An alternative ending to Season 10 (and the series as a whole), diverging right before the end of episode 3: Soul Survivor. Dean kills Castiel, does darkside and brings Sam along. A sequel to Solid to Gas, features Demon!Dean, Soulless!Sam and a glimpse at Hell's tech support department. Contains references to The Princess Bride, Doctor Who and characters from Hellraiser (none of which I own, natch). The title refers to Harvey Dent's line from The Dark Knight: "You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain."
THE ROAD SO FAR: For those who don't want to read Solid to Gas, Doctor Abacad runs the Transanimation Wellness Clinic that offers soul extractions for (what she believes are) therapeutic purposes. She also owns a pair of enchanted glasses that allow her to see people's souls for medical examinations, which she wears on a librarian-style chain around her neck. A removed soul can deteriorate based on its host's behaviour and moral turpitude. Transanimation has the best legal team in the universe, except perhaps for Disney's, Microsoft's and Crowley's.
Tanya Ahlquist is a ruthless and wildly creative lawyer, who may or may not have had her soul removed.
Vandaveon Huggins is Transanimation's recptionist, who wears a simpler version of Abacad's enchanted glasses for security reasons.
The word rooh is Persian (Abacad's native language) for soul.
Sam held the demon blade to his brother's neck, adrenaline pumping and vision blurred with tears. Dean drank in Sam's trepidation and terror with a serene smile.
"Take your shot, Sammy. It's all you," sneered the demon, knowing what his brother would do. Dean felt an inkling behind him, and heard a soft, fluttering footstep.
Sam dropped the blade and it clattered to the floor. Dean smiled, allowed his eyes to go black, swiftly unsheathed his long chrome shank and whirled on Castiel. In the same motion, he buried the angel blade to the hilt in Cass' chest.
Sam screamed and fell to his knees as light poured from Castiel's eyes and mouth. The angel convulsed, shuddered and collapsed, buckling all the doors in the bunker's hallway. The younger Winchester grabbed Castiel's lifeless body in disbelief.
Dean pulled out the angel blade and casually stomped on Sam's leg, shattering his knee. Sam cried out in pain and anguish. Dean snorted. "Oh, unbunch your panties, Sam. How long, realistically, do you think Castiel is going to stay dead? Does he ever? Obviously he's got some friends in high places, so it's just a matter of time before we see him again. Bingo-bango and he's right back again, like a rash. A very very important rash. As for you…" Dean picked up the demon blade and crouched beside his brother. Sam flinched. Dean smiled and broke Sam's left tibia.
"You never gave up on me. I'm… well, I'm just touched. Really." He put his hand on Sam's neck. "You tried so damned hard to fix me, but you can't fix what ain't broken." Dean waggled the demon blade in front of Sam's face. "I can fix you, though. Allow me to open your eyes."
Dean sliced into his thumb and thrust the wound into his brother's mouth. Sam struggled but Dean gripped Sam by the hair and with his hobbled limbs, he couldn't go anywhere. Blood poured down his gullet and with it returned the delicious lusty rush of his old addiction. Sam let go and guzzled until he swooned and lost consciousness.
Dean smiled as he hogtied his blood-drunk brother and tossed him into the back seat of the Impala.
Several hours later, Crowley was greeted by a rather flustered demon aide. He mentioned something about a "situation" that required a "decision" on his part. Upon requesting clarification, the aide described a "package from everyone's favourite not-particularly-evil demon". With no little irritation, the king of hell followed the intern.
He was led to the trussed and injured Sam Winchester, whose irises had been eaten by his pupils. His mouth was duct taped shut and there was a note in his pocket addressed to Crowley. The intern handed it to him.
"We thought it prudent to let you be the first."
Crowley opened the note and immediately recognized Dean's handwriting.
"FREE TO A GOOD HOME: Sam Winchester, pedigreed and (mostly) housebroken saviour of world. Requires steady diet of demon blood, chick flicks and salad."
The Impala's engine roared and Dean's phone rang.
"What's new, Scruffy?" answered Dean jovially.
"What do you think you're playing at?" barked Crowley, "I don't run a ruddy babysitting service."
"You don't? Isn't this the Betty Ford Centre?"
"You think you're being funny, do you? Dumping your gigantic lunkhead on my doorstep? It's a miracle that none of the peons killed him. He's not the most popular oaf in the pit you know."
"I know. This is temporary while I'm away. You're going to fix him up."
Crowley sneered, "Sorry, Hell is fresh out of plasters and Bactine."
"You know what I mean. You're going to do to him what you did to me."
"Eh?"
"Rehabilitate him so maybe, for once in our lives, we can see eye to inky black eye."
Crowley was flabbergasted. "I can't. You were a special case. There's only one Mark of Cain."
"Alright fine." Dean paused. "So pull out his soul."
"You're having a laugh! How am I supposed to do that?"
"Do whatever Abaddon did."
"Oh, brilliant! Why don't I just give her a ring then and ask her to fax me over the instructions? This is a terrible idea. Without his soul, your brother will be a complete maniac. Again."
"Crowley, are you being unhelpful on purpose? I'm sure you can figure something out. You're a clever little man. Anyway, I've got to let you go. Lots on my To Do List. Enjoy the gift. I know it's not as nice as the one you got for me, but I hope that it will do." Dean glanced at a bundle of fabric on the passenger seat.
"Gift? What gift?"
Dean smiled. "Old Donkey Teeth."
"No," said Crowley, his voice rising in pitch. "There's no way you could have found the First Blade. I hid it perfectly."
