed, fighting the fear, trying to ignore Sam’s sharp, “No. No. Alastair!” Vaguely, he realized how much worse that made it, hearing Sam protest, knowing he was watching and helpless. And he spared a second to mentally apologize to his brother for not keeping his mouth shut - and another to hope that Sam would.

Alastair sat the container and gloves down on the floor next to Dean’s altar. Dean’s eyes automatically flicked to it, but he couldn’t make out what it was.

“See,” the demon said conversationally. “The whole problem is that I think your daddy lied to me.”

He put the knife to work again and the blade slid across Dean’s chest, a long, shallow, swooping cut. Dean hissed, his body tensing - which only made the knife hurt more.

“Not your fault, I know,” Alastair continued, his eyes following the trail of the knife as he opened Dean’s chest. “But we are all left with the consequences of his actions. I questioned him, oh yes,” the word was drawn out like a lover’s whisper, sibilant and smooth. “I asked him so many questions, and he told me so many wonderful things. About you. About your brother. And I listened. I listened so closely…and I knew he was special, and your brother was special . But he said you were so…ordinary.” The demon’s knife slid along Dean’s skin, driving home the lesson in pain and blood. Scoring him with both the words and the blade. “He said you were plain.” Cut. “Normal.” Slice. “Dull.” Slash. “Boring.” Cut. “Useless. Useless to him, useless to your brother, and useless to me. Meat for the wasting.”

The knife went in and twisted, and Dean screamed, his mind blank except for a wide, red wake of pain. Slowly, the misery receded and Dean opened his eyes again, panting as Alastair, smiled serenely down at him. “Is -” Dean swallowed back something in his throat, not knowing or caring if it was bile or blood. He tried again. “Is there a question in there somewhere, or d-do you just like to hear yourself talk?”

The demon laughed, and Dean hated him a little more.

“Oh, there’s a question,” Alastair agreed. “But it’s not ‘how could your neglectful, uncaring, father who overlooked you your whole life not know what you were or that you have some sort of tie to those feathered freaks who think that they are so much better then us?’ No. Why, the answer’s in the question with that one! John couldn’t have cared less about what happened to you so long as Sammy was okay. So he never saw that special twinkle in your eyes.” Alastair’s grin faded, “At least, that’s what you think. And Samuel,” his voice picked up so that Sam could hear them. “He thinks that this mess is all of his making. That it’s his fault that you never had the life you wanted, never had the home you wanted. And his fault that now you’re getting carved up like a turkey on Thanksgiving. All his fault.” Alastair leaned in close and whispered in Dean’s ear. “You both give yourselves too much credit.”

Dean shuddered at the demon’s breath in his ear. He jerked his head away, and his raw, bloody chest howled at the motion. “Dude,” Dean said, his voice hollow, his eyes squeezed shut. “Tick-Tacs. Get some. Seriously.”

Alastair snorted. “You do amuse me. In more ways then the typical screaming-bleeding. But you two aren’t typical, are you? You are somehow exceptional. But that still leaves the question, the only one I care about. What in the name of Hell are you two? I’m fairly sure John didn’t know. At least he didn’t when he died.” Alastair looked smug. “He told me everything he knew from before he died. And I do mean everything.”

Dean opened his eyes and he could see Sam struggling across the room. Sam looked so scared. As soon as their eyes met, Sam exploded. “If you already know all this, why do you need us? It’s obvious you know more then we do! We can’t tell you anything!” Dean could hear the edge of real anger under the fear.

“Ahh, Samuel. John told me all about you. At least, what little he knew and what little more he suspected. But in this, Dean’s uniqueness…John said nothing. So, either he lied,” the demon’s tone let it be known how likely that was. “Or he didn’t know. Which means you do have something to share with me.” His inky black eyes flicked to Sam. “Both of you do.”

“We’ve established that,” Dean growled, his mouth working without his even thinking about it. He could feel the blood running down his sides, feel it pooling on the stone beneath him, warm and cooling; but he would do anything to keep Alastair on this side of the room. Anything. “So are you ever going to do anything about it? Or are you just playing with yourself?”

“Oh, I plan to,” Alastair smirked and reached for the canister he had sat down earlier. The blue cardboard looked innocuous. It was almost comforting in its familiarity, in its meaning. But Dean felt himself shudder, eyes flaring at the pain he knew was coming.

