2. God Made You Special
Azazel rarely panicked. He was a ruler of Hell—essentially the ruler, with Alastair busy and Lilith locked down and Abaddon gone who-knew-where. He was one of the oldest of demons, too, and had seen enough mayhem in his long tenure in Lord Lucifer's service to keep his cool under almost any circumstances. Come to think of it, the last time he had lost his composure was when a certain tomb in Judea suddenly no longer had an occupant.
No, he seldom panicked. But he was absolutely panicking now.
"Get me Lilith," he yelled into the blood-filled chalice. "Or Alastair. Anybody who knows my mission."
Azazel, my sweet, Alastair finally answered in that toxic honeyed voice of his. What seems to be the trouble?
"The spell. I tried it on the Winchester boy and nothing happened. Nothing, do you hear?! On other, weaker specimens it takes just fine, but Winchester? Not a goat's beard!"
Calm yourself, poppet. You're sure you did everything correctly?
"Absolutely. And the house wasn't warded at all. Not that wards could have stopped me, given the terms of the deal, but there was nothing there, not even so much as salt at the windows. And he's human; I'll swear to that."
I see. You'd best come home, darling child, the better to review the case.
"B-but leaving now may mean I'll miss my chance to try again."
Who said you have a chance to try again?
And without warning, Azazel found himself back in Hell, facing a grinning Alastair. This night was so far from going according to plan, a human could fairly say it wasn't even on the same planet.
Six years later, Mary's attention was suddenly caught by the tearful howl of her younger son and the angry voice of her older. When she finally spotted the boys on the playground, Sammy was blubbering into Dean's shoulder, and Dean was telling off the neighborhood kids for picking on Sammy. Again.
"I don't wanna play with him, that's all!" one obnoxious boy shouted at Dean. "He's stupid and clumsy!"
"He's a freak!" added a girl with a spiteful streak a mile wide, as evidenced by her vicious smile when Sammy started to cry harder.
"Freak! Freak! Freak! Freak!" the other children chanted.
Mary had known this kind of heartache was coming from the moment Sammy was born. He was precious to her and Dean, and to John, too, though John had taken the news of Sammy's condition hard at first. And he was sweeter than sugar—he loved to give warm hugs and sloppy kisses, and he delighted in doing what small things he could to delight his family. But most children couldn't see past the slanted eyes, the thick tongue, the slow speech and awkward motor skills.
Yet for all the ways it hurt, Mary couldn't be sorry Sammy had Down syndrome. She had left that state of mind behind the night she came into his nursery and found him trying to spit out a glob of blood-tinged drool. One quick and unenlightening trip to the ER later, she had realized the significance of the date—the day Sammy turned precisely six months old—and the probable source of the blood. But if it was the yellow-eyed demon, why had it left its blood in Sammy's mouth, and what did it mean?
It had taken a bit of doing to find a true psychic to help her find answers, but Missouri Mosely had taken one look at Sammy and informed Mary that he was "just the way God made him." A few more questions and an examination of the nursery had given Missouri a clearer picture of what had happened, though not the reasons why the demon had tried to cast a spell on Sammy or what the spell was supposed to do. As to the failure of that spell, all either woman could figure out was that the extra chromosome in Sammy's genetic makeup had somehow kept the spell from taking effect.
"Freak! Freak! Freak! Freak!" the chant continued.
"He's not a freak!" Dean screamed, hugging Sammy just as fiercely as he was being hugged. "He's just different! He's special!"
Oh, Dean, Mary thought with a wry smile as she stood to go break things up, I pray you never learn just how special our Sammy is...