"Yeah, in Cuthbert Sinclair's bunker, clever. I heard it calling. I would have heard it from any little hidey-hole you had stashed it. You can't hide it from me any more than it could be hidden from Cain. I am Cain."
"Dean," stammered Crowley, "listen to me…"
"Oh relax, will you? I'm not gunning for you. Yet. Just do as I say. Upgrade Sam. I'll be in touch."
Amanda Trenton was beside herself at the sight of her husband Cole. Despite his dislocated shoulder he held tight to his library books as his puffy face oozed blood onto them. Cole gurgled instructions to his wife about applying salt to the doorways and sigils to the walls. It was only after they were safely affixed that the injured marine collapsed into unconsciousness on his bed.
Amanda's immediate alarm turned to seeping dread as her husband healed and became obsessed with religious arcane. What she had gleaned from his fevered ramblings was that Cole had indeed found and confronted his father's murderer, who had then viciously pummelled him to within an inch of his life. He was also under the impression that Dean Winchester is some sort of Hell-spawned supervillain, and he'd sought out expertise so that Cole wouldn't find himself outgunned "next time". Always with the "next time".
It was a few weeks before the "next time" happened. A dented black muscle car purred to a halt at the Trenton home and out emerged a tall, handsome man who needed a shave and wore a hell of a scowl. Amanda recognized him immediately from Cole's collage.
Doctor Behrooz Abacad noticed a most unwelcome name on her calendar, apparently scheduled for a preliminary consultation. She asked around and neither Van in reception nor anyone else could remember having made the appointment, which was slated to start in ten minutes.
Abacad went to her office, put a cup of coffee on her desk in front of her guest chair, pulled it out, then sat in her own and waited. In it appeared Crowley, as expected. What she didn't expect was the tall, injured and gagged guest that the demon king plunked into the second chair.
"Good afternoon, Behrooz. You look less than happy to see me." Crowley smiled and, without ungagging Sam, slid the coffee over to him. "Some java for the moose? I never touch the stuff myself, but let it never be said that your clinic lacks hospitality."
Dean knocked again on the door behind which cowered Amanda. The way he looked at the door made her feel as though it weren't there at all; like he could see straight through it. She knew that whether or not she answered the door, he'd never believe no one was home. Dean leaned against the brick wall and picked at his cuticle. He glanced at the door and Amanda watched him count to three on his fingers, then rear back.
She jumped back from the peephole and watched in horror as the doorframe shattered against his heel.
Dean stood in the doorway and gave Amanda a warm smile. "Afternoon, ma'am. May I come in? I've an appointment with – your husband? I'm expected."
"You can't come in unless I invite you, can you?"
Dean stepped across the threshold. "I just thought I'd be polite. So where is… wow, I don't even know his name. Inigo Montoya." Dean strode past Amanda and stopped quickly before stepping onto the throw rug. He very carefully stepped around it and headed for the kitchen. "Montoya!"
"His name is Cole," said Amanda.
Dean peered at the framed photos on the mantle of the marine's smiling family and platoon. In the kitchen, he took in the dentist's reminders and child's report cards on the fridge. "I have to admit," he said to himself, "I did not see this coming."
Cole splashed Dean with holy water, at which he recoiled. "Ain't the only thing you didn't see coming."
"Alright Mister Crowley, let's conduct our business and be done with it," said Doctor Abacad in clipped, measured tones. "What is it I can do for you this afternoon?"
"I'd like to arrange an animectomy for my large friend here," said Crowley with a breezy smile, motioning to Sam. Sam's eyes went wide, he leaned forward and shook his head with muffled but vehement objections.
"Not possible," replied Abacad, maintaining cool composure. "Every patient must agree to the procedure themselves. It cannot be arranged on behalf of someone else."
"Oh come off it," scoffed Crowley. "It's not like anyone ever consults cats before they're neutered."
"That has absolutely nothing to do with this conversation. Why don't we ask Mister Winchester to speak for himself? He seems eager to weigh in on this matter."
"The duct tape stays where it is," replied the king.
The doctor frowned. "Where is his brother? Why isn't he here? I would speak to him."
"Cain is Abel's keeper, not the other way around. Besides, this whole little nip-tuck was his idea."
"Mister Crowley, I think you should remove my name from your Rolodex. Our meetings are never productive." Doctor Abacad stood up. "I will not do this to him under any circumstances."
"Oh no?"
Cole shook salt at Dean, who retreated again. "I'm ready for you this time."
Dean raised his hand and slammed Cole into the wall with his mind. "That's what you said last time. Hubris…" He pressed harder and Cole winced. "…it'll be the death of you."
Cole roared in frustration and despair. "Whatever you're going to do, just do it! Why mess with me? Just leave my family alone."
The demon smiled. "Originally, the plan was just to kill you. Bust into your paranoid little underground hovel and splatter your entrails all over your hot plate and bare light bulb. But this?" Dean flicked his eyes around the room. "You've got a nice little home life here. A lot to lose. And boy, will you ever." He dropped the marine, who landed on his feet, seized a kitchen knife and came in with a wild, slashing attack.
The butcher knife found Dean's hands and he was bleeding before he knocked Cole's feet out from under him and dispassionately sliced through both his Achilles tendons.
Cole crawled into the living room where he saw his wife pointing a gun at Dean and his son with the cordless phone in his hand, calling 911. The dispatcher could be heard on the line and Dean swiftly pulled the phone out of the boy's hand.
"Hi. Hiya doin'? We need police and an ambulance. There's an intruder at…" Dean handed the phone back to Cole's son. "Where do you live, kiddo? Why don't you take over?"