Alastair shook the container of salt, obviously amused at the dry rustle. “I am limited in the amount of physical damage I can inflict as long as I want you alive. Things are so much easier in Hell. There, I can cut to the bone, suck out the marrow, and they just come back. Here though…cut too deep, or in the wrong way, and instant corpse.”

“So sorry to ruin your fun,” Dean snarked, but the effect was ruined by his shaking.

“Oh, it’s no bother, really,” Alastair assured him. “I may be limited on the amount of damage, but I can add as much pain as I want.” He regarded the salt amusedly. “Most of my kind won’t go near this stuff - purity and all that.” He sat the cylinder down long enough to pull on the gloves. “But I love the irony. See, boys, salt doesn’t hurt just demons. It can bite even the pure…when they’re open to it.”

“Alastair! Don’t! Don’t!” Sam begged.

But Dean could have told Sam that was useless.

Alastair poured a steady line of salt across the open cuts in Dean’s chest. There was a moment when there was nothing, just the slight almost pleasant feel of the shifting grains landing on his raw, hypersensitive flesh… then his chest caught fire. Burning, etched in acid and smoke and pain, and oh god oh god, it hurt it hurt it HURT.

Dean shrieked.

“What is this connection you have to the angels?”

“I don’t know! God!”

“He has left the building.” Alastair’s said flatly. His hand ran over the cuts, rubbing the salt in. “Why did Azazel pick your family?”

“I. Don’t. Know! Please!”

“What can your brother do? What is his purpose?”

“I have no frigging clue!”

And suddenly, Alastair pulled in a sharp breath. His eyes narrowed to slits and he leaned in, smelling Dean. He had to hold Dean’s shaking head still to accomplish it. He licked his cheek. Dean shuddered massively.

“We have a truth,” Alastair observed. He sucked his tongue clean of Dean’s pain. “Let’s work on more, shall we?”

Dean screamed as the knife went in again.

-o-

Sam shivered as Dean yelled when the salt hit his chest.

His own pain had been bad enough. Hearing Dean’s agony was too much…

He could feel it, the power, the surge and pull of it. Maybe it was the proximity of the demon. Maybe it was his own panic as he was forced to watch Dean struggle. Either way, the power was right there, waiting. It lapped around the edges of his mind like waves against the beach, and right now, it was pulling his control away the same way the waves pulled the sand from under people’s feet - inexorably.

Consciously, Sam reached for his powers. He knew they were bad; evil, even. Letting them have a foothold was a bad thing. They opened the door for so many things he didn’t want to deal with - they made him a monster. The powers were part of the blood, the blood he hated himself for; he didn’t want to use them, he didn’t want to have anything to do with them. Each time they came out Sam felt like a part of his humanity, his very self, was burned away. But for the first time, he was more frightened of the situation than of his powers. They were there, and they were strong, and right now, he wasn’t.

They wanted out.

So did he.

He opened himself to them, letting them flow in, channeling them out. The headache was instant and blinding, but totally worth it.

Silently, the shackles around his wrists opened. He glanced over, but Alastair was busy with Dean. Slowly, Sam sat up, absently wiping the blood off of his face as his nose began to bleed.

Quickly, as quietly as he could with shaking hands and blurred vision, he undid the shackles at his ankles. He used only his hands this time - letting the powers out from necessity was a sin of one caliber, and he had no plans to slip any further down that slope - and he slid off the altar. He never thought he would be so glad for bare feet.

Pushing away from his altar, Sam ignored the blood sliding down his chest and side and started toward Alastair. His hands clenched on air and he wished he had a gun, or a knife, or pretty much anything. He knew there wasn’t much he could do against a demon bare-handed; but maybe if he could get a hold of the salt there might be a chance.

He made it about two feet from the demon. Dean’s eyes widened a second before Alastair turned. Sam saw the demon’s eyes flair a bit, his head cocking almost curiously.

“Now, how did you get loose?”

Sam didn’t bother answering. Instead he focused all his attention, all his concentration, all his hate, on the figure standing there, so smug, so proud. He let the power tear from him, unleashed and without reservation.

Alastair staggered. His head snapped back as if he’d been punched. Then he turned back to Sam, eyes narrowed and a vague smirk playing over his features.

“Now, that was almost impressive,” the demon said, reaching up to touch a trickle of blood from his lip. “The operative word being almost.” His eyes flickered black. “Let me show you how it’s done, you impudent puppy.”

