Author's Note: This was written for the J2 Big Bang 2015. Lovely accompanying artwork can be found at .
Lawrence, Kansas – November 1983
They whisper, the voices in his head, the remnants of his former self scattered between his ears like shards of glass impatiently awaiting bare feet. He wants to quiet them, to assure them that soon the mission will be accomplished, but he has never been able to temper them, not even before Hell when he'd been technically, if not morally, human. By the time that Azazel leans over the baby, the voices are a choir frenzied by religious devotion. He searches for signs of his master, a grand orator in the roundness of its cheeks, an indomitable dictator in the clenching of its tiny fingers, finds nothing but innocence and squirmy joy. No matter that he doesn't see it now; it will happen, and soon.
The mother, Mary, whose name is a poetic tribute, speaks from the nursery doorway. She assumes that the shadowy figure hovering over her baby is the father, leaves him time to perform his task.
Just a few drops are all it takes. The baby squirms, not appreciating the taste on his lips. That will change. Someday the man that springs up from this tender fleshy seed will crave the vile concoction of elements that comprises demon blood. For now it will germinate within him, wait to be watered by more platelets, plasma, and sulfur. This one will be strong. Son of endless generations of hunters, the urge to kill and the loathing of otherness secured in his genes, practically spelled out in his DNA. This will be the one.
The mother, realizing some wrongness to the scenario, perhaps a glimpse of the real father asleep downstairs or a connection of the flickering lights with the shadowy figure in the nursery, returns to save her baby. He can't begrudge her the attempt, futile and misguided as it is. She operates without the knowledge that it's too late, that since the moment of his conception, her son was fated to become something far greater than any mortal ever would, or, more immediately, that her son is now property of Azazel's Master and she will never again know the sweet bond of holding the baby to her teat.
Azazel has been given orders not to harm the father, but the mother, she is his to do with as he likes and he wants to watch her burn, wants to give her a taste of Hell before sending her there. With psychic arms Azazel holds her to the ceiling, slices into her belly, the womb useless to him now. The smell of blood, human and earthy, creates rapture in his mind and the voices nearly sing. When he had killed as a human, he hadn't been able to really see the life as it drained from their bodies nor truly smell the unique scent of fear. As a demon, it is orgasmic, a feast for the senses.
Deep within that empty pocket that had once contained Sam, Azazel places a ball of energy, psychic dynamite. It will grow exponentially, leaving him just enough time to get his master's fragile new vessel to safety. He's lingered too long already; the mental connection between him and his protégé has gone silent. With the demon dispatched, the Guardian will return to the nursery to check on its charge.
It is with the highest reverence that Azazel bends down and scoops the baby into its arms. Mary, impotently secured to the ceiling like a bug on flypaper, screams. The anguish and fear in her scream is a pleasant melody to him. He vanishes from the room, her squirming child in his arms, and his smile lingering perhaps a bit longer than the rest of him like the Cheshire Cat in front of Mary's wide open yet barely seeing eyes.
Like so many other nights, John has fallen asleep in front of the TV. The combination of comfortable recliner, comfortable robe, and comforting words of familiar celluloid faces forms an irresistible lullaby. Mary's scream is the worst kind of alarm and he races up the stairs as his mind scrambles in sleepy confusion. He calls her name but no reply greets him.
The nursery appears empty. He looks around, doesn't see Mary, but checks on the baby. His panic becomes the sharpest terror as he looks into the crib and sees its empty state. His hands dive into the blankets searching pointlessly for his son. It is only when he feels the drip upon his hand that he looks up, sees what he should have seen immediately. Perhaps as punishment for the delay, he will see this exact image every night until he dies. Mary clad in white, belly sliced open wide like her eyes, pinned to the ceiling. No sooner does he see this, absorbs it but doesn't understand it, then she bursts into flames. They come from within her, a sudden horrific explosion. The flames move like water lapping at the ceiling in waves. He calls her name from the floor of the nursery though he doesn't remember how he got there.
Sammy. Dean. He pulls himself off the floor, his own puppet master, and makes his way to the doorway somehow, his eyes never straying from his wife until his foot falls in the hallway. "Dean!" he calls. The minor flood of relief as he sees his eldest son is a blessing. It pulls a small amount of rational thought back into his mind, helps him to take action. "Dean, where's Sam?"
He despairs at the shake of shaggy blond hair. "Okay, come on, you've got to get out of here. Move! Outside and don't look back!" he orders. On tiny stealthy feet Dean obeys.
John searches in vain for his baby boy. The smoke burns his eyes as he peers quickly but thoroughly into all the rooms of the house. He calls over and over again, stupid because Sam can't reply, but he doesn't think that until much later. The smoke sucks at his oxygen, pulls it directly from his lungs. The heat hits like a hammer to the gut. His life is burning down around him and if he doesn't get himself outside, he'll be leaving that beautiful four year-old in the front yard an orphan. Dean is the only reason that he leaves.
His timing is perfect, snatching Dean into his arms and covering him with his body as the house erupts behind them.
Tears from the smoke and from the pain run down John's face. He holds Dean tightly to him. Together they watch everything they love, and everything that Dean has ever known, burn.
"Sammy…" John says. The ache in his heart is worsened one hundred fold by not knowing.
Where is Sam?