Amid Cole's spluttering warning, Amanda's fired at the demon, hitting him in the left shoulder. Dean yanked the gun out of her hand and threw it across the room.
"I gotta say, I'm really impressed with your family's composure, Cole," said Dean, regarding the woman and the boy. "If you had to choose one over the other, who would it be?"
"You evil son of a bitch," spat Cole.
"Your son?" Dean bent over. "Is that what you said?"
"No!"
"You're the boss." The demon strode toward Amanda and locked her arm behind her in a vise-like grip. He put his other hand on her shoulder and marched her toward the door. "If you struggle, I'll break your collarbone."
"Mom!" yelled the boy, lunging toward Dean. The demon extended his knee, catching him in the chest and knocking him flat. Dean bent to look at the prone boy. He didn't let go of Amanda though, and she had to follow him to the floor or dislocate her shoulder.
"What's your name?" asked Dean.
"Don't tell him!" bleated Cole.
"Lucas."
"Look at me, Lucas. Take a good look at my face." Dean flicked his eyes to black and smiled. "You'll be seeing me again down the road." He stood up, prompting a yelp from Amanda. "Let's go, Buttercup. If you make me cuff you, I will cuff you."
"Bazem in ghaziye," muttered Abacad, crossly. "I will not be threatened, Crowley. You cannot buy me or force my hand. What will you do, kill me? Where's your animectomy then?"
"I could close your clinic."
"You don't have the power to do that. I suppose you're going to threaten my husband next?"
"No point," said Crowley nonchalantly. "We both know that Sandeep is on a Caribbean cruise, drinking from coconuts, telling the tanned boys that his name is Lucio and generally doing what men do alone at sea. I'd bugger him myself if I thought it would bother you. No, I'm going to hit you in the vault. That is, of course, where it really hurts, isn't it?"
"There is no getting into the vault unauthorized, not for you or anyone else. It's warded to the nines against the likes of you."
"And what if it weren't? What if I were to bring all those souls back to the office with me?"
"Who died and made you Saint Peter?" countered the doctor.
"I doubt he'd have much sympathy for any of your specimens. We both know where they belong."
"Again, Hell has no jurisdiction here."
"I could feed them all to Egypt's soul-eating crocodile."
"No you couldn't. Besides, I don't think he's still around. Egypt went Muslim."
Something occurred to Crowley. He smiled. "I could send them to the Drujo-demana."
Doctor Abacad's jaw dropped. She took several seconds to form her retort. "Nobody in the freezer is Zoroastrian."
"But you are. I could use your faith to send them there."
The doctor was speechless. Her hand went to her Ahura Mazda pendant and she contemplated the sinners' underworld of her creed. Finally she frowned and answered. "Fine. Go ahead. Most of those souls could use the lessons learned in the Drujo-demana. Everyone deserves a second chance."
"And what if, dear Behrooz, that's not what they would get once they're there?"
"What are you talking about? That's Rashnu's decision to make, not yours."
"True, but at this point in history, I vastly outrank him. It wouldn't take much to annex your Hell and absorb it into mine. Rashnu owes me a favor anyway. I will turn it into the new inferno. Version 2.0."
Doctor Abacad was shaking. She replied in Farsi, "You can't. You wouldn't."
"Try me."
The doctor closed her eyes and clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white and cracked. "Let me make sure I understand. You are threatening to turn the recuperative afterlife of my ancestors into another common suffering pit…"
"From which there is no release," added Crowley smugly.
"In order to get me to do something you want. ARE YOU MAD?" the surgeon bellowed, face flushed and getting to her feet. "You would curse everyone there? You would expend that much energy and pull simply to spite me? This is insane! Surely a man of your means, in your line of work has other avenues he could pursue to achieve his ends. Why are you doing this? Why is this so important?!"
Crowley took in Abacad's anger placidly. "I'm glad we understand each other,"
She looked from the demon to his prisoner and back again, and realized he wasn't bluffing. She slumped and looked at Sam sadly. "Please accept me deepest apologies, Mister Winchester." She turned back to Crowley. "Please, at the very least, allow my office to draft the contract. I wish to ensure I don't cause any more damage than absolutely necessary." She donned her glasses.
"Ever the consummate professional," answered Crowley, joining the doctor beside Sam as she examined him. "I can live with your terms, I'm sure."
Abacad patted Sam apologetically and studied his torso. "There may be complications. Your rooh is in two pieces, are you aware?" Sam, surprised, shook his head. "I will schedule your procedure for 11:30, January 8th. That's the earliest this can be done. Expect a bill for this consultation, Mister Crowley." Abacad turned back to the demon and, through her glasses, noticed something in his chest. She got a closer look and Crowley squirmed backwards, visibly uncomfortable. A grin spread across her face as she looked from Crowley's heart to his face and back again.
Crowley frowned irritably and folded his arms. "I'm sure your fees will be a relative bargain."
"Please arrive at the appointment 2 hours early to fill out paperwork and review our policies and waivers. The next time I see this young gentleman, I expect his injuries to be mended. Please see to that, Mister Crowley," she said, smirking again as she said his name. "Now if you'll excuse me, it's getting late, and I don't want to miss the beginning of the Seahawks game."
Crowley was about to snap his fingers when Abacad interjected. "One more thing you should know…" The demon rolled his eyes and the surgeon continued. "No matter how you squeeze or threaten me, this animectomy will not bring your love back to you." Crowley looked genuinely affronted. Abacad stepped toward him. "No matter what you do to Sam, Dean belongs to him, not to you. You will never have your… drinking buddy back."