It was like being hit by the semi again. Sam felt the blast of Alastair’s power, the sheer shockwave of it hitting him with a concussive push that shoved him off balance. Before he could fall, though, he felt the power wrap around him tightly, snaking over his arms and chest, and his feet lifted from the ground. The demon hefted him almost to the ceiling, then slammed his body down, throwing Sam into the cement floor with enough force that he felt himself bounce. Sam tried to gasp as he hit, his whole body jarred and battered - but his diaphragm had seized up, and he felt the old, familiar panic as he couldn’t pull in any air.

Alastair leaned over him as Sam struggled to fill his lungs. He looked vaguely annoyed, but unworried and unruffled…as if he’d just swatted a fly.

“Interesting,” the demon said, studying Sam as he gasped. “This was unexpected. I wanted to know how much you could do, but I didn’t expect a full demonstration. Thank you for showing me how far you could go…and how much control you have - which, sadly, is not much.” Alastair smiled like a viper. “Sad for you, anyway. If you were really powerful, you could help your brother; how does that feel?” Alastair almost purred. “Does it make you feel like a monster?”

“Shut up!” Dean screamed. “He’s not a monster, you limp-dicked son of a bitch!”

Alastair ignored Dean, focusing his attention on Sam, who lay bleeding on the floor. “This is where you belong, at my feet, like all the rest of hell spawn," Alastair said. “Did you really think you could take me on? Just because you’ve played with a few of the younger children, do not assume you can bite their owner, little pet.”

Sam tried to scream from empty lungs as agony engulfed him. It felt like someone hand reached inside his head and was shredding his brain, tiny little cut after tiny little cut. The world flickered in and out, huge red spots dancing across what vision he had left as his limbs spasmed pointlessly, almost convulsively. Somewhere outside the pain, somewhere far away, he heard Dean cry out, sounding panicked and enraged.

“Leave him alone! You’re killing him!”

The pain cut off, the shock of its sudden ending almost as bad in its own way. Sam slumped to the ground, trying to see past the red, and realizing only as he blinked that it was blood covering his eyes. He gasped raggedly, one hand coming up to push against his skull, vaguely surprised to find it whole and hard, rather then broken and spongy.

“Point,” Alastair growled. “I can hardly kill him before I’ve gotten all my information, now, can I?” Then the demon blinked lazily. “Oh, wait. Yes, I can.”

Sam arched in agony as Alastair held out a hand and he felt the hot, jagged claws of the demon’s mind reach inside and catch on things there, pulling, shredding, tearing him apart. “Let’s see what color your insides are.”

“Alastair! Stop it!” Dean shouted.

Sam folded again as the claws retracted.

“Down, boy. Sit. Stay.” Alastair said to Sam, then looked at Dean. “Old Yellow-Eye’s boy-toy is not quite up to snuff, is he? That’s all right. I can just start in another place and work my way up.”

Sam tensed, trying to get ready for a pain that there was no real way to prepare for.

“Hey -” Dean’s voice broke. Sam looked up through blurry eyes to see tears running down Dean’s sweaty, agonized face and blood running from his abraded wrists and wounded body. Dean swallowed, his eyes darting from Sam’s to their captors. “Hey, Alastair. I give, okay? I’ll talk. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Alastair looked up at Dean, his eyes narrowed. “‘A bird came down the walk: He did not know I saw; He bit an angle-worm in halves. And ate the fellow, raw,’” the demon quoted, almost to himself.

Dean shifted nervously. “What?”

Alastair sighed. “I love poetry. There is always honesty in poems: real truth. That must be why so many poets go insane.” Alastair studied his bloody hand for a moment. “My poetry is written in pain and inked in blood. It’s a fleeting medium, but I know when I’ve done well.” He sighed, and then shrugged in a ‘what can you do’ sort of way.

He shook his head, as if clearing it - then took a step toward Dean. “So, what piece of honesty do you have to offer me, boy?”

“Well, I honestly think you’re a twisted, psychotic, egomaniac, but I’m pretty sure you already knew that.”

Alastair chuckled, wandering closer. “I suspected, yes. And I bet you knew I was going to do this.” The demon’s hand, still clutching his knife, came down in swift, savage arc, burying the knife in Dean’s leg.

Dean howled.

“Now that’s honesty,” Alastair smirked. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” He left the knife in Dean’s leg and went to the table.

Sam glanced up. Met Dean’s eyes. Dean nodded.

Sam struggled to his feet. The world flipped lazily, but Sam ignored the vertigo, making himself stay upright. He paid no attention to the blood dripping from his nose and ears, or to the screaming from the flayed flesh on his chest and side. He staggered over to Dean’s altar, took hold of the knife hilt. Caught Dean’s nod.