Back in Hell, Dean was in heaven.
"Good old Pinchy," he said, patting the steel rack upon which was strapped Amanda Trenton. "We had such fun together. Bit of an acquired taste, but he'll grow on you."
"What are you going to do to me?"
Dean smiled, sighed and revealed black eyes. "Everything." He opened a trunk and pulled out three canes of various widths. He flicked his eyes back to hazel. "This is the room where anything can happen. Smacking you around, slicing you up, that's all just child's play. The good part starts when we start to see what the regimen does to you."
"What will it do to me?"
"That's what I'm dying to find out. Everyone is different. Some people break, some people don't, some people make friends with the pain and use it to transform into something else entirely. How do you think I got this way, Buttercup?"
"That's not my name," said Amanda.
"I don't care. It is now."
"Why are you doing this? Where are we?"
Dean pulled a Whippersnipper out of the trunk with a flourish. "Haven't you guessed? Abandon all hope, darling."
"I'm in Hell? I don't deserve Hell. I'm not perfect, but I shouldn't be damned."
"Them's the breaks. Besides, I'm a knight. I can do what I want."
"Ooh, a knight." Amanda sneered. "Lucky-ass me."
"I like you," said Dean before smacking her viciously with the thick cane. "This is gonna be fun." He pulled his phone out of his pocket, looked at the screen, then grunted in dismay. "Duh, no signal. Come on, Dean!"
Tanya Ahlquist was the lawyer that Transanimation Wellness Clinic retained to draw the contract for the animectomy of Samuel Winchester. Crowley, familiar with her ruthlessness and skill, raised some cursory objections based on a possible conflict of interest, but once everything was cleared up, Ahlquist wove an impenetrable and completely airtight and bulletproof agreement.
Sam's soul would reside in perpetuity in Transanimation's medical waste vault with the others. In ten years, it could, if Sam himself so desired, be returned to his body. While disembodied, however, it was not to leave Abacad's custody, unless her custody became utterly impractical. The reasons for any hypothetical end to the viability of Transanimation must have absolutely nothing to do with infernal forces, and at such time it can only be remanded into Sam's own possession. Dean Winchester was added as a last-minute possible stand-in, but only as a last resort.
The final bill, which included all consultation, insurance, parts, labour and legal fees amounted to just under 18 million dollars.
Crowley was just cutting the cheque when his phone rang.
"Speak to the devil," he answered gruffly.
"Sir, did you authorize the use of Chamber BF X08, as well as a two-way interdimensional passage for two? Nobody on our end was given the heads-up."
"This is the first I'm hearing about this. Who requested this?"
"There was no formal request made," explained the nameless underling, "he just showed up."
Crowley rubbed his beard hard. "Who was this, then?" he asked, knowing he didn't have to.
"I think his name is Gene Winchester."
"It's 'Dean', you gutless git!" snapped Crowley. "It's been a bloody decade and you must be the last infernal ninny who doesn't know that name!"
In Chamber BF X08, Dean did successfully become connected to what sounded like tech support to ask about making an interdimensional call.
"Thank you for calling Infernal Systems tech support," said the dry, pleasant generic female voice before it erupted into giggles. "Your… hee hee… your call… khh he he… okay… Your call is… very important to us!" The recording's laughter continued for approximately 90 seconds, before a long recorded menu played enumerating any and all possible departments of Hell. After four minutes or so, just as Dean's straining patience was reaching the boiling point, came the menu's final option: "To speak to an agent, please press 6664402200000008648, or simply say the word 'agent' in Russian with a Chinese accent."
Miraculously, Dean entered the 22 digits correctly on the first try and after listening to 2 minutes of Jessica Simpson, the line on the other end connected. "Good morning today, ma'am!" said a ridiculously chipper voice with the thickest, most incomprehensible Punjabi accent Dean had ever heard. "And how are we going today? How may I help your order today, please?"
"This is Dean Winchester," boomed the demon. "I need to make a call to Earth."
"Oh, I'm sorry, dude," said the same voice, now in unaccented American English. "I thought you were one of the sinners. We can get you hooked up, easy. Why didn't you call the direct line?" Dean grunted in exasperation and glanced at Amanda on the rack, who had been listening intently. Despite her injuries, an amused smirk spread across her puffy face.
In five minutes, Sully, one of Hell's many IT technicians arrived in Dean's torture chamber. "Alrighty then," began the flannel-clad twenty-something. He cracked open the back of Dean's cell and inserted what looked like an electronic rune stone. "A bit of jiggery-pokery and you're ready to rock and roll." He handed the phone back to Dean.
"That's it?" asked Dean. He peered at his cellphone, which still looked deceptively ordinary. "How does it work?"
"Well, not to get too technical, but it emits a stronger-than-normal signal to our AT&T towers. It's so strong, in fact, that it would probably fry off your ear if you were human, which you're not," explained Sully with a flourish. "Also, to correct for the time-flow disparity between dimensions, it creates a timey-wimey bubble around the speaker on this end, which is internally quantum wibbly-wobbly stabilized." Dean frowned at him, wordlessly. Sully gulped. "In other words, you're golden. Go ahead and make a call."
"Thanks, geek," said Dean. "How did you get this job, anyway?"
The skinny kid smiled. "This is my heaven, man. Take it easy." Before he left, he spotted Amanda on the rack. He looked her up and down in admiration, and added "Can I take a crack at her when you're done?"
"We'll see."