Sam pulled it free as carefully and painlessly as he could.

The cords stood out in Dean’s neck as Sam pulled the weapon free, but his brother didn’t make a sound. Sam tried to undo Dean’s shackles, but the knife didn’t even score the metal.

“Well, well, well. Trying again, are you pet? You’re persistent. I’ll give you that.”

Sam dropped back into as close to a fighter’s crouch as he could. “Just let us go.” He knew it was pathetic as he said the words, but there just wasn’t anything else left to try.

Alastair smiled, not unkindly. “Why should I?”

-o-

Dean grimaced as the demon smiled. His chest throbbed and burned, his wrists ached, his leg was a red, hot mess. And his heart twisted as he watched his brother paw the blood from his face and stand up against an impossible battle, one that he couldn’t possibly win.

And one that Dean couldn’t help with, trussed up on this slab like a hog on a butcher’s table.

Sam didn’t bother speaking again. Reaching down, he snatched the salt from the floor next to Dean’s altar, and started to pour.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Alastair said, and for the first time Dean could hear real anger in his tone.

In a flash, the demon was back, dropping whatever he’d gotten from the table in order to snatch at Sam. Sam flung the salt up, aiming at the demon’s face. Alastair cursed, ducking away, and Sam went back to work on his line, attempting to ward Dean, but the slab was just too big, and Alastair recovered far too quickly.

Growling, the demon reached out, snagging Sam’s neck, his fingers digging in, holding tight. Sam spun, slashing with the knife, but Alastair - moving with inhuman speed - grabbed his hand and twisted, pushing Sam to his knees as he pulled the hand behind Sam’s back. Sam went down so fast that Dean had no doubt the demon had used his power as well. Dean heard the knife land on the floor with a dull clatter.

Sam knelt, hunched, as the demon held him down, one hand digging into his neck, the other keeping his arm twisted painfully behind his back in a hold that Dean knew well: one that could totally disable an opponent’s arm…as fast or slow as the aggressor wanted to go. “Well, boy, yet another failed attempt to save your brother. Can you do anything right?”

The words were spoken with an almost amused curiosity. Sam’s eyes flickered up to Dean’s, and Dean’s gut churned at the hopeless apology in them. Then Sam gasped, his eyes squeezing shut.

“I asked you a question, pet.”

Dean saw Alastair shift, and Sam gasped again, hunching further. Dean recognized it as the reaction of someone who was slowly having their arm overextended.

“You son of a bitch, leave him alone!”

Alastair’s eyes were cold. “I told him to sit and stay. He disobeyed orders - which I understand from your father is somewhat of a habitual problem with him.” Alastair twitched and Sam made a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

Dean jerked in his bonds. “What the hell do you want from us?” Dean asked, wincing as Sam shuddered.

“From you? Answers. From him? Truth.” Alastair dipped close to Sam. “Tell me what you are, Samuel. Tell me what you are, and what your brother is, and what your purpose is. Just say it, and I’ll go back to your brother. You can rest.”

Dean bit his lip as Sam pulled in a ragged breath.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sam finally said, his voice rough with strain.

“Wrong answer,” Alastair said, and pushed. Dean heard the quick pops he knew had to be Sam’s fingers slipping out of joint. Sam jerked, trying and failing to flinch away. Dean knew for sure now that the demon was holding him down with his powers. He could see it in the way Sam dropped as if pushed by unseen hands. Sam’s breath hitched. “Try again. What are you, Samuel? Dean? You can feel free to play too. What is he? What are you? What is your connection to the angels?”

The arm went up again. Sam cried out, his face going a weird shade of gray that Dean had never seen before. “Hunters!” Sam cried. “We’re hunters!”

“And?” The demon shoved again. This time the crack was louder, more distinctive. Dean knew that either Sam’s wrist had just broken, or his elbow had come unhinged.

Sam blanched. His whole body shuddered. He seemed passed the ability to scream. “A-and wh- what?”

“What are you, Samuel? What are you?”

Dean saw the moment when Sam finally comprehended the question. His eyes flared with a pain that had nothing to do with the physical, but was just as raw and exposed. “No.”

“Yes,” Alastair insisted. “You will say it. You will. What are you, Samuel?”

Sam swallowed, closing his eyes. Dean’s heart lurched at the resignation he could see in him.