Sam could not figure out where he was. The room had no doors of windows, but that was the only feature that might indicate it was a prison cell. The leather furniture, the buffet table, ample bookcase and whisky decanter all suggested a lounge. It would have been easier for Sam to make himself comfortable if the room could make up its mind. At least his gag was gone. He rolled his shoulders and ankles, and found them all healed.
"Terrific, you're up," came Crowley's voice from behind him. Sam turned and saw him there, holding a Thermos and a glass. "Let's get this out of the way, shall we?"
"Look, I don't know what this is," Sam said as Crowley calmly poured him a glass of dark demon blood from the Thermos, "but I am not going to be your puppet."
"My puppet? Perish the thought." Crowley sat in a stuffed chair, put the glass on a round mahogany table right next to Sam. "Down the hatch. Yum yum."
"I'm not touching that."
"If it helps, don't look at this as payback for that South Beach juice diet you put me through. It's a gesture of goodwill, one junkie to another. And since it's mine, it should be at least 7% alcohol. Enjoy."
Sam could smell it already. It was tantalizing. "I can't. Not this. Not again."
"'Course you can. Don't be an ingrate. You think I like coming down here, giving up pints of Chateau de Crowley?"
"Yes."
Crowley grimaced quickly, then continued to sit in silence, staring pointedly at Sam. He watched as Sam's eyes flicked occasionally to the glass of dark blood. He sat down bitterly, trying not to think about his offered beverage. Sam drummed his fingers. "Won't stay warm forever," prodded Crowley, helpfully.
Sam closed his eyes and the inviting smell beckoned to him, promising relief, strength, clarity, energy, comfort, virility, gratification, ecstasy…
Sam seized the glass and drank deep, slurping at the dregs and sucking his teeth.
"Attaboy," said Crowley, getting to his feet. "Rest up, help yourself to the library, and if you need anything from the concierge, just ring 666. I'll be on my way."
Sam made no motion to get up. He plunked the glass down loudly on the tabletop and jabbed his finger at it insistently. He frowned at Crowley, who happily refilled it from the Thermos. Sam guzzled it hungrily.
"Hey Buttercup, have you ever met a demon named Alastair?" asked Dean.
Amanda's eyes widened in exasperation. "Why the hell would…" she realized it was useless. "No, no I have never met a demon named Alastair."
"Oh yeah, he would have died a while ago. Anyway, he used to be Mister Suffering down here. Real nasty son of a bitch. Taught me everything he knew. He was good at what he did, and he must have really been something before electricity. But he was completely analog." Dean waggled his phone. "There's a whole new world of social media torture that was completely lost on him. So, at the risk of sounding retro, let's reach out and touch someone." Dean picked up a sharpened soil turner.
Cole was still hugging his son and waiting for an ambulance when the phone rang. The man and the boy were too shaken to answer, and it went straight to the answering machine.
"Hiya, Inigo!" came Dean's merry voice. "And a one, and a two, and a…" He began to belt out a song, while stabbing his victim between lines, prompting a scream.
"WHY do you build me up…"
Jab. "Augh!"
"Buttercup, baby, just to let me down…"
Jab. "Jesus!"
"…mess me around, and worst of all…"
A deeper jab, a more painful scream.
"You never call baby, when you say you will…"
Jab. "Stop!"
"…and I love you still. I need you!" Instead of stabbing her, Dean stuck the phone in Amanda's face.
"I need you?" she offered. Dean smiled and continued.
"More than anyone, darling, knew that I did from the start. So build me up…"
A jab, a grunt.
"…Buttercup, don't break my heart."
Cole could hear his wife in the background of the recording. "Just put your damn phone on speaker, you idiot dickwad!"
"Ooh hoo, you hear that marine? I like your missus. Buttercup had such a beautiful singing voice, but no head for lyrics. What a pity. Anyway, gimme a call back at this number and we can talk. I'm sure she'd like a word, too. Say goodbye, princess."
As quickly as she could, Amanda said "Cole, I'm so sorry, I love…" Click.
Crowley continued feeding Sam his own blood twice a day, which struck him as kind of poetic given the reverse-demon gauntlet Sam had put him through in 2013. While he was contemplating the weird, symbiotic, cannibalistic relationship between himself and the younger Winchester, he found Doctor Abacad's words seeping back into his head.
If he were completely honest, they really stung. Once he'd returned to the Inferno, Crowley thought of a million nasty comebacks he wish he'd spat in her face at the time. Yeah, well, my forces assassinated Mossadegh, so there! Crowley had half a mind to annex the Drujo-demana anyway, just to spite her.
He was stewing the whole time he fed Sam the morning of the 8th. "Let's get a move on, Moose. We have an appointment with the Disagreeable Doctor Dingbat in half an hour. I shudder to think what her cancellation fees are like."
Sam waited for the brilliant surgeon in his skivvies. He was sitting in the OR, on the table covered in crinkly paper. Abacad entered slowly, holding Sam's meagre medical file. She avoided his gaze. "You're looking well this morning, Mister Winchester. How is the knee?"
"We don't have to do this," said Sam. "The pleasantries. Let's cut to the chase."
Doctor Abacad finally looked Sam in the face. "I am so sorry," she breathed. "Please forgive me. I have never before performed this procedure for this reason." Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "If it helps, it is completely reversible and temporary. I will take the utmost care of your rooh. You have my word."
Sam looked at the wall in disgust. "Whatever."
"Please understand the stakes," pleaded the doctor. "I can't let Crowley raze the Iranian afterlife. Can you imagine if someone were to completely break paradise? Decimate the Host?"
"Metatron did that to heaven a year ago, and the angels culled their own numbers even before that. Heaven had been in shambles for years."
Abacad raised her eyebrows. "I had no idea. I'm so sorry."
"Stop saying that. Let's do this thing." Sam picked up a nearby pencil and bit down on it.
"You know, when I looked at your contract through my glasses, your signature looked as though it had been made while you were inebriated. Originally I thought it may have been a forgery, or perhaps that you had simply been drinking. But that's not it, is it?" She put on her glasses and looked into his left eye. "What is it, exactly, on which you are drunk? You… it looks like Mister Crowley has branded you."
"Yeah, well, you should see the other guy. Seriously let's go."
"Sam Winchester," said the doctor as slowly and clearly as she could. "Please listen to me as hard as you can. I will safeguard your rooh with everything I have, but you remain its master. Behave well and cause it no damage, I implore you. Remember what Stanis Vitrioli did to his."
Sam nodded solemnly and the doctor picked up her syringe of iridescent purple anaesthetic and got to work. If Sam hadn't been so loopy and blissful in the dense fog of narcotic, he might have noticed the surgeon silently weeping behind her paper mask.
Cole Trenton was bandaged and back from the hospital five days before he worked up the nerve to call the number the monster had left him. He couldn't be sure that he wouldn't just taunt and torment him, but he needed to know that Amanda was still alive. He dialled.
"Took you long enough," said Dean with a smirk. "How's it hanging?"
"What have you done to my wife?" asked Cole, trying not to sound as pained as he was.
"Good lord, what haven't I done to your wife?" answered Dean genially, giving his captive a playful slap with a riding crop. "I burned her, whacked her, waxed her, peeled her, fed her garbage juice, carved a smile onto her face, used her as a toilet, rode her like a pony, used her for a rowboat… Oh! And I just finished blimping her up to 350lbs and setting her on fire. All in all I'd have to say she's had a rough couple of years, and I'm just warming up."
"Did you say you used her as a rowboat?"
"Yeah. Not that much fun, it turns out. She can't float worth beans."
"You did all this in a week?" asked Cole. "I don't believe you. How is she still alive?"
"Nothing dies in Hell, and we're running on Inception time. Anyway, I'm sure Buttercup would love to say hello, but her vocal chords are still growing back, so that's not really in the cards. Unless… hey princess, want to whistle at your hubby?"
Cole could hear a tiny, ragged whistled tune: The Super Mario Brothers song. His eyes filled with tears and his heartfelt curse caught in his throat.
"Wow, did you hear that?" continued Dean, unfazed. "Still spunky after all this time. She is, so far, my favorite playmate. I don't know if I'll ever break this toy."
"You beast," Cole finally managed. "You inhuman monster. I am going to kill you."
"Right. 'Cause that worked out so well for you last time."
"I mean it. You are going to die."
"Enh, save it." Dean paused. "Actually, you know what? Sure. Come on after me. I'm more than happy to whup your ass and twist the knife over and over again. Guys like you, you never learn, do you? The Inigo Montoyas of the world were made to suffer."
Dean hung up and patted Amanda's cheek. "Buttercup, I have to boogie. I'm supposed to pick up my kid brother from daycare. You be a good girl and I'll be back before you know it." He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and called Sully in IT. He told him to "keep her warm" until he got back, then headed back to Earth.
When Sully arrived at Chamber BF X08, he found it vacant.
"Where's Doctor Abacad?" Crowley asked Vandaveon. He was holding a bag of popcorn and offered some to the receptionist. Van declined.
"Isn't she in the OR working on your friend?"
"No, Sam's in the recovery room and she's not in her office. Has anyone seen her?"
"Vandaveon, please do not talk to this man," said Abacad, joining the men in the foyer. Crowley remarked that the room she had emerged from was a supply closet, if he remembered correctly. Her eyes seemed slightly red and she had removed her mascara, and when Crowley realized that she'd been crying, he grimaced in sympathy.
"The patient will be ready to leave in twenty minutes," she continued, as outwardly composed as ever. "He is to be handed over to his brother and not to you. I shall wait with him until Dean arrives. Do you have your invoice for the procedure?" The receptionist nodded and gestured to Crowley. "Then you can be on your way. I'm sure you're a very busy man." She looked at the demon and watched him try to think of something to say. "You're excused, Mister Crowley. Please show yourself out."
Just then, Van jumped and blurted, "Oh hell!"
Dean Winchester strode into reception and Abacad looked from him to her bespectacled receptionist, who was visibly, quietly frightened. Van looked urgently to the doctor, and pointed to the elder brother with his eyes.
Abacad looked warily at Dean. "Good afternoon, Mister Winchester. You can collect your brother soon. Would you like to take a seat?"
"Sounds good," he said dispassionately and turned from Crowley to the seating area.
Crowley followed him angrily. "What's this I hear of you dragging some bitch to Hell?"
"Oh yeah," replied Dean blithely. "I needed a torture chamber, and the ones there have the best acoustics. Not to mention the tools."
"You can't just bring in anyone you please, least of all a living person!"
"Of course I can. I did."
"You don't understand," spat Crowley, jabbing Dean in the chest. "Damnation is a whole cosmic process. The only way to circumvent it immediately is by Crossroads Deal. Who died and made you Saint Peter?" The doctor looked at Crowley.
"You need to relax and get out of my face." Crowley didn't move, so Dean shoved him.
"Enough!" boomed Abacad, stomping over to the pair. "You! Go find Sam! He's in room 3, on the left. And you!" she whirled on Crowley, who flinched. "Get the hell out of my clinic!"