Alastair waited a moment then glanced up. “No? Fine. Dean? How about you? Are you in the mood for sharing?” Sam groaned as the demon pushed his arm up another millimeter. “What is your connection to the angels?”

“I eat a lot of angel food cake.”

Sam winced and began panting, his eyes bulging slightly as the demon pushed again. “Are you sure that’s your only answer?”

“I can hear them! I don’t know why! Now, let him go! Please!”

“Truth,” Alastair said, looking almost relieved, “is not half as fun as the pain it takes to get there.” With that he wrenched Sam’s arm all the way up, demonic strength allowing him to overextend the limb easily. There was a sound like ice shattering under a heavy boot, a dull crunch, and then Sam was screaming in earnest, his shoulder an odd lumpy mass sitting too high on his torso.

“Jesus! You didn’t have to do that! I was talking!” Dean gasped, shuddering as his system once again flooded with adrenaline that he couldn’t use.

Once Sam stopped screaming, Alastair simply shoved him aside, letting him fall over and writhe. The demon picked up his knife, and stepped over him, looking serene.

“I didn’t have to, no. But I did enjoy it. Besides, he disobeyed.” Alastair picked up the object he’d dropped before. Dean’s heart stuttered.

It was a car battery.

He walked up to the altar watching as Dean swallowed. His eyes wandered down to the bloody hole in Dean’s jeans where the knife had gone in. “I believe that I left a piece of my property there and you let it be taken.” Alastair tsked, his eyes flicking slyly up to Dean’s own. “And here I thought you were the obedient one.”

Dean flashed on the sledgehammer scene from Misery as the battery swung. The heavy block connected solidly with his knee, and Dean felt his kneecap slide sideways. The massive, instant ache of it encased him from toe to groin, so hot and so big that he felt nauseous with it.

When he finally stopped wailing, Alastair was waiting patiently. “You lost my knife, I misplaced your knee. We’re even.”

“God, I hate you,” Dean heard the near sob in his voice and couldn’t find it in himself to care.

Alastair snorted. “You don’t even know what hate is, not yet. But you’ll learn. All my students do.” He sat the battery down between Dean’s bare feet, hooking up the cables he’d looped around his neck. “Now, let’s talk about angels, shall we?”

-o-

Sam hadn’t passed out, not really. Ironically, the pain kept him too aware of his body to fully pass out. But he’d drifted - his head full of shattered glass, his chest raw and bleeding, his shoulder a massive, hot weight. He’d drifted.

It was Dean screaming that pushed him back toward the world.

Dean shouldn’t be screaming. No way. No.

Sam forced his eyes open. Dean was jerking in his chains, almost seizing as the demon smiled and pressed the metal ends of jumper cables into his bare feet.

The demon stopped for a moment. “So, are you ready to talk now?”

Dean shivered. It was a constant vibration that made something in Sam ache and burn. “Whatever,” Dean murmured. “Dude. Whatever you want. Just,” his brother’s breath hitched in a sob. “Just don’t…anymore.”

The demon smiled. “Seems like you boys have a chewy, nougaty center after all. Just took awhile to find it; though I can’t say that the search hasn’t been enjoyable.” He used the cables again.

As Dean jerked, Sam’s sluggish brain began to work. He opened his mouth, the words coming automatically, and quickly. “Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursion infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica -”

Alastair screamed, dropping the cable and reaching for his head.

“Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te. cessa decipere humanas creaturas…”

Growling a low and deadly noise, Alastair staggered toward Sam.

“--eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare…”

Sam felt himself flipped, his arm rolling with the motion in a symphony of shattered bones and dislocated joints. But Sam kept chanting. It wasn’t hope, or even courage that motivated him, just plain stubbornness. He wasn’t going to stop until Alastair made him stop.

Alastair snarled, looking frayed at the edges, looking like he was in a little of his own pain, and not the fun kind. Sam couldn’t be unhappy about that.

“Another mistake, boy,” the demon growled, and hit him, a hard, fast blow to the throat.

Sam felt something crunch, and then he was gasping, trying to suck air past the weirdly thick, constricting agony that was trying to strangle him.

“No more talking, smart ass,” the demon hissed. Then he straightened, smoothing his hair. “In fact, no more of this. Playtime is over, kiddies, as much fun as this has been. I still need the information. Break the body; destroy the mind.” Alastair’s foot lashed out at Sam, catching him in his mangled shoulder. Instantly, the demon seemed to feel better.

“It’s like dinner and dessert.”

END OF PART TWO