Dean's nostrils flared and he reached for something at the small of his back. Crowley's eyes went wide and he grabbed Dean's wrist. "I concede! We don't have a problem here. I'll just push off now, Behrooz. As always, it was a pleasure. Here, have some popcorn." He thrust the bag at her and gave Dean a quick, tight-lipped shake of his head before he left. Dean frowned and his hand left the hilt of the First Blade.
The doctor looked confused and reached for her glasses.
"Wouldn't do that," grunted Dean as he stalked toward the recovery room.
When his back was turned, she peeked at him through her enchanted glasses and almost fell over. She could see the swirling black storm of smoke that had once been his soul, and how it ached, twitched and turned around the Mark of Cain on his right arm. This was the first time she'd ever seen the corresponding Blade in his waistband though, and through her glasses, was aware that she was in the company of a divine atomic weapon. She fumbled her glasses off, held onto her pendant and thanked all listening deities that she had survived the exchange.
"Here he is!" beamed Dean beside his prone brother. Sam opened his eyes, revealing black irises. He looked at his brother. "How are ya feeling, champ?"
"Right as rain," replied Sam without expression. "What now?"
"Let's go on vacation."
"Dean, when you fed me your blood in the bunker, was this always your endgame?"
"No, I was just going to kill you. But who would gripe about my music then?"
"You just came up this plan on the fly?"
"What can I say?" answered Dean. "I'm good when I'm winging it."
"Have you ever drunk demon blood?"
"No, I'm a whisky man. What's with the questions, dude?"
"Oh, nothing." Sam raised his hand and picked up his brother with his mind. "I was just wondering if you remembered what it did." Dean coughed painfully and Sam dropped him. "Guess not. So where are we headed?"
Amanda wandered the murky earthen hallways through which echoed a harmony of the abject screams of profoundest suffering. She didn't know where she was, where she was going or even what her name was. She could feel the anguish of the damned resonate through her chest in time with the beating of her living heart. The only thing she knew for sure was that there was somewhere pressing to be. She was urgently expected, and she must hurry if she didn't want to be late.
After hours of aimless meandering in what was revealing itself to be a baffling infernal labyrinth, the woman finally came upon a single door. It was made of an internally luminescent metal and identified with a similarly lustrous plaque: The Phillip LeMarchand Studio of Symphonic Pain Sculpture. She opened the door, glad to have made it to her appointment in good time.
Inside she found a group of… people… perhaps. They had old, long-healed injuries that had been reset in bizarre ways that had reshaped their flesh. Their torsos and limbs were all stitched together in configurations that incorporated leather, stone and metal. They all turned to her at once, regarding her with their colourless, thoughtful eyes.
"Buttercup is not finished," said one.
Said another, "Someone had burned away her identity without furnishing her with a new one."
"Join us, beautiful," said the one standing in the middle of the room. "We will find you."
Buttercup joined the Cenobites but, try as they might, they were not able to slice her, stuff her or break her into any shape that resembled herself. The only thing they succeeded in doing, however, was raising a mark on her forehead. Right above her left eyebrow appeared a small, vaguely triangular smudge of soot, and the more they pulled, sliced, stretched, hooked and bent her flesh, the darker and more distinct the shape became. This was the only effect their efforts were able to produce, and by the time the Cenobites had concluded that she did not belong to them, the kiss on her forehead had taken on a definite inverted F shape.
"What a puzzle is Buttercup," remarked the female, with cheeks full of wire. "And how I do love puzzles. I long to see what emerges from her forehead."
"Sadly, she is not ours, nor is that our mystery to solve," replied a bloated, agendered mass with goggles. "We must return her to her plane."
"We'll use the instrument in reverse. The one by which Buttercup did not travel, but should have." The male with tacks in his scalp looked at her with wise, cold, black eyes. "Perhaps there will come a time when you are ready," he added, lovingly. "And so shall we be."
The LeMarchand Configuration Box spat Buttercup unceremoniously in a field in Tennessee. The kiss of Dean Winchester throbbed deep in her browbone and even though any mirror would have shown her nothing, she knew the scar was there. She knew only three things: that Angela (or whatever her name had been) no longer existed, she had been Marked by the monster who'd captured her, and she needed to find the Weapon, her scar demanded it.
She didn't know what it was called, but she knew what it looked like. It was old, the instrument of ancient, proto-murder and it needed her for some terrible, cosmic purpose. He could follow it to where it needed her to be. She spotted a farmhouse and decided to start there.
She knocked at the door and was greeted by a frowning beekeeper with a long grey beard and piercing blue eyes. A word erupted from Buttercup's throat, and she uttered it, not even knowing why she had: "Cain."
Despite the tremendous, heroic and epic effort that Cole put into finding her, he would never recognize his wife if he ever saw her again.
The ex-marine, one could argue, had never actually come back from the Gulf, and he brought his war with him wherever he went. How fortuitous, then, that a larger, sweeping war had found him. He had traded in his pickup truck for a 1969 Pontiac GTO, which the salesman had assured him "would still look badass when it's forty". Cole had also pulled Lucas out of school for the company. Without his son to anchor him, he didn't know if he'd have anything to keep his psyche together. Lucas would serve as his companion, his apprentice, and his reason not to blow his brains all over the dashboard.
Together they gained experience, expertise and trophies as they served as paranormal exterminators or sorts. Cole and Lucas learned of a large network of those who hunt demon and monsters, all of whom knew of the two Winchester brothers. The road to the elder brother led through a number of creatures of the night, all of whom were hungry, and all of whom met their ends at the hands of the man and his son. The true target of the Trenton's wrath however remained the Fraternal Order of Infernal Knights.
Word of the new Order of Hell's Knights spread through the Inferno. Time moves differently on that plane, and to much of the Legion, Azazel and his grand design were a very recent memory. The armies of Hell lined up, hungry for the leadership of the anointed chosen one, the avatar of the Morningstar, Sam Winchester, as well as his second in command. Dean was, for all intents and purposes, the Hand of the King, the wielder of the Blade, the bearer of the Mark and the Vader to Sam's Palpatine.
Crowley could feel the hearts and minds of his workforce slowly but surely slide out from under him. Every eye in the pit shifted to the two firebrand brothers, beside whom it was easy to feel unimpressive. And he did.
The King of the Crossroads had never been much of a soldier. He was an exemplary negotiator, but not a fighter… how did the saying go? And didn't he know someone else who matched that description?
Doctor Abacad was nothing if not organized, and closing Transanimation was a very efficient and precise process. The doctor was just finishing packing the last of her belongings into her large purse when she looked up and was startled to see Crowley standing across from her.
She jumped, snarling "Ey baba gayidy" to herself. She scowled at the demon, wrote a quick note to herself to upgrade the warding in her office then turned to him. "Mister Crowley, you are familiar with this clinic's hours. I would appreciate it if you would respect them. Can we make this brief?"
"You know, I saved your life this afternoon."
"From a monster, while in the process of creating another monster at your behest. Thanks for that." The doctor stared angrily at the demon wordlessly for several seconds. Finally she added, "I'm waiting for you to tell me what you want, so I can refuse and be on my way."
"To catch the NFC playoff game, no doubt." Crowley snapped his fingers and two tickets appeared. "Care to join me in my box?" Doctor Abacad raised her eyebrows. "Well, it's Terrell Owens' box, but I own Terrell. Kickoff is in ninety minutes. Do you want to stop somewhere first?"
"What are you doing?"
"You're the one who said I need to find myself a new drinking buddy, so, Pikachu, I choose you."
"I don't drink."
"Figure of speech. Come along then, love."
"Is this some sort of business meeting? You want to show me some profit projections over chicken wings? What do you want?"
"Would you believe that I only want the pleasure of your company?"
Abacad crossed her arms. "No."
"What a low opinion you have of yourself. I'm the unstoppable force, you're the immovable object. I thought it might be fun to have a chat. Give me the glasses if you don't believe me."
Abacad picked up her Xray specs, but didn't put them on. "Why me? I'm sure you don't need to look far for someone to take to a football game. Terrell Owens can't be the only person you own."
"I don't own you."
"No, you don't." Crowley raised his eyebrows pointedly, waiting for her to see his point. "Really?"
"I can't help but notice you haven't said no yet."
Abacad slowly smiled and picked up her jacket. "Alright, thank you. You must allow me to buy the first round."
"Only a doctor could afford what I drink."
"And I will not have sex with you."
"Of course not!" Crowley helped her on with her jacket. "You're a married woman."
"May I ask what your name is?"
"Crowley."
"What is the rest of your name, Mister Crowley?"
He chewed his lip, and considered. "Fergus," he answered finally. "You're awfully forward, you are."
It was karaoke night at The Black Spur and the final two members of the Fraternal Order of the Knights of Perdition were hogging the microphone. The Hand of the Boy King had already offered rousing renditions of Chocolate Salty Balls, Paint It Black and Bartender before his younger brother was pickled enough to take the stage himself. Unfortunately, he'd also neglected to notice that it had been Dean that picked his song. Sam was at the chorus before he realized what he'd been assigned.
"The snow glows white on the mountain tonight, not a footprint to be seen…" warbled Sam tunelessly as he squinted at the screen and tried to orient himself. "A kingdom of isolation, and it looks like I'm the queen…" He looked alarmedly at Dean, who grinned from ear to ear and raised his beer encouragingly.
Sam shrugged and pressed on in earnest. When the chorus rolled around, he belted out the tune at the top of his lungs:
"Let it go, let it go, can't hold it back anymore! Let it go, let it go, walk away and slam the door!"
Dean roared, threw up his bullhorns and headbanged along to the ridiculous Disney song that his brother was singing with a voice that filled the room and shook the rafters. He drew whistles and applause from the patrons of the bar, got a small ovation upon completion, and left with more than one woman's phone number.
That night, for the first time in years, Sam and Dean rented separate motel rooms and stumbled into bed in the wee hours. They still ended up turning in within minutes of each other, bellies both full of beer and pub grub, and beds full of waitress.
Across the country, Lucas Trenton couldn't sleep. His father was fitfully sawing logs in the adjacent bed, uttering angry fragments between snores. The boy carefully got out of bed and went to the bathroom. He considered turning on the TV, but didn't think he'd be able to do it without disturbing his father. Instead, he decided to look for something to read.
Luke hadn't been allowed to take much when his father sold their house and took them on the road to fight "the good fight". He'd read and reread the same three books multiple times, but he was unlikely to find anything worth reading in a motel room. Besides the bible there was only the TV guide and the sparse menu of local attractions. One page, possibly worth reading, slipped off the armoire and landed on the floor between it and the wastebasket.
When the boy bent down in the darkness to pick it up, he noticed a small black cord with a clasp. When he pulled it, he found a small, horned tiki pendant that appeared to be long-forgotten. It was, if nothing else interesting, and Lucas put it on. He liked the weight against his chest. He went back to bed.
BONUS! English-to-Farsi translations:
Bazem in ghaziye = "Ugh, again with this."
Ey baba gayidy = "Oh, for fuck's sake."